A/N: I've wanted to write a fic of this type for a very long time, and finally some inspiration struck. I shan't say any more than that for now! This chapter is very much setting the scene.
Huge thanks to Silverduck for beta-ing!
Aaaand I hope you enjoy! :)
A New Dawn
A sense of merriment pervaded the air in the grand dining room. They were on the brink, teetering, ready to put the years of war and turmoil behind them, looking ahead to a fresh new decade. One of peace. Happiness. For this precious moment, the future at last seemed bright, as though nothing could shatter it.
"I think," Robert announced grandly, "that we should drink to the new year ahead."
"Hear, hear!" Sybil chorused cheerfully. "A year where I'd like to hear nothing at all about a war, not a single thing, thank you!"
"Absolutely…" Matthew murmured in agreement, the sentiment very evidently shared by all around the table.
Though the war itself had ended a little over a year ago, the family had not been free of it for many months after. The extensive clean-up operation in France had taken a great deal of time and effort; the devastated villages, the ravaged countryside, the unceremonious heaps of bodies all had to be dealt with. Matthew had spent several months assisting, still under army commission; the driving experience he'd gained in the last months of the war following his recovery proving invaluable in the transport of materials and waste. Though it had been a deeply unpleasant task, it had at least engendered a far greater sense of pride and satisfaction in Matthew than destroying it all in the first place had.
As for the rest of the household, it felt as though things were only just beginning to return to normal. One could not simply throw out all the wounded on the announcement of peace; demobilisation had to be waited for, wounds still needed healing, and even once the last soldier had departed there was still the house itself to consider. Whilst Sybil had continued her nursing duties at the hospital and Edith had continued working on the estate, Mary and her mother had thrown themselves into restoring the Abbey into a home fit for an earl.
Finally, now, it was all over. Though things would never be as they once were, and the traces of the war would always remain upon them, at least now they could look upon the future with hope.
"And let's not forget to be grateful that we are all here, in one piece, and all that we have to look forward to." As Cora added to her husband's toast, she threw a knowing smile in Matthew's direction, and at her eldest daughter seated beside him, who squeezed his hand under the table.
"For goodness' sake! It will be 1920 already by the time we've made the toast if we carry on like this," Violet sniped, her arm tiring from having held her glass up in readiness for far too long now.
"To the year ahead!" Robert boomed over the laughter, as they all clinked glasses. "And with that," he continued once they had settled again, "I think I shall leave you to the rest of the evening."
"Darling?" Cora peered inquisitively at her husband.
"You know I've been feeling a little peaky all day, dear. It seems to be catching up with me, rather. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain."
Isobel frowned at the earl. "What exactly do you mean by 'peaky'?"
"Mother…" Matthew looked despairingly at her.
"No, Matthew, it's quite alright." Robert smiled weakly, but with a little indulgence, at Isobel. She was very well-intentioned, he had to admit that. "It's nothing, really. A slight temperature, that's all. A bit of rest will cure it, I'm sure."
"I see." Though every instinct in Isobel itched to pry him further, she conceded that the dinner table was not the best place to do so. In any case, Robert was quite right; a good night's sleep cured all manner of ills. "Bed is probably the best place for you, then, but please do fetch Doctor Clarkson if you feel at all unwell in the morning – one can never be too cautious, particularly at the moment."
Robert nodded dutifully, catching Matthew's eye with a slight smile. With a final raise of his glass to the table, he stood, kissed his wife tenderly on the cheek, bid them all goodnight and left.
His departure left Matthew alone in the midst of the Crawley women. He sat back and eyed them slightly nervously; they all seemed to be looking at him.
"Well, Matthew," Cora smiled brilliantly at him. "Shall you remain here and drink to the new year alone, or will you dare to join us women in the drawing room straight away?"
Matthew smiled and opened his mouth to reply, jumping a little as Mary's hand under the table daringly brushed over his leg.
"So long as you don't object to my intrusion upon your after-dinner chatter, I think I'll join you."
