Hello! This is my third Downton Abbey story and will be multi-chapter whereas the others have not been. It is a deeply Mary story and it deals with the Great War time frame which is something that fascinates me endlessly, even with the new series coming fast - I will always want to know the feelings and events that happened during this time better. It's also a great time to write about because it's so broad and open to interpretation. So, this will move quite rapidly and mainly deals with Mary and Matthew, the agony over him being gone at war. It addresses each milestone meeting she has with him through series two, the war, as well as some of my own imagined one. So, it is a bit AU, but you will find the second series followed quite closely, just with more conversation and emotions between the two. It will probably be three chapters, dealing with different years through the war. I apologize for all of the angst but I love to write conversations between these two - The dialogue is great to try to capture.
Please leave feedback if you feel like it but I will press on with it as long as I am inspired. Criticism is always welcome of course, I'm shaky on my newborn Downton legs, so let me know how it measures up. Thanks and 10 days til the next series! :)
Crown of leaves, high in the window on a cold morningYoung today, old as a railroad tomorrowDays are just drops in the river to be lost always
Only you, only you, you know
- drops in the river, fleet foxes
1916
Mary blinked and two years had passed since the Great War had started. In her lifetime she would come to know it as the first of two world wars. Time carried on in strange intervals, Downton had changed in the face of war but not much, not enough. It changed drastically but while they still dressed for dinner in their best garments, took the meal in grand fashion even in times of rationing – it was not enough change. Mary did not know how else to change, for Downton was her life and wartime was not.
Staff members left for war, the young men venturing home to say goodbye to their families before setting off. Carson worried about the state of the house without enough footmen, considering letting maids serve in the dining room made his blood pressure rise and Mary smiled at stick in the mud Carson, so old-fashioned and endearing. If you let things slip in the face of war, Lady Mary (he had said), doesn't that mean the enemies are winning? He was a proud man, proud of the work he had done for the house. As he should be and Mary was not sure she was proud of anything she had done in her life. For what had she done?
She was afraid they would all watch everything deteriorate until Downton as they knew it was no more. But, then again, the world as they knew it was no more. World War, Mary would think – Such an abstract thing to her but in the eyes of the men around her she knew it was very real. Her Papa and Bates fought in the Boer war and they understood what these men were leaving to – They offered words of support but there is not much to say when you haven't seen it for yourself. The men enlisting would know soon enough, her Papa told her, they would know the weight of a rifle, the discomfort of a uniform and helmet and they would never turn back.
It was hard to turn back.
This, she knew, for in the two years since the war had started Matthew, heir to Downton, had not returned to them. He wrote to her Papa and would mention leave time and he would take it in London – He might have even returned to Crawley House but they never knew, he never wanted them to. It was hard for him to turn back.
Mary believed that her fallen love with Matthew played a part in it but she never dreamt it would be big enough to keep him away for two long years. It was uncomfortable to think of him as gone to war, on the front in some foreign parts – When she would try to think of him as a rifle carrying soldier, as a man turned, sacrificing his life and his identity for his country, she felt ill at ease, unsettled, and very scared.
Eventually he found his way into her dreams. Mary had a certain control over most things she did and felt (at least on some level) and she tried very hard to think of him sparingly, not out of lack of worry, concern, or...or love but out of the pain of it all. She tried to think of him as a far off figure and keep him as blurred as possible, as far from her dreams as possible.
How appropriate so much tragedy befell them on that summer's day in 1914 – her Mama's tragedy, their tragic relationship, and then the war. It tore them apart quicker than their split up alone would have – It was a couple of short weeks before things came together, Matthew enlisted, took one last dinner at Downton and then was gone. Recalling the night he left, in and of itself, brought tears prickling to her eyes because when he grasped her hand in departure he could hardly meet her gaze.
That could not be their goodbye.
So it was not, so he waded into her dreams – Fog and smoke and artillery thundering all around. She dreamt of trenches and guns, mud and burnt ground, greenery flattened by foot, soldiers marching in unison...
Soon enough dreams became nightmares and it was less vague, more detailed with blood and shaking hands, whistles, guns in action, a shot to the head from enemy lines. She woke one night, soaked with sweat and heart thumping painfully – She'd seen his eyes, vivid in their blue, staring up from cold, grey skin. His blonde hair sticky with blood from the wound to his head, bruises dark on his body, chest still, breath gone, limbs lifeless. Dead. She dreamt of him dead for the first time when the war was two years in and she found this both disturbing and an accomplishment (that it had not been sooner).
