With or Without You – Chapter 1 – One Last Dance
A/N: This is a substantial rework of a previous posting of mine called 'Learn to Fly'. I've edited and added to it and the result is much better. I will leave the original up if anybody wishes to read it.
This story begins in 1925. In the context of Mary and Carlisle marrying in 1920. Sybil lives. The Carlisles are in America and Matthew is drowning his sorrows. Nevertheless, it may be slow but it will be Matthew and Mary eventually…
He'd been impeccably dressed in a morning coat, ascot tie, and grey waistcoat on this day five years previously. His shoes shone like mirrors, his foppish hair combed back perfectly, and his collar was starched to perfection. His appearance was immaculate.
He went to the Parish church that morning for a wedding.
People had lined the streets in expectation, the bunting criss-crossed above the road and the church bells rang a merry peal out across the surrounding countryside.
The bride was so elegant, so refined. She wore the finest jewellery with a smile to outshine the brightest of the diamonds in her tiara on her face to match. She looked at him through her veil as she began the long walk up the aisle to the booming tune of the Wedding March.
Stained glass saints illuminated by the morning sun watched over the proceedings as the vicar began the service. The day was perfect, idyllic if you will.
But it wasn't his wedding.
The people weren't lining the streets because of him. The bunting hadn't been put out for him. The bells were not ringing out for him. The organ didn't serenade them, it played for the bride and groom. The smile to outshine a million diamonds was not produced for him. The saints didn't care for him. All eyes were on her.
He wasn't even sure she was truly smiling – he couldn't see her eyes reflecting the joy expressed on her face. He couldn't tell if she was a bride on the brink of heaven. Perhaps she smiled because duty demanded she make the best of a bad lot. The lack of expression in her eyes was the first crack in what might have seemed to be a perfect picture. There was a mild chill in the air. The clouds had begun to roll across the sky since the start of the service, dimming the glass tableaus in the windows and casting a literal shadow over proceedings. The bride's suspect expression of joy was matched by a terse smile on the face of the groom. He was disturbingly smug. It wasn't a loving smile, more of a victorious one. He'd won her. No doubt he'd toast his success alone in a parlour, draft a piece for publication in one of his newspapers and only then proceed to the bedroom.
He'd not taken a seat in the family pew today. He feared he might do something stupid and try to stop the wedding. At one time, she might have been his, but he had had his chance and blown it to pieces. Their show had flopped and vacated the stage whilst a new one, the Carlisle one was rehearsed and from today, was put into production. She would after today leave his everyday life forever. A life she had been part of for most of the last seven or eight years. They might exchange cards on birthdays or gifts at Christmas or even the odd piece of correspondence. He might go to her child's christening and she might come to him with a legal matter that may need attention. And they'd go on in this way, as acquaintances within the extended family.
Too distant for friendship, too conservative too publicly display a mutual affection – even if it was nineteen twenty! Too many secrets, too many ghosts and missed chances. Too many regrets over what might have been. So would end the story of Mary and Matthew.
It had taken every fibre in his being to stay silent when the Bishop – Mary had wanted Travers, Carlisle wanted the Bishop – asked the congregation for any reason why the marriage should not take place. He could have sworn that she had turned her head ever so slightly for an instant to look at him through her peripheral vision. Perhaps she had wanted him to say something to stop this charade. It was more likely that she had turned to glance at her husband. She didn't want Matthew any more. She didn't need him. Maybe it was the ultimate expression of love for him to have respect enough for both himself and her to let the wedding go on un-hindered. Perhaps there were some in the congregation who wished that he had spoken up and ended the farce. Was he a coward for not rising? Or was he just resigned to it all – yet another stage in a game where the player must appear ridiculous.
Life isn't fair, it isn't supposed to be. You win things and you lose things. In this case he had lost Mary to Carlisle. The small, sardonic part of him asked himself whether he had had a lucky escape by refusing Mary. After all, if her standard of man was that of Carlisle, then she might not be considered such a great loss. Yet despite part of his mind playing devil's advocate, he felt the overwhelming loss of a woman, no, the woman, that he loved.
