Hello. I know lots of folks participating in this MM AU Day (thanks Patsan!) will be doing all kinds of modern fics as per all the great suggestions put into the offering.
But I had decided on this story upon seeing an image on tumblr of Great War soldiers cleaning out a French village. It struck an AU chord with me of what I would have liked to see if Mary and Matthew had married during the war and had a little girl. So here it is…
XX
Mary and Matthew entered through the front door to be greeted by Carson who took Matthew's great coat, and by Isobel and Cora holding her first grandchild in her arms. Baby Isobel pushed away her chubby arms from Cora as soon as she saw her mother. Mary smiled and gave the fourteen month old a hug. Matthew unbuttoned his jacket and pulled down his tie. He did not much care about dress protocol. For the moment, among family, he simply wanted to relax. They walked into the library.
Mary felt the squirming Isobel against her and set her down on the carpeted floor. She immediately set out on wobbly legs towards her father. Grinning madly he squatted down to catch her.
"Uh oh." Matthew's voice was sunlit yet anxious. "Is little Izzie dizzy?" He stretched out his arms for his little girl to toddle over and collapse into. A merry gurgle and a giggle were his reward as he pulled her close. "Just for that you're going to get a hug and a tickle."
Mary wanted to roll her eyes at his continual attempt to find silly rhyming words and nicknames for their little girl. But just having him home made her heart too full of love to be acerbic this morning.
She did not want him to know, indeed, that she was on the verge of tears. Something so un-Lady Mary like that it shocked her. Her emotions, usually so in check, had gone to pieces on this leave. The war, so real before, had become her living nightmare
"I think Daddy is the one being silly." She said with only Matthew noticing the unsteadiness in her voice, as she kissed her little girl on the top of her curly brown head. She used the parental endearment Matthew had chosen, rather than Papa as Mary had used to her own father. Similar to his insistence on nicknames, Matthew believed such formality nonsense for a baby girl.
Matthew reached out his hand and entwined Mary's fingers within his own. Eyes locked and fingers clasped together ever so briefly, then let go- just enough to allow Mary recovered her self-possession. Matthew knew she hated losing her composure like that. In front of him. For most certainly his teetering grip on sanity would fray, and he'd be lost.
Mary knew very little about his work at the front. About what those haunted, hollow eyes took in as he gazed across at her at the dining table. But she knew those eyes never lied. And whatever he saw, something so very different from the propaganda being foisted on the public in the papers, that she must be strong or risk losing him to the demons within.
She was proud of course. When attending an officer's mess in London, she would stand next to him and talk and chat with other officer's wives. She knew well how to play that game. Her upbringing virtually gave her nothing else.
They both wore masks now.
He had accused her in their long past of putting on a mask of propriety as a safeguard against her true feelings. Keeping him out. At a distance. Keeping their love from flourishing.
But now, well into his third year in the army, his own mask of the good soldier was well rehearsed. And only at night did it release its grip. He would shout out in alarm "Curse it man, don't just stand there. You'll be shot to hell" or another time in a hoarse whisper, "Watch it Watkins." And he jerked to the side as if falling to safety from an incoming shell. Sometimes he woke himself up, dazed and unaware. Sometimes it was even more frightening. His eyes open but sightless. And he would collapse back onto the bed and not remember anything the next day.
Mary would hold him tight until he fell asleep. Or he'd throw her off as if afraid he was buried alive. She tried not take offence or let him notice her tears.
He was alive.
They would be strong together. This moment. This family. This child. That's what mattered. She was brave for him. Brave for Isobel. And for their future happiness when he returned, whole and safe, at the end of this endless war.
With a deep throated chuckle as Isobel back climbed into his lap, Matthew threw himself down onto the sofa and they fell back against the cushions.
"Lady Isobel needs a nap I think," said Violet noting the child's gaping yawn as she stretched and curled her arms around Matthew's neck. Her head came to rest on his shoulder. He pressed his cheek to hers.
"Not just yet." He managed to get out, inaudibly. His lips pursed and quivering as he breathed in his child's scent.
He had arrived back from the front just a week ago. And tomorrow he was gone again. About to return to his other life. Joining his Duke of Manchester Own's unit as they made a recruitment circuit through York and Manchester and back to London. He kept his own counsel on the merit of such drives as he now truly disbelieved in the whole purpose of the war. But that was not to be said in public.
Especially as he was hot water with his CO. He had tried after completing his officer's course in 1915 to conceal his connections to the aristocracy. At the time, he had broken with Downton. His ties to Mary in shreds. His desire not to be treated as special foremost in his mind.