She cried and woke Anna, trembling and frantically relaying the dream as if it held truth, as if it were a prediction instead of just sub-conscious torment.
"What if, Anna, what if..."
Anna led her back to bed, returned with warm tea, and Mary accepted the mug, feeling silly and juvenile but comforted.
"Why so sudden, do you think, milady?" Anna abandoned formality and sat on the edge of Mary's bed at her insistence. It felt like a kinship, just then, both of them in their flowing nightdresses, hair braided down their backs (both by Anna's hands), similarities more than differences prevalent in the moment. Anna might be the best friend in the world, had class lines not designated she call her "milady". War, though, blurred those lines and the importance was who remained and what they meant, more than their last name and dowry.
"I can't keep him from my thoughts anymore, it almost seems he's getting closer. I've kept him on the peripheral for two years but now...He's closing in, it's so foreboding, Anna." Mary's eyes grew heavy, Anna patted her hand, took the mug and did not leave until the Lady's head drooped down onto the pillow.
The heartache was contagious and Anna bore Lady Mary's that night, too.
November 1916
Mary returned from London, Sir Richard Carlisle fresh in her mind but so too the nightmares that followed her no matter where she slept.
Matthew was back, they said. He was coming for the benefit concert. She was expecting it on some level, for him to return, her dreams too certain of his life and existence for them to persist much longer without seeing proof of him in front of her. She hoped seeing him would bring some relief (but likely more heartache) and perhaps she could sleep easy again, although she was certain she never would until war was over. Until he was safe (why had she never written him these things?).
He was tied to Mary's mind, heart, and soul, she was certain, the way she felt his presence pressing in until he was standing on their doorstep, wearing his scarlet mess uniform.
Edith chimed in that his fianceé would be in tow.
Oh. There were so many things unfair about him bringing a fianceé that she did not know how to stop her head spinning, her cheeks flaming, her heart pumping.
Was she to be relieved about his safety and his visit to Downton, to be heartbroken that he found the time to move on with a new girl during a war, or...or to be shocked that this was it – Downton was officially lost to her. Matthew, the heir, her love, engaged to someone else, to someone that was not her and this new girl, this stranger! would take her place alongside Matthew as the Countess. This was it. She was born into this family and lived hoping to maintain the family, the estate, the life that was all she knew...But as long as he married someone other than her it was gone. She did not know how she felt about that – it had been long since she accepted that Downton was Matthew's, not her own...it had been long since she felt the petty ache of fortune and estate lost because she was a woman bound to an entail...
No, Mary had grown in the years she knew Matthew...Foremost was relief, second was heartache, and brief in her Aristocratic heart was resentment of his new Queen of the county.
Lavinia was – she was fine. She was young and lovely, a petite strawberry blonde, a bit timid but Mary could not blame her, was even impressed how she held her own walking into Downton. She introduced herself to Lavinia, all charm and grace, and the girl gushed, saying she had heard all sorts about her. All good, Matthew had assured her when Mary joked. She felt a rush of affection toward Matthew as Lavinia stared at her with only excitement, only admiration. Of course he wouldn't slander her name, wouldn't share the state of their affairs to Lavinia. Perhaps because he didn't want to threaten his new relationship but Mary knew him well enough to believe his heart was just so noble that, despite any frustrations, he would only express them to her, not anyone else.
The Battle of the Somme had just ended, he shared, he was on a brief leave and would know more about where he would be next when he returned to the front.
"But you won't tell us, will you?" Mary chided, good nature and strength hiding her wavering heart.
"The fewer details, the less to worry of, I think. I don't tell my own mother anything, please don't be offended, Mary."
There was caution about him – He aimed to sound light-hearted but his eyes were too guarded, his posture too formal. He was rigid, not comfortable around her again yet...
"Not offended, Matthew, worried always, that's all." Her smile did not meet her eyes either.
Things were stiff until he offered, all boyish charm –
"I think...I'm very glad to see you looking so well."
She conceded they were friends with that, grasping his arm to prove the point, and she was sadder than ever that they had gone two years without speaking because he carried some thought that she did not consider them on good terms.
"How wasteful it's been, two years...I'm ashamed that I ever suggested I'd think so little of you not to be friends again, despite what went on between us. I was reset as soon as war was announced, I swear, slate wiped clean, only worried for you...There was never an unfriendly bone in my body, Matthew."
He bowed his head, his golden hair parted and smoothed in a formal style and he looked, perhaps, ashamed at himself, too.