He didn't watch them proceed out of the door and into the fast dulling morning light. He instead moved to the side of the church as the building began to empty. He was very quickly the only person in the nave. The clergy had retreated to the vestry, the congregation had ventured into the church-yard. They were a cacophony of cheers and applause, muffled somewhat from Matthew's position as he moved towards the aisle by the thick stone walls that had stood for centuries.
The air of celebration that had persisted within the consecrated stones rapidly cooled. Matthew felt a mild draft hit him as he himself moved to exit the church. 'The winds of change', he had mused. He turned to look back at the altar and said a silent prayer to whatever God that might be listening to bless the newlyweds and to, more importantly, keep her safe, and happy.
He didn't show up for the wedding breakfast. He'd been invited to both the breakfast and the evening ball. He would have only been there to keep up appearance. The heir to the bride's home not attending all of the social niceties after her wedding might at best defy convention and at worst broadcast to the outside world a disapproval of the new union. As much as he hated Carlisle, he wouldn't have wanted to snub Mary. Nevertheless, he asked his mother to make his excuses. Complaining of a headache he promised to be in attendance later that evening.
Excuses made, he walked the short distance back to Crawley house where he put away his hat, coat and gloves, found a whisky decanter and poured a large Scotch to steady his nerves. Inevitably, one Scotch lead to another, and another and another until finally a combination of good alcohol and utter mental exhaustion and mental restraint knocked him out.
The damage, however, had been done. The large Scotch he had poured himself five years ago had pushed him into the grips of the age old vice of drink. It was how he found himself to be in a London club on a spring night in 1925. Five years to the day since the first love of his life walked out of his life.
He was impeccably dressed tonight. His dinner jacket and black tie contrasted as sharply with his white shirt as his impeccable dress contrasted with his actions. He was alone with only a bottle for company, five years to the day since the last major upset in his life. Five years since she walked out of his life. Five years since he had left Downton in a fit of embarrassment and shame on the afternoon train. He hadn't darkened the doorstep of the great Abbey since.
He was 'celebrating' the date by sitting alone in one of the nightclubs he seemed to frequent more and more these days. He was sat in sombre, if not sober reflection. Sipping his fifth scotch of the evening, the great heir - who was seen by some as one of the most eligible bachelors in town - was well on his way to intoxication.
"May I join you?"
Four words that broke him out of his sombre reverie as the band finished their latest song. The speaker wore a radiant smile and a black dress that barely reached her knees. The dress accentuated her impressive figure and highlighted her elegant legs. Had he actually had a clear head, Matthew's mind might have been able to compute that a highly attractive woman was starting a conversation with him.
She was a brunette. The last brunette he had been with was Mary. If Matthew had thought about it, there was a vague resemblance in his alcohol befuddled mind but the combination of the alcohol in his system and the shock at the fact that somebody actually wanted to talk to him tonight shut down the delivery of any verbal response before it had left his mouth. Instead he merely nodded.
"May I?" she asked brightly, indicating the seat next to him.
"By all means," he muttered, smiling tersely. He returned his gaze to the amber depths of the crystal tumbler half full of whisky in his hand.
"You look like you need some company." Alicia said. But she appeared to say it to nobody in particular as Matthew didn't acknowledge her any further.
"I don't think we've met before; Alicia Ashbridge," she held out her hand to introduce herself.
"Matthew Crawley," he replied sullenly. He didn't take her hand. Instead he drained the rest of his scotch and set the now empty tumbler back on the table.
Alicia, sensing she wasn't getting anywhere in the fledgling conversation tried a different tack. "Well Mr Crawley, will you not get your lady a drink?" she smiled coquettishly at him. Matthew flinched at the word 'lady'.
"Uh-" whatever his alcohol infused mind may have been expecting, it wasn't that. Who would want to drink with him; Matthew Crawley, the eligible bachelor who had faded from public view and drank in nightclubs in an effort to forget his past.
"Come now Mr Crawley, it's nineteen twenty-five, not eighteen twenty five. A man can buy a woman a drink without being properly introduced!" her smile didn't falter.
"Well, uh-" he turned to look at her. She was very attractive. She wasn't Mary but she was very attractive. The dress suited her, but since 'when did dresses get so short'? His alcohol addled brain asked himself. And why did such an attractive woman want to talk to him?
But Alicia wasn't looking at him anymore. She had changed her attention to the bartender. "Excuse me!"
"Yes ma'am?"
