A/N: Many of you may recognize this story from mmow, now RomanticisedRebel. That is because it is hers, she has graciously given me the rights to post it and allow me to continue it. Chapters 1-13 are her original writings, with the exception of a few grammatical edits and one or two re-wordings that I did. My writing will pick up in chapter 14. With that being said, I know some of you are probably ready to kill me for the lack of updates on Little Talks, I promise I am still writing. School, summer, family, and writers block happened. However, I have been working on the story so an update will happen. Until then please enjoy this story. Welcome new and old readers of this story! I hope you all like the direction I take it, and round of applause for RomanticisedRebel for beginning this journey. Enjoy!

BRACE YOURSELF FOR 12 MORE UPDATES, I DONT KNOW HOW TO ADD THIS WHOLE STORY WITH CHAPTER BREAKS IN ONE DOCUMENT.

Chapter 1

Mary liked it here.

She liked being among the convalescent soldiers, speaking to them, raising their spirits. It made her feel useful somehow, bandaging wounds, handing out sandwiches and listening to the injured soldier's stories. Even though at times it became tedious work, she felt like she was helping The Cause, that was, the war that was raging in France. If she was helping The Cause, then maybe, somehow, she was helping Matthew.

She saw Matthew's face in the face of every injured soldier, even in the ones of those burned or maimed beyond all recognition. She saw a valiant young man who had rushed off to war at his country's call, not once thinking of his own safety. She saw him every time she did something that brought a twinkle to one poor man's eyes. The war had certainly changed her – Before she could've cared less about these men's feelings, now lifting their spirits was what kept her going every day. It was her distraction from what kept her up every night and was always at the back of her mind.

Matthew. Every night, she knelt in front of an old photograph of him. Matthew. As tears ran down her cheeks, she prayed desperately to a God she didn't even know if she believed in. Matthew. "Dear God, I don't pretend to have much credit with you, and I don't even know if you're there, but if you are, please keep him safe."

Mary shook the thoughts of Matthew from her mind. Focus, Mary, She thought pay attention to the task at hand. She was in the middle of re-wrapping a deep laceration on a soldier's – Major James Evans, she believed – arm. She spoke to him and told him stories from years ago of the trouble she used to get in to at the parties she and her sisters attended almost nightly, and of her beloved horse, Diamond.

Suddenly, a shrill shriek erupted from the front of the house. "Ah, that must be the new arrivals," she said to Major Evans as she quickly finished bandaging his arm, "I should go help."

Major Evans smiled at her and thanked her warmly for her help as she briskly walked away, smitten with her like every other soldier in the bloody house. Ah, well, he thought, It is too well known she loves another.

Mary quickly walked through the rooms of injured soldiers to the front of the house.

As soon as Mary stepped into the front hall of Downton, she could tell something was going on. Agitated staff members stood on the edge of the room as a patient was brought in, screaming in pain with every movement. Dr. Clarkson was walking alongside the stretcher the man was being held down on. He was speaking calmly and quickly to the soldier, trying to calm him.

Dr. Clarkson caught sight of Mary and motioned for her to come over. Mary moved quickly across the room, catching sight of the man's bloody, bandaged arm. It was thrashing wildly as the man screamed, and just the sight of the wounds made Mary's blood curdle. The man was dirty and his wounds had not been cleaned, one swollen, red, and oozing so much that even Mary could recognize it as infected. Mary swallowed back her nerves and rushed to the man's side, ready to help.

The man looked terribly familiar. Deep cuts and bruises crisscrossed his face, which was red and sweaty with the unmistakable heat of fever. His blonde hair, matted with mud and blood was plastered to his head and forehead. He was deathly pale, bruises ringed around his eyes. His face was contorted in agony, and tears ran down his face and neck. "Sir"- Mary began and when she did, his eyes snapped open. Thomas, who was standing nearby, had to grab her to keep her from falling.

Those eyes- that blue- She'd know them anywhere.

Matthew.

Matthew; her Matthew. He was hardly recognizable, his eyes wild, unseeing. The fever that was wracking his body was also in his mind. He shook as he moaned aloud in pain.

His body was bruised, with open wounds that must've been agonizing. As she quickly took stock of his injuries, she noticed his left arm was badly broken, twisted at an odd angle. The soldiers carrying him accidentally jolted his stretcher, and he let out a scream that seemed to come from the depths of hell itself. Matthew's scream jolted Mary out of her panic, and she turned to Thomas, quickly barking out orders.

"Thomas, quickly, go and find Lord Grantham. Tell him that it is –" She inhaled deeply, choking back a sob, "Matthew." Thomas's eyes widened, and the footman who had once mocked Matthew at dinner scurried off, in search of Robert. Mary gathered herself and quickly moved back to the stretcher, walking alongside Matthew. She directed the men to a quieter room usually reserved for much higher ranked officers, where they moved the hysterical Matthew onto an empty bed, trying not to jostle him too much. Even though they did so gently, he still let out a bellow of pain.

"What happened to him?" Mary asked Dr. Clarkson. "He was caught by a shell," Clarkson said. "He's very lucky, it could've been much worse."

Mary couldn't see that as she watched Matthew be moved onto the bed. There was no trace of the man she loved visible in his eyes. His body was so badly beaten, and the fever from the infection had hold on him, making him delirious. As soon as the men stepped back to allow the nurses next to him, she rushed to his side, eager to help in any way possible.

"Matthew. Matthew." She pleaded with him, her tone begging him for a response. "Matthew, can you hear me?" Recognition flickered across his face, and just for a moment, she saw the old Matthew. If she hadn't been so well-bred, she would've leaped for joy had she not been gently pushed aside by a nurse. "Well," the nurse said in a thick Irish accent while putting her hand against his forehead, "He has a bit of a fever.'"

Mary turned to Clarkson. "What can I do?" Clarkson looked pained. "I'm afraid there's not much we can do at the moment. If he pulls through the night, he'll live. If not, he-" he stuttered, nervous, "he-…..he won't, I'm afraid….."

Mary was shocked, as she turned to look at the setting sun outside. "You mean he may not live?" She asked, praying it wasn't true. "I'm afraid so," Clarkson said. At hearing this, Mary sprang into action, grabbing a washcloth from the nearby ice chest. She began to bathe Matthew's forehead, wiping away the sweat pooling there. Clarkson was surprised by her quickness to take action, almost as much as he was by the appearance of the Earl of Grantham beside him.