He drowsed; sun dozed in the back trenches. His skin tanning in a merciless French summer: beautiful except for the constant drumming of shells that rattled the trenches day in day out. And for the rusty stains the ghosts and memories of dead comrades and the stiflingly smell of open sewage. Here a thousand miles away from her a whole lifetime away from Downton abbey he can finally allow himself to think of her. A cigarette stuck between his lips only him and his life which could be ticking away faster every minute. He reaches into his pocket and strokes the little woollen charm therapeutically (as though hoping that perhaps the luck might rub off) and replays the kiss to his cheek again and again, until it's unbearable. Curses himself for not being impulsive enough to kiss her back, for this damned façade. But then he catches sight of Lavinia's eyes in the photograph and it all comes rushing back to him. Why he dose what he dose forcing himself to think of another girl 'Lavinia' who was so sweet and kind and so easy to love, or at least to be fond of. Shakes his head and gently kisses the photograph the way the rest of the soldiers do – at least the ones who are lucky enough to have someone to miss them- Before the go to sleep. When he dose he thinks 'I don't deserve your love.'
He might die in this war, many do and many will. Only in this situation can he think haunting thoughts and Mary and guilty ones about Lavinia. Because on the train home he knows he could and will be happy with Lavinia. He knows that she will try her best and love him faithfully. This was more than Mary had done when it had been her chance, Damnit! More than what any reasonable man could argue with Except for those who wanted passion and he had been young enough to want passion once.
When he had attended university he had often been sat in the comfiest arm chair of the common room his nose buried into a book. One time, on such an occasion his least favourite professor had wondered into the room. A stout man with a famous ill temper, Matthew looked up from his book. But when the Professor did not say anything and simply sat down and began to fill his pipe, he returned to it. They sat in careful silence for a moment until Matthew nosily turned one of the pages. And the Professor looked up to glare at him, catching sight of the title and making a 'humpf' sort of sound. 'Shakespeare?' He asked his voice gruff. 'Hamlet.' Matthew replied smiling, he may not like the man but if he was a Shakespeare lover then he was prepared to put all that aside. And besides a conversation with a professor any professor about a genius would of course be beneficial. 'Are you a fan?' he asked. The professor seemed rather offended 'Certainly not.' He barked 'Shakespeare has al sorts of awful ideas hidden in the text, hidden in plain sight!' His hand shook slightly and there was an awkward pause. 'Your, the Crawley chap aren't you? Always got your head in a book.' 'Well yes I do.' Matthew began still smiling but now slightly defensive. But the professor cut him across. 'Then I suppose you love Shakespeare's women.' He jabbed tobacco stained yellow finger at the book. 'I suppose you think Ophelia is the Crème de la crème.'
Matthew had been quite taken aback, he did indeed harbour a great love and admiration for Ophelia but he couldn't for the life of him understand why this had enraged the man so much. In fact he was beginning to become a little terrified, but he couldn't help himself. 'What's wrong with Ophelia?' He asked confused. The man made another Humpf sound, an impatient noise. ' Its what's wrong with the lot of them: wilful, crazy and impassioned and thoroughly unbearable, I'd suppose you'd want to marry a women like that. To this Matthew had absolutely no answer so he just sat their unable to think of how to continue this most confusing conversation. He let the silence stretch until it was punctuated by the squeak of the professor hefting himself out of the arm chair; he stuck his pipe to the corner of his mouth and sidled up to Matthew clapping him on the shoulder. His voice and face gentle now as though he had put on a mask. 'You're a bright lad.' He said softly 'and theirs no harm in desiring Shakespeare's women, but if you do know this passion and pain walk hand in hand.' And with that he left the room. It was only afterwards that Matthew wondered whether they had really been talking about Shakespeare.
But he had been right so right even though later Matthew had dismissed him as a madman. His words came back to bite because he would carry on writing painfully to 'darling Lavinia.' And 'Cousin Mary.' Until one of them could bring themselves to put a stop to it all,
Till death do us part.