"We'd like to order drinks. I'll take a dry Martini and my friend here will have a – what will you be having Mr Crawley?"
"Another scotch please," he replied holding up his empty glass.
The bartender proceeded to mix Alicia's martini.
"So what do you do for a living Mr Crawley?"
"I'm a lawyer. From Manchester. I used to work in Yorkshire." He replied shortly.
"I've got a distant cousin who went to live in near Whitby," she mused. "Indulge my curiosity Mr Crawley, and tell me; what would a Yorkshire lawyer be doing in a place like this?" gesturing to the organised chaos of the nightclub around her.
"Drowning his sorrows," he shrugged. "When the band starts up, it gets so loud that I can forget."
"What are you trying to forget Mr Crawley?"
"A woman, two women in fact," Matthew replied curtly. "Why are you here Miss – is that right – Miss Ashbridge?"
But the conversation was interrupted by the bar tender. "Excuse me ma'am, would you like lemon or olive with your martini?"
"Lemon please."
"There you go, one dry Martini with lemon for the lady, and a scotch for the gentleman." The barman produced their drinks with a flourish.
They thanked the man and resumed their conversation.
"Why am I here?" echoed Alicia, "I'm trying to move on."
"A man?"
"He died."
"In the war?" Matthew asked, staring into the amber depths of the whisky tumbler as Alicia sipped her drink.
"He fought. Did you?"
"I was in the trenches for two years. I'd rather not talk about it."
"My husband was the same. He was wounded in October 1918."
"He survived then. Many didn't. I should have died."
Alicia ignored the latter part of his morose comment. "He might have survived but the war changed him. It changed us all. I married him in 1913. We were happy together, even if he didn't originally marry me for me. He married me for my fortune but we came to an arrangement and we were falling in love.
"Then a Serbian shot an Austrian and then Europe was at war.
"The last time I saw the man I loved was the night before he left for France. He came back a shell. I didn't recognise him anymore. When he came back on leave, he'd be cold. His face would be devoid of emotion. He may never have quite loved me in the same way that I loved him, but when he came back from France, there was nothing left of the old Phillip.
"Even after the war ended, he was never quite the same. He'd have these horrible nightmares and thrash and scream in bed. Or he would hallucinate and start seeing things at the breakfast table and flinch every time he heard a firework or a car backfire. I'd got used to it. And then, one day, I was here, in town and when I got back from the railway station, I found he'd gone and found a gun and shot himself."
Matthew shuddered involuntarily.
"I'm the widow of a man who went and committed suicide in the dining room on a June afternoon. So technically I'm once again Miss Ashbridge…" She trailed off, studying the look on Matthew's face.
"I've shocked you haven't I?" she said coyly. "What must you be thinking?"
"That you were very unfortunate."
"I didn't love him by the end Mr Crawley. He came back from war like a dead man walking. It was going to happen eventually, it was just a matter of when. I was prepared for it. I loved the man he was, not the husk he had become. Sometimes I think it would have been to kinder for him never to have returned. I must sound morbid."
"The heroes were the ones who didn't return." Matthew said in the lull in conversation.
"Do you think that it ever changes? Miss Ashbridge?" he asked, looking into her eyes. They were hazel; lighter than Mary's soft dark pools that could harden to a cold black ice when she so desired. Alicia's eyes seemed to sparkle with light and warmth and joy and hope.
"What changes?"
"Love? Affairs of the heart?"
"The only constants in our lives are changes Mr Crawley," she replied, thoughtful. "My husband changed, I changed because he changed. When he died I changed again. In some ways his death was a relief. I don't think I would have been able to cope after too long. But enough about me. I must be starting to sound very macabre!"
"I hadn't really noticed," Matthew said, staring once again in to the amber depths of his glass whilst Alicia took another sip of her Martini.
"So tell me then. What happened to your love, or rather loves?"
"Lavinia was taken by the flu in 1919. We were engaged. I was her officer fiancé and she was my girl at home. I was about to break it off and the flu struck. She died very quickly."
"That's awful."
"It was my fault. I strung her along and played her for a fool. When I was wounded I had to send her away. But she kept coming back."
"She loved you."
"More than I loved her."
"And the other woman?" Alicia asked.
"Mary," he breathed.
