Insecurity: Chapter One
Hello, everyone. I haven't written fanfiction since middle school (years ago), but I couldn't resist the complicatedness that is Mary. I am making up my own history for Matthew, since in the show we see and know so little of him beyond his interactions with Downton. Nothing too dramatic, I hope! This begins in season one and connects the dots between each scene until season two. The first few chapters may contain more of the original scenes written by Julian Fellowes, just to set up the situations, but it will eventually be more...well, more. Please enjoy!
April 1912
Lady Mary Crawley knew the cure to insecurity and administered it well. Perfection. Flawlessness. Her skin was smooth, pale; her face beautiful. Her dresses made to current fashion; her hats complemented in style. Perfection, which meant no one could speak badly of her. Except to say that she was an ice queen—but at least she was queen.
Cold. Heartless. She had become very good at ignoring what was said about her, but those words still pierced and stabbed, still hurt. They were her bedfellows, along with the feelings she never, ever let leave her room.
So, of course, she felt nothing after hearing about Patrick and the Titanic. It only annoyed her. Now she would have to wear black, a color that never worked with her complexion. And heavens, who was the next heir? She refused to be pushed into another arranged marriage just to keep Downton. She wanted to believe she didn't need help from anybody, especially if they told her what to do.
Mary was going to her room to change for dinner when she heard sniffling. "Really, Edith. The memorial is already over," she said, rolling her eyes. She could never tolerate her middle sister. It was embarrassing how easily things got to Edith, who had obviously inherited their mother's American propensity for sentimentality.
Her sister straightened and wiped her eyes. "How can you say that?"
Mary shrugged carelessly, turning away.
"You're heartless."
That word again. Mary felt a twinge, quickly squashed. She kept on walking. "At least I don't look like a mess," she threw over her shoulder, knowing full well how much that would hurt Edith.
Yet as soon as she entered her room, Mary's self-confidence fled. Anna might as well have been taking off a coat of armor, not a lacey dress. The housemaid came and went, but still Mary couldn't bring herself to move, couldn't look away from the mirror.
Her eyes were a particularly translucent shade of cold brown, she noted. Fitting. They were her weaknesses, those transparent eyes. No matter how hard she tried, she could never keep them from whispering her secrets.
What have I become?
Just then, Sybil peered around the door. "Are you coming?"
Mary picked up a bracelet and pretended to look at it. "In a moment. You go."
But instead of leaving, Sybil marched up to her. "I know you're sad about Patrick. Whatever you say, I know it."
Mary sighed. Her lies never worked on Sybil. That was the thing about her baby sister. They were so alike it was scary. Except Sybil, who had unbendingly strong opinions and didn't let anyone forget it, was far braver than her eldest sister could ever be. Mary had grown too used to hiding behind her ice veneer. So much that nothing affected her the way they should, the way her sister thought they would. "You're a darling," she said before meeting Sybil's earnest eyes in the mirror. "But you see I'm not as sad as I should be. And that's what makes me sad."
She saw the frown and was a little guilty for disappointing Sybil. She knew her youngest sister looked up to her the way every girl looked up to her big sister. But there was no point in having her think Mary was a saint. Sybil didn't need her help anyway. Mary sighed again, inwardly, and stood up. "I'm ready. Let's go."
All through that night's dinner, Mary couldn't help thinking that the months in black would be very long indeed.
September 1912
Matthew Crawley was not one to careen wildly through life. His father had been a rather rushed man and look where he ended up. Dead, as a result of driving his carriage too quickly.
No, for Matthew, there was nothing better than taking life simply, enjoying each moment as it came to pass. Or not enjoying, depending on what the situation demanded. Being a solicitor, he was quite good at making a decision and sticking to it. His mother called it a stubborn streak, something he supposed he got from her.
In this instance, he couldn't quite decide on which end of the emotional spectrum he should be standing. Physically, of course, he was in front of Crawley House, a place that bore his name but held absolutely no place in his heart. Matthew decided to be angry. "I still don't see why I couldn't just refuse it."
He had been uprooted from the life he knew and thrust into a responsibility he neither wanted nor could carry out. He was perfectly content with practicing law for the rest of his life. For heaven's sake, he had showered years of sweat and tears into law school, and had finally just secured a top position in his firm. Well, former firm.
No, there was no way Matthew would give up his life that easily. Thank God he'd found a job in Ripon. It wasn't a big firm like the one in Manchester, but it would do.
He tried to listen as his mother consoled him, but a very eager looking man stopped before them, clearly waiting. Who on earth…? "Can I help?" Matthew asked. It was brusque, but he couldn't seem to muster his manners.
"I'm Moseley, sir. Your butler and valet."
Good heavens. He was about to sack the man when his mother interrupted and introduced them. Damn. Bloody hell.
"I won't let them change me," he muttered as they followed Mr. Moseley in. He would not turn into a rich fool that couldn't do anything for himself. It was perhaps the only philosophy Matthew ever shared with his father.
Once inside, he had to admit, the house was beyond nice. But he wouldn't let that sway him. "This is ridiculous. We don't need a butler, or a valet. They cannot expect us to alter our—"
"What they expect, Matthew, is that we won't know how to behave," Mother stated, wielding blades of steel with her eyes. Her voice rose. "So if you don't mind, I would rather not confirm their expectations."
"I have to be myself, Mother. I'll be no use to anyone if I can't be myself." It was a lesson he'd learned long ago, one that he had struggled to make his father understand. "And before they, or you, get any ideas, I will choose my own wife."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Well they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me!"
And then Mr. Moseley announced, "Lady Mary Crawley."
If it was possible for all the blood to drain out of one's head while blushing at the same time, Matthew would certainly believe it. It was everything he could do to stay solidly on his feet while Lady Mary invited them to dinner.
She was like a creature from another world. A wondrous one. Matthew had been to London, of course. He'd met plenty of well-dressed, pretty ladies. But this one… She belonged, there was no doubt about it.
He heard his mother ask, "Won't you stay and have some tea?"
"Oh no, you're far too busy," the creature replied. She exuded an air of superiority while remaining polite. Maybe it was something about the eyebrows. Or the fact that she spoke with such flippant confidence. "And I wouldn't want to push in." Then she shifted and looked at him directly for the first time.
Beautiful…He was lost in eyes the color of chocolate on a sunny day. Matthew swallowed against his shortness of breath. And then she was gone.
Push… Her final words pranced in his head. Oh God, she'd heard him. Matthew ran out the door after her, determined to apologize.
"Lady Mary, I hope you didn't misunderstand me. I was only joking."
She didn't need the vantage point of being on her horse to see right through him. Matthew was a horrible liar. "Of course!" she said. Her voice wore disdain like a second skin. "And I agree. The whole thing is a complete joke."
Even if she had waited for his reply, Matthew would not have come up with one. He had never been this flustered or embarrassed in his life.