Lavinia's funeral had been four months ago now. Although they were out of mourning and everyone's spirits, including Matthew's, were brightened, there were still horror stories and deaths from the Spanish flu in the village. It didn't touch them at the big house, they were so cut off from the rowdy villagers and it seemed that they lived in their very own bubble of serenity. Things had gone back to their usual flow; the girls paid calls and went to dinners, they wrote to Sybil and went for walks in the grounds. Matthew continued his regular visits, going around the cottages and taking walks with Robert. The matters discussed at dinner were far from torrid, and instead they entertained more happy affairs and joyful prospects - the wedding on dear Sybil and the upcoming flower show. Their lives had slipped back to the peaceful safety they had enjoyed before the war and there wasn't a single one of them that wasn't glad for it.

It was an early hour of the morning when Matthew awoke to the telephone ringing downstairs. It must have been three or four in the morning when he slipped out of bed and padded to the entrance corridor and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice, as he remembered it, had been groggy and sleep laced. His mind had hardly been pulled from his dreams. If it wasn't for the cold of the night he might not have woken up enough to hear the words from the other end of the line. It was fortunate that he did. For it was Robert.

"Matthew?" His reply had come hurried, barely a split second between it and Matthew's greeting.

"Robert? What on earth it is going on?" It certainly was an odd time to call, however it was the tone that caused Matthew's inquiry, he sounded panicked, like a man in desperation.

"It's Mary. She's not well, not well at all and we can't get hold of Clarkson." Matthew was certain he couldn't breathe.

"Oh, my god," His heart lodged in his mouth, "what do you think it is?" He dreaded the answer. The two words he couldn't bear for Robert to say also being the very same words he was sure he was about to hear.

"Every sign points towards another bout of the Spanish flu." The man sounded almost as fearful as Matthew felt.
"I'll call upon the doctor's house. I'll ram the door down if I have to." Matthew dropped the telephone. It swung on its wire as he ran up the stairs to his room, donning his clothes before coming back down and sprinting out into the night with neither care nor thought to his own well-being.

He didn't need to knock the door down. He rang the bell but didn't wait for an answer and instead banged on the door continuously until it was opened. Clarkson agreed to come at once, and even if he hadn't he was sure Matthew would have dragged him against his will, so profound and acute were his panic and agitation.

Every second that Clarkson's car took to arrive at the house felt like an hour to Matthew. The two men got out together and were admitted by Carson who looked positively worn out yet also terrified due to the proceedings of the night. She had complained of a mere headache at dinner; although she had eaten very little she sat through the whole of it and only allowed Matthew to walk her to her room once the rest of the family had retired to the library. Of course, Matthew too had left her at her door- he could hardly go into her bedroom- on the promise that she would call Anna and go to bed to rest. He had never anticipated that it could escalate to something so monumental, none of them had, least of all in a matter of hours.

He was frantic. He had barely any memory of getting up the stairs and it seemed he never took breath the whole time- arriving in her room with air-less lungs, Clarkson following shortly afterwards. The whole family was there- Sybil's absence more plain than ever- gathered at her bedside with stony countenance and fearful expressions. They all wore dressing robes over their night gowns- or pyjamas in Robert's case and the bags under their eyes showed the sleep they were so deprived of. Matthew vaguely wondered who had alerted them to her sudden turn. But he didn't have time to ponder such trivialities as the wind was knocked out of him and his heart clenched when he laid eyes on Mary.

She was so pale, her pallid skin being ghost like in complexion, and there was a yellow tinge to her eyes. She was covered with sweat, even as Anna held a cold-water cloth to her forehead, and she writhed, groaning in pain and discomfort beneath her sheets. Her hands gripped at her sheets and she coughed deeply, causing her whole body to shake with the effort. Matthew was at a loss- just hours ago they were having dinner, she was laughing and smiling and talking, and now she was so very ill with the doctor checking her over as her family watched on in trepidation.

"It is indeed the Spanish flu." Clarkson said, face apprehensive. "But she is not yet at the worst stages and it may not happen, she could flush out the infection easily and her fever could break sooner rather than later."

"What will happen if it doesn't?" Edith asked him, her words scratching her dry throat as they were spoken.

"The longer she is ill, the weaker she will become. It will then be more likely for it to be fatal, im afraid you must prepare for the worst."

They were all in a state of complete shock. Clarkson had sent them all away from her bedside a side from Anna - despite Matthew's strong protest. And, none of them being able to face sleep instead they gathered in the library. Robert leaned against the mantel, clutching his drink so tightly his knuckles were white. Cora and Edith sat together, their stony silence and solemn features shared by one another. Matthew was numb and shaking with anxiety, his usually tender blue eyes stared hard at the ground so intensely it looked as though he was try to rip up the very foundation with telepathy.