"We met in 1912. I proposed in 1914 and she turned me down. We remained friendly during the war but I had met Lavinia and she had met somebody else. He wasn't good enough for her. But they married nevertheless. I probably should have said something, but I'd had my chance. We danced at her wedding…"
And it all came back.
He could remember the dance as if it were yesterday. One last waltz. The last dance of the evening. One last encore for Matthew and Mary.
Matthew had made it to the house after sobering up in the parlour at Crawley House. He had slept through the afternoon before waking, changing into something appropriate for a ball and leaving the house for the Abbey. There were no servants left at Crawley House, the wedding had required all the estate staff to help at the big house. Consequentially Matthew satisfied his stomach by finding some bread and cheese in the larder and made a very late Ploughman's lunch.
He was late to the ball and so missed the few opening dances. When he entered the great hall at the Abbey, he found a scene of jubilation. The bride simply shone. The bride's father, the Earl, his Cousin Robert looked immensely proud of what his eldest daughter had achieved. The countess was beaming from ear to ear. Even the Dowager Countess, whatever her opinion of the groom appeared to be enjoying herself. Although Cousin Violet was probably enjoying the food rather more than the unfortunate choice of husband for her granddaughter. His mother was deep in conversation about something with Cousin Rosamund.
Mary and Carlisle were leading the couples on the dance floor. As soon as Matthew made his appearance, Edith accosted him and starting talking to him about all manner of things, which mostly revolved around her parents' disapproval of Anthony Strallan.
Sybil then added to the conversation by debating the virtues of Mary's new husband and discussing with Edith whether Matthew would find anybody to share his life with after Lavinia. Whether they had remembered that Matthew was indeed present and could hear the conversation they were having and were deliberately tip toeing very carefully around the issue of Mary's relationship with Matthew, he would never know.
His attention was almost entirely focused on Mary for the next few dances. Well, Mary and copious glasses of champagne that he had consumed whilst watching her dance.
Edith and Sybil eventually drifted away to dance with some of the guests. Mary's American grandmother, who he hadn't actually noticed arrived from New York in the last few weeks before the wedding, was the one to drag him to the dance floor to dance the third to last dance of the evening. Ordinarily, he would have refused but the alcohol that had been circulating his body had lowered his inhibitions somewhat.
"So you are the young man who gets all of my money when Robert's gone!" she said by way of greeting.
"Technically the money has been part of the estate since Cora married Robert."
"You British aristocrats have a funny way of gaining wealth." She mused.
"It's called an inheritance."
"I still don't get why a lawyer….they tell me you are a lawyer – will get all of this," she waved her arms vaguely, "at some point in time."
"Robert's grandfather created an entail for the estate. The estate goes to the male heir – the one who will inherit the title."
"Yes I know that. But I'm asking why you?"
"I'm only distantly related, Robert is my third cousin once removed."
"You know, if we were in America, I would have sued you for control of the estate by now. I would have given you a fair settlement. But I would have sued you. After eight years. An estate going to a distant relative would be unheard of New York."
"I might have been happier if you did."
"You may well have been. I know what Mary meant to you." Her gaze softened slightly as they danced. "It's similar to what my Isidore felt for me." Martha patted his shoulder. "Don't you worry, there will be another girl who comes along."
"But not like Mary."
"Maybe. But there are plenty of girls in New York who might be interested in an eligible British bachelor. The heir to an earldom to boot. New York society would be interested in you. If you ever happen to venture to the New World, then you should get in touch. As it happens Matthew, I rather like you." She patted his shoulder again as the music ended. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to go and do battle with my English counterpart she's planning some sort of party for my youngest granddaughter and still thinks the world is stuck in 1890." Matthew chuckled, the first time he had come close to laughing in weeks, if not months.
"Enjoy your evening Matthew." And in a flurry of heavily scented, billowing taffeta silk, she was gone.
She was replaced by something much lighter.
Mary.
She was standing there. Standing there, waiting for him.
"You've been avoiding me," she said with a coy smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Uh-"
As he had been in 1912, he was completely dumbstruck. His mouth hung open slightly. The Dowager may have remarked upon his excellent impression of a cod fish.
"Grandmama didn't completely bore you then?" Mary continued, ignoring Matthew's stupefied state.