Violet simply raised her eyebrows. No, things were not how they once were.
As they walked through to the drawing room, Mary looped her hands through Matthew's elbow, still relishing the freedom to openly do so. She smiled at the feel of their sides bumping together as they walked.
"I always knew you weren't entirely proper," she teased gently. "Joining the ladies immediately after dinner, indeed! I'm afraid Granny nearly had a fit."
"Would you rather I'd stayed behind?" He raised an eyebrow challengingly.
"What do you suppose?"
He merely smiled, glancing behind before pressing a swift kiss to her cheek. "I suppose that when we are married, I'm sure you'll appreciate those precious minutes with my mother after dinner, for the sake of propriety!"
"You know, Matthew," she hastily cut in, "I think I might approve of a little impropriety now and again!"
Wriggling his arm free, Matthew slid it snug around her waist, murmuring softly into her ear. "Might you, now…"
"Matthew!" Mary exclaimed in a hushed whisper, slapping his arm playfully. Her attempted glare was refuted somewhat by the sparkle in her eyes.
"I know, I know," he chuckled, then a more sincere expression came over his face. His hand slid up to the top of her shoulders, thumb brushing softly across the delicate skin of her neck. "Darling, it's been… five years, now, since I first proposed to you? Two weeks more is nothing, believe me."
Mary shivered at the intent in his eyes, a shy smile trembling over her lips. He might be able to bear it well enough, had had to learn patience and restraint over the years of the war – her eyes pressed closed as she tried not to think of Lavinia – but to her, even the two weeks remaining until their wedding seemed the most unbearably long time to wait.
Smiling warmly at the contentment spreading through him as he looked at her and touched her, Matthew still couldn't quite believe that he was finally going to marry Mary. Part of him still couldn't grasp how it had taken this long. He refused to consider his relationship with Lavinia as a mistake, though – he had needed that comfort, during the war, and he could hold nothing against her now. She was utterly lovely, had cared deeply for him, as he had for her… But as the war had drawn to a close, when he had finally returned to England and been forced to consider with more seriousness how to rebuild his life in peacetime, he had grown increasingly unsure about the whole thing. Over the war, and even more so after his injury, Matthew had realised that his security and his future lay at Downton, something that Lavinia had struggled to reconcile herself to. And as they spent more time together upon Matthew's return – real time, not time borrowed on snatched leaves and through letters – it had dawned upon him with startling clarity that no matter how lovely she was, how sweet or kind or pretty… She was not Mary. Mary who had haunted him and plagued him and who he knew that, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, would always have possession of his heart.
And so, painful though it was, Matthew had released Lavinia from their engagement. She was heartbroken, and it cut him deeply to do it. But he was comforted by the conviction that ultimately, he could never have made her happy, as she could not him. And he had returned to Downton, a free man. It had taken time, of course it had taken time, they were both damaged and hurt, but, gradually, he and Mary had grown closer once more. Both had been determined that this time, nothing would stand in their way, and if it took months to reach a point where they could both be sure of that, then so be it. By the time he finally asked her for the last time to be his wife (there was no hesitation in her answer this time), on Christmas day just a week ago, the whole family had been expecting it with joyous anticipation. They would wait only as long as it took for the banns to be read.
In the warmly lit drawing room, they passed the hours until midnight in a spirit of hopeful excitement. This year, more than any other they could remember for years, the promise of the new year ahead seemed to hold so much. Cora watched with a fond, matriarchal eye as Sybil became giddy on too much wine and continued to badger Edith, who was trying to read, Violet and Isobel continued to split hairs as they discussed how the world was changing, and Mary and Matthew simply looked enraptured at each other as they talked about anything and everything.
Finally, the clock rang midnight. With enthusiastic cheers from all (bar Violet, who considered the whole affair slightly ridiculous), the Crawleys saw in the start of the new year, and indeed the new decade.
"1920… Goodness, it sounds strange, doesn't it!" Sybil wondered as she slumped into a plush chair.
