November, 1916
Chapter One
Ridiculous, she thought, as she scrubbed away as her life depended on it. Absolutely ridiculous. He's a boy. They're dirty enough as it is. Not to mention he's… well. Lady Mary Crawley of Downton Abbey didn't like to think that way. What way, Mary? Rationally? Oh do shut UP, she thought, cursing herself. She didn't like to think of her cousin at war, and of the horrible conditions he must be preparing to live in. Mud, rats, dried blood, she shuddered at the thought. What are a few stains going to be to the ones he'll collect over there. Yet she continued to scrub away. She was poised over her bathroom sink, a borrowed scrub brush of sorts in her hand, one she had snuck away when Mrs. Patmore wasn't looking. Her hands were becoming redder and more irritated at the minute, but she vowed not to give in. The small item in her hand was being given a bath, so to speak. The cloth dog had been a tan color originally, but it was now a bit of a sandy gray. Its underbelly contained splotches, stains, tears sewn up by various maids, and patches of cloth missing. Though not noticeable at first, the stains on the little dog were most certainly there… seemingly for good. Mary cursed under her breath, turned the water off, and perched against the windowsill.
Turning the small dog in her hand, she sighed. Maybe these stains are meant to stay on forever, she pondered. She could see the marks from multiple teatimes, spilled in her lap as a child. She saw the dusty red color underneath the dog's hind left leg. Edith had convinced her when they were on the cusp of their teenage years, that their mother wouldn't mind if they used her lipstick in a game of dress-up. She had. So startled when she came in Mary's room, and seeing the angry fire in Cora Crawley's eyes, the lipstick bounced to the floor, forgotten… marking Mary's constant companion in the process. Her index finger picked at various tears in the fabric. The one near the dog's right ear was sewn up by Beatrice, an older maid long since retired. Mary remembered how she used to press the dog's tiny ear to her nose and inhale, thumb in mouth. The dog smelled like home, and safety, protection from angry remarks by Edith. The dog smelled like quiet in a house that never was.
Mary shook her head. The things we imagine when we are young, she thought. How children believe the most fantastic things. Her eyes soon fell to other stitchings, one by Anna who noticed it while making Lady Mary's bed. Mary didn't sleep with her dog often at that point. She was a grown woman. But she needed it that night. She needed something to hold onto. War. She was facing the idea of war, a war that would last God-knows how long. She was facing a war with a broken heart. She knew on such a night it was selfish to think about her heart when so many men would soon perish. But she couldn't help it. She had lost him, and it was her own damn fault for being foolish and impulsive with a foreigner. Anna found the dog the next morning, along with something she recognized to be tried tears on Mary's pillow. She took it down to the kitchen without a word, and by nightfall the dog had returned. He returned, that is, with a much sturdier connection between the tail and the body. Mary noticed Anna's act of kindness right away, but couldn't bring herself to comment on it. Commenting on it would mean acknowledgement of her weakness in a moment of pain.
Enough. Enough reminiscing. Mary Crawley quietly realized the stains would stay. The stains on this tiny dog were a part of her as much as her freckles on the back of her neck, the dark hair she hated to put up, and the eyes which could hide emotions so well. So well, that is, except for the people who could see through her, bones, flesh, feelings, heartbreak and all. One was now sleeping, no doubt, in his bed downstairs at this ungodly hour. Maybe Carson could see through her so easily because he hid inside his own body as well. Thank God for Carson she silently said. I don't know what I would do without his presence, honestly.
And the other. The other, the only other person who could see through her was sleeping as well. Not as fitfully, she presumed. No, her cousin was probably thrashing about in his sheets, dreams of a war he was not meant to fight in his head. He would awake in mere hours, to leave once again for the damned war. Matthew was not meant to fight in "The Great War" as they called it. But who was? War changed people. It changed their opinions, their views, and their feelings towards one another. Matthew could die. He could, Mary, stop denying it. He could die in the drenches, blood of other men mixed with his own. He could die with no final wishes granted, no last remarks spoken. He could die, Mary. You would never hear his maddening chuckle directed towards you again. You would never see those eyes, full of life, glinting wherever, whenever. You would never feel his hands, coarse fingertips and all, against your waist, leading you onto a dance floor. You would never smell his unique scent again, aftershave mixed with the smell of the books he so often holds. His scent, which you wish you could bottle and keep forever, attempting to figure out what is that hint of something you just can't recognize. You'd never figure out .It would forever remain a mystery. You would never again just feel his presence when he walks into a room, even if your back is turned. You would never taste-
Lady Mary Crawley could not afford to think that way. She just couldn't. She spread out her nightgown, and stood up to look in the mirror. Ignoring her red cheeks and the tears in her eyes, she took the dog in her hand, and exited the bathroom. She carefully placed the dog to dry on her nightstand, and curled up quietly. Recently she had been doing this bedroom routine, placing something on her nightstand to fall asleep gazing at. She had felt so little recently. Like a child, once again. And if it was necessary to put something there to help her fall asleep, so be it. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought what would someone think of me, honestly. I'm a woman in my twenties and I still curl up in the fetal position. She sighed, trying to push thoughts out of her head for good, which only made them more prominent. He could die. You would never- "I know", she spoke in a whisper to the silent room. "I know he could perish in battle, I know we're not engaged anymore, and I know, God almighty, I know I can't hide it anymore, at least to myself, that I still love him." And that if all I can achieve in this lifetime is to be his friend, I'll take it. "I'll take it", she whispered to know one, wincing at what that might mean. I'll be his friend, and I'll watch him get married to her, I'll watch him play with children with as eyes blue as his, and I'll be a wreck. But I'll be his friend. Mary buried herself deeper into the covers and whispered, before letting sleep overtake her "And that's why I'm meeting him at the station tomorrow."