May 1916
That evening, like every other for the past year, they were eating dinner in the upstairs drawing room. It wasn't a big room, but ever since the house had been turned into a hospital, they'd had little choice. All the stately rooms had been turned into sick rooms and eating dinner in a dining room full of bleeding soldiers and the smell of sickness was not that conducive to ones appetite. So they'd been crammed in this little room; trying to eat and maintain some degree of dignity, some small element of the life they'd once lived. It wasn't easy, but at dinner they tried their best; eating and talking and pretending that things were very much as they ever had been. Before the hospital, before the war, before their lives started spinning out of control.
That evening though, their pretence was cut short by the sudden appearance of a young nurse at the open door. They weren't used to being disturbed at dinner, let alone by a lowly nurse. Her somewhat irrelevant knocking only jarred the peace and illusion of a few moments ago.
The nurse looked at them anxiously as she slowly entered the room, feeling their eyes watching her intently, as if waiting for her to stumble. Luckily she didn't, though she was so nervous she momentarily forgot the reason for her visit. It was her first time in front of the grand family and her first time upstairs in this great house. She'd seen them before of course, but never had she actually dared speak to them.
Since the hospital had invaded a year ago, there was an unwritten and unspoken agreement between the Crawleys and the hospital staff – they could have their run of the large stately rooms, the servant's quarters and the downstairs area, barring the kitchen of course. The upstairs area, well, that was reserved for the Crawleys. Only their household servants and high ranking hospital staff dare venture up there. They couldn't grumble too much though, despite all the frequent complaints from the new nurses. The Crawleys had, after all, been quite generous and accepting of their home being turned into a hospital. Well, most had been, though no one liked to comment on why the Dowager Countess' visits were so rare these days.
The news had been too important to wait though. The Matron had insisted that the news be taken at once to the family – there was no time to find an appropriate member of staff to rely the message. The nurse had volunteered to be the messenger immediately, not wanting to miss her first opportunity of seeing the grand people and the world they inhabited upstairs. Now that she stood in front of them though, her confidence waived. They were watching her attentively, soup spoons held expectantly at their mouths, silent as they awaited the news.
"An injured soldier has just been brought in, m'Lord," the nurse began, suddenly worried about whether she'd used the right address. She hadn't yet learnt all the proper ways to address these grand people whose home she now inhabited.
The family looked surprised at the news. Something was wrong, very wrong. It wasn't usual for the family to be told about a new soldier and certainly not at this time of night, at dinner! Soldiers came and went, so frequently nowadays, and no one like bothering the grand people upstairs and upsetting the ladies with bad news.
A thousand worried thoughts started to run through all their minds, echoing out in the troubled glances passing between them. None of them dared speak, dared voice their concerns, as if voicing their sudden dread would give it life. It swept through them still though, like an icy mist, filling them with fear and foreboding.
Mary herself felt it most keenly. Her heart started to pound as the icy mist of dread ran through her veins. She didn't dare think of what the news might be, but she couldn't deny the strange awareness that was sweeping over her, threatening to bring her world crashing down. She tried to prepare herself mentally, to steel her emotions away where they wouldn't betray her, not even to herself. She forced herself to take a deep breath and focused all her attention on the nurse in front of her.
The nurse shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, watching the grand people exchange stunned looks before turning to watch her intently again. Their penetrating eyes were making it difficult for her to speak.
"His name is Crawley, Sir," she eventually blurted out, before realising she'd been impolite in both her manner and address.
None of them cared about that though. The moment the words were out all the soup spoons hit the table with a cacophonous noise that echoed round the room, as loud as church bells after the sudden silence.
The ladies round the table gasped and Lord Grantham stood up immediately, "What's his first name!" He barked out, his countenance so fierce that the nurse cowered back in shock.
"Ma-Mathew m'Lord," she stammered out, before cowering back even further beneath his piercing gaze.
The name cut through the air like a knife to the heart. There was a moment of complete silence, the atmosphere in the air as hard as steel and as cold as ice. Time itself seem to freeze in place. Thousands of possibilities flew through their minds, each of them envisaging the worst.
Despite Mary mentally preparing herself, the sudden blow of hearing his name sent a searing shockwave of pain through her heart. She forgot to breathe as image after image bombarded her mind, of Matthew, her beloved Matthew, lying broken and bloodied, his once handsome face twisted beyond recognition.
"Is it our Matthew?" Her father asked suddenly, breaking the terrible silence with his urgent demand. It was a good question and one that had been on the edge of all their tongues. None of them questioned the use of the word our. After his departure, the whole family had felt the empty void where his warmth and humour had been. Despite their difficult beginnings and their very different outlooks on life, Matthew and his mother really had become a part of their family before the war started.