But eventually it all caught up to him. His captain had found out and berated Lt. Crawley as he now looked like an ass in front of his Colonel for not knowing he had the heir to the estate of Grantham in his unit. So seconded to General Strutt on this recruitment drive with a promotion of his own, he had shown himself helpful and cooperative. As a reward he was granted time to stop in at Downton and see the family.
What an utter fool he had been in the early months of the war.
He had left so abruptly after their encounter at the garden party. He had been so righteously bitter and stalked away.
And then he had volunteered and begun his training. Sent to France for more training and then finally moved with his unit up to the front lines. "Training over soldier," he had baldly been told. The barbed wire entanglements being part of the outer defenses the first site telling him he was approaching No Man's Land. The treeless, seeming airless nothingness of the trench line. It had sapped all their strength and their sense of purpose. It had shattered all his illusions of honor and principle. The conversation he had with Cpl. Barrow in the dugout over the cup of hot tea that had seemed as inviting as any glass of champagne had solidified his change of heart. "War," he had said, thinking of his own foolishness as well as the stupidity of class and rank, "has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't."
He had said as much in the letter he immediately wrote to Mary soon after that conversation. He wrote from the training grounds at Berles where he was taking some kind of advanced infantry course before a second deployment to the front. He had been a fool. Please forgive him. He now knew what mattered and what did not. He was returning to York on leave in a week to see his mother. Would she agree to have tea with him in Ripon.
They met. They talked. She revealed her secret. He felt even worse a fool. They kissed across the tea table.
"Quite scandalous." Mary had said, half joking, taking in the looks of the other patrons.
"They're just jealous." Matthew had responded coolly and sweetly.
For in that moment everything became true and bright again. In Mary's arms, with her lips on his. A life worth living.
He asked her to marry him. "I'm done with living separate lives Mary. You living one life. Me living another. I want to live our life together. I love you. I love you so very much."
Mary's eyes danced with tears of joy. "Yes." She said simply as he threw back his seat and took her in his arms, spinning her around and kissing again and both laughing and making quite the scene in the Ripon tea shop.
Neither could have cared less.
She saw him off at the train station a few days later.
"Take this." Her beloved childhood toy dog as a good luck token. "Such good luck." He was on the verge of tears whether from dread of returning to the front or joy at their impending marriage she wasn't sure. Just that as they clung to each other in the deserted station as the early morning dales sunlight glinted on the horizon, they were the only two people in the world.
"You must promise to bring it back without a scratch." She handed it to him.
"Won't you need it?" He said, knowing why she was giving it to him but reluctant to accept.
"Not as much as you. So, look after it. Please." She thrust it into his pocket.
"I'll try not to be a hero, if that's what you're afraid of." That was a certainty. Matthew wanted to live now more than ever.
"Just come back safe and sound." They kissed one last time. She waved until her arm ached and she could no longer see the train.
By his next leave at Christmas 1915, they were married at the village church. Matthew had looked so handsome in his uniform. She had their wedding picture beside their bed. Her own gown had been handed down to her by Cora where they had it altered in London to fit Mary's slight frame.
Soon after he returned to France, Mary discovered she was carrying their child. Mary delivered their healthy baby girl in the fall of 1916 and now Lady Isobel Marie Crawley was the center of everyone's life at Downton. Her squeals of delight and mischief echoing through the hallways. Mary had taken to motherhood gamely, with the strong help of her mother and her grandmother namesake. Isobel was often over at Downton with her duties as joint manager of the convalescent center.
Matthew had begun the nicknames in letters home. Saying Isobel Marie was much too formal a name for a little baby, he had started with "give sweetie Izzie a big squeezy hug from daddy." Indeed he had without telling Mary spent a great deal of time keeping his mind occupied with good-and not very good- rhymes to put in his next letter home. It was a balm and comfort to his mind to drift to his infant daughter sleeping in Mary's arms, away from the death, the stench, the utter hopeless of his daily existence.
Due to his increased responsibilities, Matthew seldom visited so the recruitment trip had been a special bonus. He was soon to return back to France. To Arraines-sur-Somme where he was billeted.
They had slipped away during this most recent leave to a cottage on a neighboring estate. Lady Middleham offered it to them as a romantic getaway. She was new to the county since marrying Stanley Newhouse but she and Mary had found each other kindred spirits. Mary taking to staying long weekends as both their husbands fought at the front. Without saying a word they knew, they understood.
It was good not to have to talk about it. "It" being the thing that bonded them more closely together than anything else.