"No stranger than 1910 did at the time, I'm sure," drawled Edith. "Really, Sybil, you're supposed to be the progressive one."
"I didn't say it was a bad thing! Just strange, that's all!"
"Well," Matthew cut in, "I'm sure it'll sound perfectly normal in no time at all. Considering what this past decade brought us, personally, the sound of a new one is music to my ears." He smiled through the heaviness of his words. "Though," he swiftly added, "it certainly hasn't all been bad. There are things that have come from it which I'm glad of, which I wouldn't change now for the world." His expression was sincere and meaningful. Despite the upheaval he'd suffered, he knew as he stood with his hand warmly on Mary's back that it had all been worth it.
"Well said, Matthew," Cora smiled warmly. There were things about the past few years they all wished to put behind them, no doubt, but the disguised blessings they had brought could certainly not be forgotten.
Isobel suddenly stood up purposefully. "I quite agree. Though I'm afraid, with the passing of years, I am not getting any younger and need my beauty sleep!"
Violet simply coughed into her handkerchief.
"Of course," Matthew stood up a little straighter and stepped slightly away from Mary. "Sorry, Mother. Cousin Cora, please do excuse us – thank you for a delightful evening."
"Not at all, Matthew, thank you both for coming," Cora breezed as she stood.
The family traipsed outside to bid them goodbye. It seemed right to, considering the occasion, but besides that the Crawley ladies were all quietly enthralled still by Matthew's recent purchase of a motorcycle and sidecar. He'd gained experience of them towards the end of the war, and had decided to treat himself to one for Christmas, with the justification that it was easier on his legs than his old bicycle.
Violet cast her eyes disparagingly over the affair as Isobel clambered into the sidecar, with as much grace as she could muster.
"Really, Matthew, I thought you'd have experienced quite enough mortal danger during the war without willingly throwing yourself into it in this manner," the dowager countess sniffed.
Matthew simply laughed graciously as his mother snapped back. "Really, it's quite safe! And Matthew's a very good driver!"
"Oh, I think it looks marvellous," Sybil slurred excitedly. "Matthew, you must take me out in it next week, I'd love to try it out! Mary, what's it like?"
Matthew grinned and raised his eyebrows amusedly at Mary, a flash of understanding passing between them as both recalled the afternoon they'd spent together the week before. They had rode out to Ripon, sneaking into Matthew's refurbished office which was closed for the season and sharing tender kisses and embraces in the privacy they found there.
"Utterly thrilling! Far more exciting than the car." She turned to her grandmother and smiled sweetly. "Really though, Granny, Matthew's terribly safe with it – I think if he could manage to ride one decently over dug-up roads in France, Downton hardly provides much challenge – you should try it!"
"Certainly not – I can imagine nothing more unladylike!" Violet looked quite horrified at the suggestion, turning her eyes pointedly to Isobel.
As they continued to argue about the relative merits (or lack thereof) of the motorcycle, Matthew took his leather jacket from Carson and shrugged it on over his evening wear.
"Much as I would love to hear the outcome of this, we really must be going – Happy New Year! And give our best to Lord Grantham in the morning, please."
"Yes, do make sure he rests well, and call Doctor Clarkson in the morning – it is best to be on the safe side!" Isobel continued to call out advice on Robert's condition as Matthew kissed Mary swiftly on the cheek and climbed onto the motorcycle. Making sure his mother was sitting securely in the sidecar, he turned back and waved.
Accompanied by chorusing cries of 'Happy New Year' from the door, Matthew started the engine and accelerated away, the back wheel throwing up a spray of gravel and a deafening noise, much to Violet's chagrin and the girls' amusement.