All eyes were turned to the nurse again, waiting for confirmation of their worst fears.
"We don't know m'Lord," the nurse answered, looking at them guiltily. Their reactions were as she'd feared and she herself felt somehow responsible for having to break it to them. She felt especially guilty because she could not answer the big important question. How could she? None of the hospital staff had ever seen this Matthew Crawley, though they'd certainly heard all about him. They all knew he was the heir to the estate, even though he wasn't Lord Grantham's son. That was why as soon as the soldier's name had become known, she'd been sent upstairs at once.
The answer did nothing to ease the dread that had seized them all, it only served to heighten it. None of them were sure what they wanted to hear – if it was their Matthew, then he must be in a terrible state – the ashen face of the nurse told them that. If I wasn't Matthew though, it meant he was still out there, still fighting in the war, still not safe at Downton like he should be.
"How bad are the injuries?" Lord Grantham asked, quietly now, as the full horror of the situation started to set in.
The nurse shifted uncomfortably again, she'd been dreading this question; the one which she knew would only confirm all their worst fears.
"I've been told not to say, m'Lord."
Though the words came as no surprise to them, they were the final shock to their system. They all knew now that whoever this poor soldier was, his injuries and suffering must be vast. The soldiers who were brought here usually only suffered from mild injuries, or were in convalescence after being treated at the London or Home County hospitals. The journey up to Downton was long and those severely wounded wouldn't usually survive. There were exceptions of course, sometimes the southern hospitals were so much at breaking point, extreme measures had to be taken. Even for the more fortunate soldiers, the journey was fraught with problems and disease and infections spread far too easily.
For Mary, the words spurned her into action and she jumped up from her chair at once. "Where is he?" She demanded, trying to remember how to breathe.
"In the great hall m'Lady," was the nurse's reply. She looked sadly at the grand lady. Everyone knew the rumours between the heir and the Lord's eldest daughter. This beautiful lady's reaction to the news only confirmed the truthfulness within them.
Mary wasn't after the nurse's sympathy though, or that of any of her family as they all shot worried glances at her. There was only one thing Mary could think of right now, only one thing she could do. She had to find out if the injured soldier lying battered downstairs was indeed her beloved Matthew.
With not a word or a glance at anyone, Mary hurried out of the room, her terror increasing with every step she took.
The family watched her leave, before looking awkwardly between them. Lady Grantham was the first to dare speak. "Shall we send for cousin Isobel?" She asked softly, her own maternal instincts kicking in. Even with only daughters, she could clearly imagine what all mothers with sons at war were going through – the dread that must fill their hearts every time any news appeared. Though she'd always resented not having a son, this war had taught her just how lucky she was.
"No," Lord Grantham answered quickly, "we'll wait and see if it's Matthew first." As he was besieged with questioning looks, he continued softly, trying to sound light heartened. "No point worrying her unnecessarily."
Yes, they all could agree to that. Their own dread was so raw; they couldn't even begin to imagine what cousin Isobel would feel. The worst was not knowing, they all felt that. Not knowing the extent of the injuries and, above all, not knowing if it was indeed the right Matthew Crawley. Mistakes were often made now, too many soldiers were brought in, names, documents, items; they could all get lost, forgotten, misread. The poor soldier might not even be a Matthew, or a Crawley!
They had to find out though. That was uppermost in their minds. After exchanging a few more troubled glances, they all walked out of the room. Their paces steady, controlled, their voices silent as each became too consumed by the riot of possibilities that chased around their own thoughts.
No one spoke to the nurse, no one even remembered she was there. She crept back against the wall as the grand family walked away, their countenance morbidly reminiscent of a funeral march.
Mary was glad of the head start her family gave her. She felt safer away from their concerned looks and unspoken worries. Her footsteps were fast as she left the room and headed towards the great hall, but the nearer she got to the staircase, the more fear started to hold her back. As long as she didn't see him, there was still a small part of her that could imagine it wasn't him or that he wasn't that brutally injured. Her paced slowed as she reached the stairs and she paused completely at the top. She leant over and watched the chaos that was ensuing beneath her. The hall was littered with beds, bodies and blood.
The hall was usually relatively quiet, with the soldiers beds kept mainly in the stately rooms. Sometimes though, when a large transport of soldiers arrived, the rooms overflowed and soldiers were left in the hall, waiting to be seen and treated.
There was a significant bustle around one of the stretchers; a crowd of nurses and also the doctor. Mary knew this was the soldier, the one named Matthew Crawley. She couldn't see anything past the crowd of heads, so with a more determined step, she continued down the great stairs.