Matthew finding something with which to make conversation, replied; "No on the contrary, I think she went from asking why I'm inheriting to trying to find me a wife in the New World."
"Well it worked for Papa," she smiled. "Are you going to ask me to dance? Richard had to step out for a moment, last minute details for the honeymoon. Paris, then Nice then Switzerland and finally Italy. We'll be moving to Haxby Park when we return, the Russell's old place. Richard bought it as a wedding present for me. I don't think I could quite match it," she rambled on almost wistfully. Matthew hung upon every word.
"Matthew? Matthew?" she called, trying to bring him out of his almost trance like state.
"Yes—" he spluttered.
"Will you dance with me?"
"Dance with you?"
"Yes, as a couple, on the dance floor. I know we haven't really talked in what seems like months since Richard and I set a date but surely you can't have forgotten how to waltz in that time?" she smirked slightly, raising an eyebrow.
Maybe she was thinking about what could happen if the situation was reversed and they had actually got married today.
"Of course not," he replied, both to her question and his un-spoken thought.
"Shall we then?"
"OK…" he replied a little uncertain as the opening strains of the waltz sounded across the room. Matthew was very hesitant with his steps. Mary was much more confident, leading him around the floor.
"What are you thinking about Matthew? You are obviously distracted."
"It's just…well…"
"Yes?" she quirked her brow.
"Well is this really appropriate? Considering our history?"
"I don't see the issue."
"Your husband has just left the room and you have come to dance with me? Does that not sound a little suspect to you?"
"Matthew? You can't possibly think I had any ulterior motives? Can you? I couldn't sit out for a dance. You were the only man in the room that I wanted to dance with that I hadn't danced with already. If it makes you feel any better, it was either dance with you, or dance with Strallan. I'm not sure if I can ever take him seriously after that salty pudding incident. Besides, he was born with two left feet - I'd rather leave my own wedding ball with my feet intact."
That elicited a small chuckle from Matthew, his second of the evening. He sobered quickly.
"Matthew? What's wrong? It's not like you to be so silent."
"We've changed, haven't we? You are now Lady Mary Carlisle and I'm no longer family to you."
"Don't be ridiculous," her gaze hardened slightly. "I hope you won't treat me like a stranger."
"What kind of married woman regularly fraternises with her fourth cousin?"
"To be honest I don't know many women with fourth cousins so I couldn't possibly say!" she replied hotly. "Really, what has go into you tonight?"
"A lot of champagne…and maybe some whisky earlier…I'm just confused Mary. Why are you dancing with me?"
"Because you are part of my family, and you are, I hope, still my friend."
"I'll always be your friend Mary. But I want to be more. You know what I said the last time we danced. I told you that you are my stick. That hasn't changed. You may have, but that hasn't."
"Matthew, stop," Mary held up her hand. "You don't know what you are saying. Here of all places."
"Tell me you feel the same way. Tell me what you are really feeling? Are you really happy with Carlisle?"
"I'm perfectly content with Richard," she said, diplomatically, with all the air and grace of an aristocrat.
"Is contentment the same as passion? Desire? True love? Is that the same wanting somebody so deeply that they even haunt your dreams?"
"Matthew, control yourself," Mary hissed.
"I love you. I desire you. We could have, we should have married in 1914. I want you as my wife, Mary. You still haunt my dreams."
"Matthew, stop! Just stop Matthew! That part of my life is over!"
"Is it?" he replied before moving closer towards her.
"It all came back, the sensation of what could have been. I lost control, and tried to kiss her. She slapped me."
"I left for London that morning. I haven't been back to Yorkshire since. She's happily married by all accounts and now lives in New York. I don't really want to go back to Yorkshire. Too many memories."
A calm silence enveloped them as they finished their drinks. Matthew downed his Scotch and called for another, his seventh that night.
"Why am I telling you all of this?" he asked suddenly, his voice slurring a little.
"Because you've had a little too much to drink and once I get you back to wherever it is that you live in this city, we'll probably never meet again. That's why you've told me, Mr Crawley."
"Please, call me Matthew, Miss Ashbridge."
"Only if you call me Alicia," she replied.
"Mr Crawley won't be drinking that," she gestured to the newly poured scotch. "How much do we owe you?"
"Just put it on my tab." Matthew mumbled. Before stumbling as he got up.