The next morning, Matthew awoke late. The feeling of having nowhere to go and nothing to do was quite glorious. Squinting against the cold, bright sunshine streaming through the window, he rose, stretched luxuriously and rang for Molesley. Dear Molesley, he thought fondly. It had been one of the hardest things to become re-accustomed to following the war; the whole notion of being served upon after the squalor of the trenches had seemed ridiculous enough, but to readjust to the services of a valet even more so. When he had lived in the same sodden, lice-ridden uniform for days, weeks at a time, boots practically rotting from mud and his shirt seeming to fuse to his skin after long enough, to be assisted in getting dressed multiple times a day once more had been hard to swallow. Though in some ways, it was these little routines of normality that he had clung to, that had helped him to settle and ground himself back into 'real' life that had been the most important. The difficulty of it battled against his almost need for it.
He took a late breakfast, glancing over the newspaper as he ate. The world didn't seem any different, really. It was funny, he thought, how it felt as though it should feel different, the first day of a new year. But nothing had changed. It all ticked over as normal, just the same as it always had. In some ways it all seemed rather dull, no longer having to live on perpetual tenterhooks.
Feeling restless, Matthew sipped his tea. His mother was busy at the hospital – today, even; the sick would not stop being sick just for the holiday season! She had light-heartedly suggested that Matthew pop along if he was bored, but he had no desire, absolutely none at all, to be around any of that. Mary was spending the day paying charitable calls on some of her father's tenants; he might have joined her in that but he knew how she valued her independence in these matters and, in any case, he would not have any idea where to find her.
For a while, he read. He did some work. He wrote some letters. He read some more. By early afternoon, though, he was unspeakably bored. He'd grown used to boredom, weeks at a time of simply waiting; waiting for the next orders, the next attack, with precious little to occupy him in the meantime. And in a strange way, he missed that thrill when the orders finally came, the terrible adrenaline that would surge through him during midnight raids, the sheer rush of action. Horrific though it all had been, at least then he'd been doing, rather than waiting.
With a sudden rush of resolve, he announced to Molesley simply that he was going out. Pulling on his jacket, Matthew went out to the motorcycle. It was cold out, the roads would be empty. They would also be icy, he knew, but he was an experienced rider by now and could handle it. Mary had been right, the conditions he'd faced in France had been far worse than this. It only took a moment's work for Matthew to detach the sidecar to grant him better speed and handling. Though he set out moderately through the village, once he reached the open road he accelerated rapidly, grinning as he felt exhilaration flood through him, fields and streams and hedgerows rushing past. And the beauty of it was that there was no horror attached to this exhilaration.
By the time he returned to Crawley House, motorcycle chugging with a horrible guttering sound as it limped into the driveway, it was late in the evening. Matthew was cold, damp, exhausted. His legs ached dreadfully.
Apologies began spilling from his lips even as he entered the hallway, knowing that his mother would be mindless with worry by now. He smiled apologetically at Molesley, who looked strangely startled as he took Matthew's jacket.
"I'm back, Mother. I'm terribly sorry – I broke down out on the back road to York. Ridiculous thing, I'll have to take it to the mechanic," he called out as he walked down the hall towards the sitting room, staring tiredly at the carpet. "I didn't have the tools at hand to patch it up myself and had to push it for miles to the –"
As he stepped into the sitting room, leaning back against the doorframe wearily, the sight of his mother shocked him into silence. She sat, her face utterly expressionless, simply staring somewhere into the middle of the room with blank, unseeing eyes. In her hand was clutched a crumpled piece of paper with a hastily scrawled note.
"Mother, what on earth is the matter?" His own troubles forgotten, Matthew crossed the room to her instantly, crouching by her side and laying his hand on her shoulder, rubbing in gentle, comforting circles. "Mother?"
Slowly, Isobel seemed to realise his presence. She blinked and turned to look at him, her expression utterly unreadable. Her lips opened and closed several times, attempting to speak, but unable to form any words for a few moments. Matthew waited patiently, brows knitted in concern.
"Lord Grantham –" she eventually stammered in a barely audible whisper. An aura of heaviness seemed to weight her, her words and her whole being. "Matthew, he – he passed away this evening."
TBC
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always hugely appreciated! Thank you! :)