Never before had this journey filled Mary with such trepidation, never before had the outcome of this walk left her life in such a perilous balance. She forced herself to focus on each step, to try to push out the fears that were continually plaguing her. She knew if she stopped for too long, if she let herself give in to the dread assailing her, she would lose control and break down completely.
There were no household staff around, no one who would know if the soldier was indeed her Matthew. No one she could catch the eye of and read the news in the possible horror on their face. Yet Mary was oddly comforted by this, the knowledge that she would not know through anyone else but herself. That she would not know until she saw the soldier's face. It gave her the much needed time now to compose herself, prepare for the worst. It was a strange sort of luxury.
Of course she'd been expecting this – ever since she'd last seen him at the train station nearly 2 years ago, she'd dreaded the day when it would come. A letter; a telegraph; a rumour that something had happened to Matthew. Every morning when the post had appeared; every time cousin Isobel came through the door; her heart had skipped a beat, wondering if today was the day when her life would change. For the last two years, she felt like she'd been living on a knife edge, that any moment she would fall and her life, her heart, would be cut in two.
For Mary, the most frustrating part was that she couldn't do anything. All she could do was wait; wait to hear whatever scrap of news she could about him, usually from the letters he wrote to her father and cousin Isobel. He never wrote to her of course, he had no reason to after the way things had ended between them. Even in the letters he sent to her father, she was barely mentioned – usually just grouped together with her sisters. She'd written to him a few times, full of politeness and civility, teasing and laughter, like there used to be between them. No reply had ever been sent and that pained her more than she dared think about.
She knew it didn't do to dwell on the past, not when the stark reality of the present and its implications for her future lay so precariously in front of her. Yet now, when she may be about to see him again, scenes from their turbulent past together played through her mind. All those times when they laughed and joked together, when he flirted with her and watched her from across the room. The times when he had somehow managed to make her admit things she'd never dare tell anyone. Then there was the time he had kissed her, kissed her so passionately and proposed!
Oh, what a fool she'd been! Ever since he'd enlisted she'd blamed herself for her own stupidity and fear. Why had she waited so long to accept him? Why had she been so afraid to commit herself to him when she knew she loved him? Why couldn't she have mustered the courage to tell him about the ill-fated night she shared with Kamal Pamuk?
She shook her head hard as she reached the bottom of the stairs, forcing the painful memories away. It didn't do to question what had happened back then, it wouldn't do her or Matthew any good now. She had to stay in control, to be strong, no matter what the outcome. With more determined steps now, she walked towards the crowd of nurses, trying her best to keep her head held high and the tears at bay.
They all looked up and quietened when they heard her footsteps. They all knew who she was and what this soldier may mean to her. They didn't say a word as they parted before her, allowing Mary a clear view of the stretcher where he lay. Whoever this soldier was, he was in a poor state. Even from some distance away, Mary could see the blood soaked bandages and the body racked with fever.
The shock of seeing the body, even this far away, was enough to freeze Mary in her tracks. She struggled to compose herself, to force herself to continue forward, to find out if this soldier was indeed her beloved Matthew. She didn't know what she hoped for, what outcome would be best. If it was Matthew, then he was in a bad way, his life hanging in the balance. At least though she'd see him, look upon his face one last time. If it was not Matthew, Mary knew she'd still feel no relief, that the horror wasn't over and that Matthew was certainly far from safe. He may even be worse off, lying in a ditch somewhere in the battlefields of Normandy, far away from his home.
Quelling the sudden urge to retch, Mary drew every scrap of resolve she could muster, drew on all her years of experience at acting the strong and heartless ice queen. Never had she been so grateful of the strong will and self control she'd taught herself as she was at this moment.
With one final deep breath, she forced herself to walk forward, to pass the silent nurses with their worried, sympathetic looks. She had to ignore their faces; she didn't dare read the hopelessness she knew she'd see in their eyes. She focused instead on the bed in front of her, using it like a beacon of light to keep her walking forward.
She reached the bed too soon, far too soon. She wasn't ready. She couldn't look. She didn't dare find out which side of the precipice she would fall. Yet she knew she had too, that she had no choice. With a final prayer, she forced herself to look down at the face of the soldier lying on the bloody sheets.
NB - I'd love to know what you think, so please leave a review. This is the first fan fiction I've ever written, so I hope it's okay!
I hope to add a lot more chapters to continue the story, focusing mainly on Mary and Matthew, but hopefully on some other characters too. I apologise in advance for my somewhat OTT and melodramatic narrative! :-)