"Here, let me," said Alicia, steadying him.
"Why are you helping me?" asked Matthew slowly, his speech slurring.
"Because I want to, is that excuse enough?"
"I don't deserve you, just like I didn't deserve them."
Alicia ignored him as Matthew leant heavily on her shoulder as they left the club. Once they got out into the cool autumn air, she hailed a cab.
"Where to? Miss?"
"Matthew, what's your address?" Alicia asked gently.
Matthew didn't respond. Instead he vomited into the street.
After taking a moment to clean him up with a handkerchief she found in his jacket pocket and a rag given to her by the driver. Alicia gave him an address: "Crowborough Place if you please."
"Your friend had a little too much to drink?" the cabbie asked rhetorically.
"I would have thought it obvious. I only hope he doesn't throw up all over me."
"Well it would be me who would be cleaning it. So he better not."
The rhythm of the car reminded a semi-conscious Matthew of the car journey he had taken with the Dowager Countess that spring night.
After he had managed to escape the dance floor and a furious Mary, with a little of his fast evaporating dignity intact he met Carlisle in the entrance hall.
"Cousin Matthew? Can I call you that? After all, we are cousins now," the Scot called as Matthew hurried towards the green baize door and towards the kitchens.
"Go to hell!" he shouted his response over his shoulder.
A rather bemused Sir Richard Carlisle then almost ran into the Dowager.
"I'm terribly sorry Lady Grantham!" he hurriedly apologised. If there was one Crawley he feared, it was the Dowager Countess – both because of her formidable reputation and because Mary adored her.
"Do watch where you are going Sir Richard. If you can't see one old woman without running into her first then I hesitate to see how you have survived in London for so long. All those lamp-posts, and bollards."
"Yes, Lady Grantham. I try my best to avoid them."
"Good evening Sir Richard," she said in dismissal before striding to the waiting car.
"Good evening and good riddance," she murmured to herself.
"Good evening Pratt," she called, approaching the waiting chauffeur.
"Where to m'lady?"
"Home, Pratt," she replied as she climbed in. "It's been a very tiring day."
"Yes m'lady."
The Sunbeam limousine lumbered along the dark road towards the village. Its huge front headlights illuminating the gloom like a bug-eyed monster. Matthew saw the car before he heard it. In his slightly alcohol infused state and between watching his feet and swigging from a bottle of scotch he'd stolen from under Carson's nose, he didn't actually register that he might have to get out of the way. It took Pratt several beeps of the horn to encourage the obstacle to move off the highway.
It was only when the Sunbeam accelerated past the wandering drunk and the Dowager glanced out into the murky night at the person who had impeded her passage home that she registered that the wandering drunk could have at one point become her grandson-in-law.
"Stop the car Pratt," she called to her chauffeur.
"Right you are m'lady," he pulled over to the verge.
"That gentleman we just passed on the road, invite him inside if you please."
"Yes m'lady." Whilst as a chauffeur to a great house, he was not adverse to unusual requests, for the Dowager Countess to invite a stranger off the road into Her Ladyship's car was highly unusual indeed. He left the engine running, before walking back up the road to find the drunk on the road.
"Excuse me, sir!" he called to the man staggering twenty yards ahead of him, clutching a glass bottle.
"Excuse me sir!" he repeated. Grabbing the drunk's arm as he stumbled into Pratt's path. In the light of the limousine's tail lights, Pratt glimpsed the face of the drunk who was, to his utmost astonishment, none other than Matthew Crawley, the Grantham heir.
"Mr Matthew, sir? What happened to you, sir?"
"I got drunk," he slurred.
"I can see that sir. Let's get your inside the car, sir. Her Ladyship wishes to speak to you."
Matthew grunted in reply as he was guided towards the Sunbeam.
"Well? What have you got to say for yourself?" asked the Dowager Countess as she took in the dishevelled state of the Grantham heir flopping on the seat across from her.
"I got drunk."
"That is an understatement," she replied as the car began to move once again. "I do have eyes you know, I may be old but I'm not blind. I saw what happened between you and Mary. If you want my opinion, I think she's been a fool but that is neither here nor there. The deed is done."
"She's gone," he said flatly.