"She'll be alright. Mary's always alright." Edith spoke, her unsure tone contradicting her words. Usually she would have spoken bitterly, an unkind undertone proving how badly the two of them go on, but this time she didn't and her sentence sook the comfort she herself needed. "Of course she will." Came Robert's equally as unsure reply. Even so, his powerful statement brought a little solace to the room. "You should go to bed Matthew," Cora said, taking pity on the poor boy who stood looking rather like he was going to be sick himself. Matthew gave her a weak, sad smile and spoke, voice hoarse, "we all should. But I don't believe any of us would get any sleep." He was right of course, and the room and it's occupants once again slipped into silence- their thoughts and worried screaming inside themselves.

Despite the roaring fire, Matthew was certain the room was freezing, but it became much colder- a shiver rolling down his spine- when they heard hurried footsteps on the stairs and the door opened to show a particularly out of breath Anna. They all sucked in a deep breath, hearts beating erratically and near to bursting from the confines of their chests.

"Mr Crawley, she's asked for you." Matthew stared, disbelieving.

"Is she conscious?" Robert asked, hope evident.

"No, your Lordship, not exactly. She's mumbling, mostly incoherently, but she's called for Mr Crawley more than once." Anna told them, looking weary.

Matthew shot a look at Robert, begging for permission to go up. To his relief, the man nodded and Matthew went with Anna to sit at Mary's bedside.

"Mary, my darling, I'm here." He whispered, taking her hand and squeezing it in his. She was breathing rapidly and it was clear she had very little knowledge, if any, of what was going on around her- her eyes were closed and her long dark braid lay over her unsteady chest. But he was sure he felt her squeeze his hand back. "It's alright. You're perfectly alright." He knelt on the floor beside her head moving her stray hairs away from her sweat covered face with gentle strokes of his cool palm. She leaned up into him slightly and Matthew smiled, pulling up a chair next to her head and taking the cloth from the basin, wringing it out and wiping her forehead to help bring down her temperature.

"You should go to bed Anna, you must be tired." Matthew said, seeing her yawn out of the corner of his eye.
"I'd like to stay with her…" She said, her voice drowsy.
"I know, but you must be so worn out already, lack of sleep is the last thing you need at the moment; how is Mr Bates?" Matthew's tone was kindly, like he was sympathetic to what she wanted but also that he knew what was best for her. "Terrified. But not half as terrified as I am. And now this…" Anna gestured to Mary's ill form, lying still under the sheets, and knew it was the cherry on top of her momentous troubles. "Please Anna, get some rest," he said, "you need it more than I do."
"You promise you'll wake me if there's any change?"
"Of course, if you wish."
"Thank you sir, and goodnight." She said, curtsying before leaving the room.
"Goodnight Anna," Matthew said, turning back to re-soak and replace the cloth.

It was a long night- to say the least. The others drifted in and out throughout the day just as Matthew drifted in and out of consciousness. Edith tried to get him to retire to bed, Cora tried to get him to eat something, it was only Robert who knew exactly what he was going through – after all, only months ago it was Cora who was in Mary's place. Matthew's jacket lay discarded on the floor with his waistcoat. He hadn't bothered with a tie that morning, much to Violet's distaste, and his cuffs were undone, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He only ever let go of Mary's hand to replace the basin of water or turn the page in the book he was reading to her.

Isobel came with Clarkson in the afternoon, seeing that Mary's symptoms had not escalated both marked it as a good sign, and Carson came up briefly before dinner, dropping a small paper bag containing a dozen pear drops on her bedside table. They had been her favourites since childhood.

"I'll stay with her while you go to dinner," Isobel told her son. Matthew shook his head defiantly,
"No, I'll stay."
"Matthew, you've been very good, but I insist you eat something or you'll waste away." Cora's voice came from the open door and, looking up to meet her eye, Matthew knew there was no point in challenging her. "I'm not dressed for dinner, Cousin Violet…"
"Given the circumstances I'm sure she'll understand." Cora said, waiting for Matthew to join her before they left together to go to the dining room.

They all relaxed somewhat over dinner; their bodies simply tired from worrying so intensely for so long. They kept conversation light, small talk about the weather and the estate and the teams for the upcoming cricket match. Violet made sour remarks about Matthew's state of dress- or rather undress as she so poetically put it- and they all laughed as she accused him of looking not dissimilar to the man from the prudential.

They were beginning to have a good time until Isobel came in, calling for them.

"She's taken a turn for the worse." She said, hands shaking.

This time, Matthew was sure he felt his heart thud to a stop.