Sarah was only a few years older than Mary. Yet despite their marrying around the same time, Sarah's quick intelligent and competent demeanor belied her years. Her husband was regular army and she had been immediately thrown into the thick of the war when he was called up in August 1914.
Mary had confided in Sarah that she was nervous about Matthew's latest visit home. This would be the first time she saw him since he had been in combat over a year. Would he be as changed as the men she saw daily at Downton? Wounded, if not physically, then psychically? No longer the Matthew she knew?
Sarah had kindly offered up the secluded bungalow to Mary and her returning soldier husband. "Take him there." She had said, gently, understanding Mary's fears. "Hold him close. Take a drop of the brandy yourself to take the edge off your nerves. Keep him in your arms. They need a woman's touch. To feel alive. And if you feel a baby's stirring in you soon enough. All to the better. That's life for you."
She had never had such an intimate, understanding conversation with another woman before. Cora had spoken to Mary about relations –truly ironic Mary had thought at the time considering their history—but that had been mother/daughter. This was woman to woman. Mary drank in the woman's advice and had taken Matthew to the cottage the day after his return on leave, surprising him on what he had thought was only a long walk together.
"What about Isobel?" Matthew had said, using her full first name as he knew Mary did not really like his nicknames.
"She'll be fine with her grannies and great-grannies." And he spoke no more about anything more relevant than the color of Mary's eyes and the loveliness of her alabaster skin.
XX
The hours were already slipping away. To the family who had greeted the couple on their return from the cottage get away, Matthew had seemed at ease. Friendly. Attentive. Only Mary knew he was mentally preparing himself to return to the front.
"Busy miss Izzie." He would say, idly, half in this world, his mind half back in France. "Silly Izzie." Her demands for "kisses from daddy" brought him fully into focus.
"Oh well who could resist that." And he pecked her cheeks until she giggled and struggled to get down.
Ever as contrary as her mother, he would joke.
She left his arms and walked unsteadily around on the carpeted floor of the library. She spun around as her legs came out from under her and she fell. A single whimper escaped her lips but no more.
"Just like her mother." Violet commented almost sensing Matthew's own thoughts. "Never one to let anything get her down."
Isobel stoically up again. But it happened again and she fell down. Her curly head spinning from the sensation of the fall.
"More like spinning in a tizzy." Violet had said, picking up on Matthew's cue.
"That's it!" He proclaimed loudly, clapping his hands together. "Tizzie!" And she immediately responded to the new nickname by descending into a peal of laughter and giggles.
For Tizzie Crawley she remained the rest of her life. He scooped her up and spun her around and over his head. He never wanted to let go.
Upon leaving Mary the next day he had said he was amazed at how rich he had become.
"Rich?" Mary queried.
"Rich in love. More love than my heart can take in." He looked down into her loving eyes, shaded a bit with tears.
"Me too, Matthew." Mary now understood. "Me too."
Enclosing the other in an embrace where two became one, neither wanted to let go.
XX
Matthew sat cramped and cold in the dugout as the shells rained down outside. The piercing, shrieking sound followed by the thrum of the explosion. He grimaced and shook. Emerging a few hours later, he assessed the damage. The nearby village was on fire. The families escaping and being aided by the unit soldiers.
On one truck he found the physical belongings being collected from the scarred buildings. The detritus of what had been a family's life. His men moved methodically around the damaged homes finding whatever they could. Hoping that some things would be useful. Or that others would be collected by the villagers as they came to look for personal possessions.
Among the clothing and the other effects essentially labeled as rubbish and destined to be burned, Matthew found a doll. A little girl's doll. Her dress half gone, her hair singed and burned.
Did the child make it out alive, he wondered as he stroked what was left of the hair. Suddenly overcome with stricken grief and longing to return home, he dropped beside the truck. Tears flowing down his face. The need, the overwhelming need to be with Tizzie crushing him. Paralyzing him.
He choked back rivers of tears. Pulled his hands across his face. Shook his head once and dragged himself back together. He moved his mind to the place where he maintained his sanity. That his child was safe. That his family was intact. The image of Mary playing with their daughter. Running on the grounds of Downton after a picnic. The knowledge that very soon another child would be added to their little family. One he hoped he would be home in time for the birth.
Maybe even the war would be over.
Maybe…..
Placing the remnants of the doll back among the debris, he decided that on his next leave to Paris he would stop in to that toy shop he had seen before and buy a new doll for his daughter so that she would not feel left out with the birth of the newborn.
She would know she was loved. She was his Tizzie always.
Yes, yes. … He would do just that. His Tizzie, the joint love of every fiber of his being along with her mother, would feel all the love he could give all the days of her life.
XX
Hope you liked it.