"Yes, and its time you moved on. You've danced around each other for long enough, it's time for this charade to end. It has become embarrassing for you and for her."
"Yes. Yes it has," he slurred.
"So, to that end, I am telling you to leave Downton. Unless your manner completely changes and you can find yourself being civil to Carlisle – he's a bore, he's a cad, I know," holding up her hand to stop Matthew's indignant process. "But now he is family."
"I see, so I'm being cast out. I'm the one who has to leave?" he murmured before falling into a dreamless sleep.
When Matthew came downstairs at half nine o'clock the next morning, he found his mother at breakfast. But she wasn't alone. The Dowager, often considered a lady of leisure and unaccustomed to rising before ten was taking tea.
"Ah, there you are. It's about time. I thought I would be forced to finish my tea and return for luncheon."
"Mother, what is going on?"
"Cousin Violet has a plan that I happen to agree with it."
"I did tell you yesterday, it isn't my problem that you fell asleep."
Nursing a headache, a bewildered Matthew Crawley asked the obvious; "What plan?"
"So I'm the one who has to leave?" he murmured.
"Not cast out, Matthew, but even if it's only temporary, you should be out of the county by the time they return. I'm telling you to take a holiday. Go to London or Brighton or even back to Manchester and only return when you find yourself in a position to be civil to Carlisle. If you can't find the will to do that in England then go to America. I may dislike Americans as a rule but, and it pains my heart to say it, our kind of people are dying out. The number of heirs killed in the war has shattered the aristocracy. You are an eligible bachelor and you should look to find a wife…"
"And you agree with this?" Matthew asked his mother.
"I do. I think it's sensible. After all, what are you going to do with yourself? You still have potential an you won't need to worry about the estate. Robert will have it in hand."
"You mean Robert will have the advice of Carlisle."
"Well he is a successful businessman," retorted the Dowager.
"He's also a swine. What experience does he have of running an estate?"
"He's got Mary to guide him."
Matthew let out a hollow laugh. "So i'm to be replaced. You're banishing me."
"No Matthew. We're telling you to see a bit of the world, to refresh yourself. You've got an opportunity here."
"As I said last night, I think Mary has been a fool but she has made her bed and must lie in it. You have the opportunity to break your infatuation with her. It will only do more harm than good in the future."
"I'm sure you wouldn't want to make Mary's life difficult."
And there it was. For as long she walked the Earth, he wouldn't want to unwittingly corrupt her. He left on the afternoon train to York the same day.
He stayed the night before taking the train back to Manchester.
"We're nearly there," she said as the cab proceeded at a stately pace through Belgravia. Crowborough Place was a small, leafy square with two entrances and a small park in the centre, surrounded by tall stucco faced houses. It was typical of Belgravia.
"Just here please," called out Alicia and the cab came to a halt outside Number One, Crowborough Place. The number being illuminated by the street lamp outside the door.
After paying the cabbie their fare and with some effort, Alicia pulled the doorbell and was met a moment later by her butler.
"Poole, please see that Mr Crawley is settled in one of the guest bedrooms."
"Will he be staying the night, Your Grace?"
"I don't think he is any state to travel. Do you Poole?"
"Of course Your Grace," Poole replied, slightly abashed. "I'll see that Mrs Fleming is prepared to serve him breakfast in the morning. Will he require a valet in the morning?"
"I'm not sure, he will need somebody to change him tonight see that he has somebody to help him in the morning. Make sure he has a carafe of water at his bedside."
"Certainly, Your Grace," replied the stoic butler.
"In the meantime, you may help me move him to the drawing room. I can wait with him until the room is ready."
The next morning, Matthew Crawley woke in unfamiliar pyjamas, between unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar house. He saw that his clothes from the night before neatly folded on a chair by the bed. He got dressed before spying a tasselled bell pull. He pulled upon it and moments later a man in a footman's livery knocked on his door. Whilst he waited, he realised he had little in the way of knowledge of what happened the night before.
"Good morning sir, I'm Arthur. Her Grace said you may need some help this morning."
"Her Grace?" asked a confused Matthew. "Where the hell am I?"
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Please tell me what you think. This is Chapter One, hopefully of many, but updates will be sporadic at best. If you want a visual reference for Alicia, think Anne Hathaway. Do leave some feedback with the buttons below.