Author's note :Mary, Matthew and the world of Downton Abbey belongs to Julian Fellowes. The poem that matthew reads is by Lewis Carroll and he teases her with a line written by Jane Austen. No infringement intended.
Mary and Matthew live in the frames of memories. Here I present you stolen glances through the eyes of Alice Crawley. A love story.
.
Prelude
"To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said:
'I've a scepter in hand, I've a crown on my head.
Let the looking glass creatures, whatever they be
Come and dine with the Sea Monster, The White Queen and me"
"You're making it up" giggled the gentle voice of The Woman. She was usually as soft when speaking to her as she was sharp when her words were directed to someone else. And then, of course, there was the amused, half whisper, half laugh, sometimes hoarse tone that she used with The Man. She liked his voice, too – it was low, but lively, and full as he spoke quickly and steadily. Even more so, with energy and passion, when he was reading to her. Now he was being silly, she could tell. With a hand on The Woman's belly, and his face hovering over it, he replied:
"Nonsense, Lady Mary!" , before pointedly focusing on the book again –
"Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
and sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea:
and welcome Queen Alice with thirty times three!"
The Woman's hand was now on her belly too, but her eyes were on The Man, who kissed the top of it before his mouth was claimed by her. The book snapped close as she met him with trembling lips. That night They read no further.
5.
They had gone fairy-hunting in the woods. It was very early, and very oddly lilac, but Papa said that's when you can spot fairies collecting the morning dew. They didn't find any fairy, but they picked up lilies for Mama – who didn't mind their muddy faces when she welcomed both home with kisses. She liked the lilies very much.
9.
She was hiding under the drawing room's table. It wasn't technically hiding, Alice reasoned; she needed an intimate and pretty place where she could celebrate her dolls' wedding, and the cloth draped all around her created the perfect atmosphere. Molly's dress was beautiful under this light. They were about to pronounce their vows when Alice heard someone entering the room, and she fell immediately silent.
"I really don't understand why you can't seem to be happy with what you've got, Edith!" she heard her Mama say.
"Well, I don't see Papa happy about it. In his words, 'women like your lot have no career. They have husbands'"
"Nonsense! You own a publishing company, for God's sake. To marry and have children is what's commonly expected among women. One in a hundred – in a thousand! – can make for themselves a name and a position as you've done"
"And yet, all the same, I'm not but a wretched old maid" spit Edith, bitterly.
"Don't play the pity card, Edith. It doesn't suit you." Replied her Mother, steely.
"Mary, why do you have to be so harsh all the time?"
"Why do you have to be so exasperating?"
Aunt Edith laughed unexpectedly, followed by her Mama. Later, when they left, Alice discarded her male toy. Playing wedding was boring, she decided. Molly would rather much be an Aeronaut.
14.
Alice sat on her mother's bench, under the Cedar tree. Her legs swung back and forth. She heard footsteps approaching, and she didn't need to turn around to know it was her father.
"A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions."
"Oh, Papa!" she huffed out, frustrated, sounding more and more like her mother. "Don't go all Austen on me." – a pause – "Mama told you."
"She's worried. I told her that George Doyle is an idiot. I think she agrees."
"I don't want to talk about it." Silence passed between them. After a few minutes, she asked "Have you ever had your heart broken?"
"Yes" he breathed.
"Did it get better?"
"Your mom made it better. One day you'll find that the ones you love the most are also the ones who can hurt you the most. But that day is not today, and that person is definitely not George Doyle."
Alice scrunched her nose. "George Doyle is an idiot" she sentenced.
Matthew stood and walked back to the big house, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She picked up the magazine lying beside her and turned the pages until she spotted a picture of Prince Edward. With a hand she covered that hideous Wallis Simpson standing by his side, and imagined how her life as Queen Alice would be.
20.
The house is full of lost children, sent to the country to escape bomb-raids. They run, and hide, and explore and sometimes cry. Downton doesn't feel hers, but it never really has. They're guardians, not owners, of an inheritance that will outlive them through history.
Her mother visits the pregnant refugees that have been located in the Eastern Wing of the house every afternoon. Alice avoids her afterwards.
Her father reads war reports in his study, his hands twitching on his knees, on his back, clutching at something in his pocket. Alice avoids him when she can.
She gives piano lessons to whoever wants to learn, and she's less lonely every day.
One night, wandering through the house, she hears voices coming from the library. She glances in to see her mother whisper "You're home. You're home." , and then with desperate, soothing hands in her father's hair as he weeps in her lap, she breaths out a melody:
I would say such wonderful things to you, there would be such wonderful things to do-
Alice goes back to her room.
She doesn't dare leaving her bed at night again for the rest of the war.
27.
When she got married, nobody cried. But as Papa released her to the groom, she saw her mother clasp his hand tightly and whisper something with a smile playing on her lips. She hoped she'll never be so terribly maudlin.
36.
Her mother moved to Crawley House. It's not where the Dowager Countess should stay, but she's never given a fig about rules and propriety, something Alice has always admired.
While packing her father's belongings, among documents, framed pictures, and letters, and cigars he's never smoked, she finds an old, shabby toy dog and an unopened envelope. It's dirty and crumpled. It says Mary. She's tempted to open it, but eventually places it on her mother's mantelpiece when she's not looking. It's the hidden chapter of a story that doesn't belong to her.
1917.
My dearest Mary,
I do not know how to start this letter. The circumstances are different from any under which I ever wrote before. I am not to post it but will leave it in my pocket, if anything happens to me someone will perhaps hand it to you. We are going over the top this afternoon and only God in Heaven knows who will come out of it alive.
Men are ready to die, as many have done before them. With a light heart and a clean conscience.
I can't go before telling you the truth. I can't leave you with a lie, a reassuring, polite smile, a brave wave of the hand. I've told myself I'm being selfish, but war has made me so. If you're reading this letter, you won't have the means to reply, and let yourself go to the conversation we've never dared to have (but then maybe, for once, you'd let me have the last word).
I love you.
There, I've said it. I love you with the tenderness of a friend, and the passion of a lover; I loved you when I tried to hate you, and I loved you when I tried to forget you. I love you as guilt consumes me when at night is your face that hunts my dreams. I love you when I think of home, and home becomes where you are. I love you because you make me write love poems, even if you once told me I'm not suited for romance. I love you for what you show, and what you hide, for your silences and for your words (scathing, and caring, and flirtatious, and worried, and more, too much, so much).
And I know we've tried to move on. And I know I ran away. And I know I should've told you before, and every day since. And I know it's unfair. You'll have to forgive me.
Goodbye.
With Love,
Matthew.
.
The End.
A/N: I honestly didn't know where I was going with this while I was writing it. It's overly sentimental, and not something I feel comfortable writing. But I had to, nevertheless. I hope it wasn't too much of a waste of your time. Reviews are much appreciated, because I'm a very insecure writer. Thank you for reading.