Disclaimer:

All television shows, movies, books and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. This work is the interpretation of the original material and not created for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

AN: This story won't be long: I guess about three chapters or so. I simply have to get this particular plot bunny out of my head. I had this idea several years ago, but somehow I never felt confident enough to give period and class distinctive English a try. It is still quite unpolished and I would love a beta.


Matthew let his eyes roam over her face. The small droplets of sweat were slowly drying on her skin, leaving behind white jagged lines on her nightgown. He knew he should wash her face with a cloth, let a maid change her into a clean nightgown, maybe air the room, too. But she looked so peaceful. He didn't dare to disturb her just then.

Her fever had finally broken half an hour ago and Lavinia was finally sleeping.

Exhaustion was creeping through his body. His back hurt violently. He could no longer find any position, sitting or standing in which it didn't bother him. At this point he wasn't sure if even lying down would bring him some relieve. Over the last few days he had hardly slept, alternating between nursing his bride as well as his mother. It left him spent. But at last he knew the worst was over and for a moment he just enjoyed the knowledge that his loved ones would survive this wicked influenza.

He looked at Lavinia. She looked so very frail. And yet she wasn't. There was something there. Even though she had been feverish and unconscious at the time, Matthew had felt it. This refusal to let go, her determination to live. And in the end she had persevered. Dr. Clarkson had already prepared him for the worst, but she was still here.

He felt the small draft before his mind registered the noise. A door opening. For a brief moment he wondered if he really had been at Downton for so long as not to notice the servants anymore. He turned in his chair, about to send the person away again. He was convinced that Lavinia needed sleep more than fresh linens just then. But it wasn't a maid, it was his mother.

She looked haggard. It was obvious her dressing gown was not her own. It dwarfed her; the hem brushing against her slippered feet as she made her way over to him. And yet it was more that than ill fitting clothes. She radiated a deep sorrow. Even though his mother hadn't been as severely afflicted as Lavinia, she looked absolutely terrible just then. Her face ashen and with an tormented expression upon it.

"How is she?" she asked in a whisper. Her grim face softening only a hint.

"Her fever broke. About an hour ago I would say. She is sleeping for now."

Matthew shook his head. He felt like he was bursting with feelings and wished to tell his mother all; explain to her the agony of the past few days. His hesitations regarding his marriage. His joy at and the guilt he felt for kissing Mary. The alarm and relief, when Lavinia interrupted them. And then the fear of loosing his fiancée to the illness, wondering if it would be his punishment somehow. And as if this hadn't been enough a second shock: His mother, his strong mother, had become ill as well. She had always been there. Since his childhood this had always been a great comfort to him. Someone he could trust to explain what was happening to him and why his current malady wouldn't be so bad. She had always been clear in her explanations and reassuring at the same time. And suddenly, she couldn't comfort him anymore, because she had been thrown down with a fever herself.

After that he had felt conflicted. Rushing from one bedside to the other. Always doubting his priorities. He had been grateful for Mary. It seemed as if she had put aside any feelings for the moment and nursed whichever patient he could not be with. Mary was indeed a marvellous woman.

He felt his mother's fingernails brushing his scalp lightly. It had been her way of comforting him when he was still a little boy. And for a moment he simply enjoyed the feeling. Feeling like a little boy, reassured by his mother that everything would be well again.
"My dear boy…" She sighed, holding onto his head for a moment longer.

And then, carefully and with some effort, she squatted down in front of him, holding onto an armrest for balance and support. She looked into his eyes and searched his face. The sorrow in her own face seemed even more pronounced.

"Matthew, it is time!"

He was confused, furrowing his brows and wondering what she was referring to.

"I think you should go now, say your goodbyes. Before it is too late."

He stiffened. Alarmed at the news. He tried to recall when he had last heard about anything regarding Cousin Cora. He had thought her on the way to recovery. And suddenly he dreaded what his mother would say next. It had to be someone else from the family.

"I know you don't want to confront your feelings and maybe you feel guilty. But I just know that you would regret it, if you don't go. Make peace. Let her go."

For a moment he was stupefied. His head trying to make sense out of his mother's words. And while his mind was still processing, his body reacted. His skin went cold. His mouth dry and his heart started pounding in an uncomfortable fast rhythm. Pounding hard against his ribs. He felt as if a hundred belts were tightened around his torso. Drawing a breath was a struggle. His throat was refusing the air to pass.

At last he said, "Mary?"


Well? What do you think? I would love to get some feedback from you!

PS: I don't believe that Julian Fellowes created one-dimensional characters. Every character has his/her motivation, good and bad sides; and I hope to show you these sides in the upcoming chapters. Consequently I don't want to hear about any death wishes for Lavinia or Sir Richard.