"It's been confusing, the whole affair, Mary. I didn't stay away only over you – Self-preservation was part of it. And the war...The war, mostly. I don't recognize myself, fearful others wouldn't either."
He was different, she saw it. She saw it beneath the facade that was so clearly and undeniably Matthew, that he had changed. Two years older and it showed on his face in a way that was unfamiliar to her. His young, easy charm had faded some – he was less certain now, fidgety and awkward. The soft jaw she found so endearing before the war had tightened, chiseled his face some, and his frame was lithe; tall, broad shouldered, narrow-hipped. She hated herself for thinking the loathsome thought that war had, indeed, agreed with him. There were new lines on his face, those around his eyes when he smiled, others around his lips when he frowned, deeper ones on his forehead all the time. She would gladly trade this war-torn, thinner, mature Matthew for the boyish, softer, innocent one. For all the ways he changed on the outside, she knew there were a thousand more on the inside. It chilled her to consider that, consider their dual blackened souls.
He had always been some vision of innocence to her, some starkness, some wonderfully fair-haired, light-eyed contrast to the dark-haired, dark-eyed Pamuk who took her innocence...
It was not something she really mourned, not something she entirely believed in as a woman – the loss of purity, the sacrifice of her worthiness before marriage – but if she ever did have a doubt, there was Matthew...the light in the dark, the saviour in her sordid fairytale...He was always there, to affirm something she had lost, to look at her as so few looked at her now – Unscathed, in tact and as innocent as their relationship.
He had been to war now. Their levels of damnation were catching up and she felt a release at the thought, a sadness over the damage to his good heart but hope that someday he could understand her own missteps.
"How could I not, it's still so you."
They both looked up at the pull of Lavinia's gaze and Matthew smiled bashfully at the strawberry-blonde girl, all saccharine, looking back at Mary, again with the modest, shameful expression.
"Are you sure you don't hate me terribly?" A slight inclination of his head toward Lavinia and Mary's face fell for a moment before she settled back into curiously polite.
"Of course not! I want you to be happy. She seems perfectly,-"
"No, Mary – Thank you, but...Downton. The estate. Your life, your legacy. It bothers me most of all that marrying her will take this from you."
She nodded once in understanding, lips pressed together and lashes hiding her eyes as she looked down.
"Oh, Matthew, I lost Downton when Patrick died – When I was born even. It was never mine, however unfair that seemed. I'm a daughter, not an heiress and I mourned it when the Titantic sank and truly feel more detachment now at the loss of you."
His mouth was slack for a moment as he looked at her, realized their conversation was rather intimate for such a public setting – the concert setup, Lavinia waiting nearby – and he could only swallow heavily before speaking softly.
"That's very gracious of you, Mary." Her hand touched his arm again and they parted to take their separate seats.
Her heart was fluttering in her throat, her stomach tumbling with butterflies, and she couldn't help looking over at them, the newly minted couple, Matthew fine in his war attire, Lavinia pretty and unassuming and exactly what he deserved – someone who would carry his heart delicately. Oh Lavinia would be proud to be his, too young and sweet for dark skeletons in her closet. Even if there were some, there were probably rhyme and reason to them.
Lavinia was observant, so new in Mary's life but seemingly aware of the charged atmosphere that surrounded the two - as far as she knew - cousins. Mary's gaze pulled back as Lavinia smiled over at her and Mary bowed her head politely, feeling they each knew just who Mary was looking at. She felt it was already a problem, that she didn't know how she would stay clear of Matthew when her heart swelled so happily at the sight of him in her home again.
She imagined what it would have been like, had war not been called up as soon as they broke their relationship...What if Matthew hadn't left Downton? What if things settled and Mary had talked to him just once more...Steeled herself for the Pamuk talk and things were finally honest and plain, clear, revealed about them...The nagging fragments of her soul told her things would have turned out right for them, that fate would have had it's way and they would have had a real chance. It was hard to go on with stolen opportunities hovering over her, taunting her with what could have been. What could have been was sitting right over there.
Mary decided to write Sir Richard soon and move things along for herself. It was not as if she expected Matthew to come back after a years-long absence and they would find love again but...But perhaps she expected something. As scarred as she was there was still a naïveté about her expectations of love. But he had the chance to be happy now, with someone genuinely better than she was, someone honest and kind, who offered herself fully. Mary was never quite able to, never an entirely vulnerable or whole person to him.
Lavinia Swire would make Matthew happy and hopefully her own would be found with Sir Richard. There was hope, she thought.
