Waiting was the hardest part.
He had waited in the trenches. It had been wrong then, so terribly wrong, to wait for someone that barely knew he existed. But he had. Desperately. Fruitlessly. As the sky exploded above him and the ground below was strewn with the blood of men dead far before their time, he had thought of her laugh, and her smile—of a woman that had never been his and never would be. He remembered the day they had met, being fascinated immediately and wanting to dance with her but being scared in that pathetic, schoolboy sort of way. Chuck had shoved him forward, promising that he would ask if Evelyn did not, and so he did—and thus began their friendship. They had written back and forth up until that fateful visit in autumn of 1912, when he intended to start a courtship in some respect and then propose, but it had all fallen to pieces; she had seemed far more interested in Pamuk the Turkish diplomat than him. He had died, and she had been terribly distraught—understandably—and so he had given up hoping.
Years passed and he met Sarah Semphill. She had never found him boring or dull. She laughed at all of his jokes, she gazed at him as if they were the only two people left on earth. She was quite frankly everything he could have asked for in a fiancée, a wife. But she wasn't her. She could never have been her. So he had broken it off and gone to war—not before trying to minimize the damage that the rumors that swirled up over her and Pamuk. He didn't believe them, as he said to anyone brash enough to ask, and had relentlessly pursued the rumors to their source, making a trip to her aunt's house in London to inform her.
He had almost told her then. It had been in his eyes, in his demeanor, but he had never said it. Fear—cowardice—had held him back. He knew full well that nothing would become of it. If he was too guarded, then so be it, it was in his nature, but even then he would not confess.
He couldn't very well tell her during the war. He wrote—on holidays, to 'give her an update' as one letter had asked—but not frequently enough to annoy her.
Nor would he after his leg was shot and peppered with shrapnel on the Somme. He had asked to recuperate at Downton—he had needed to see her, more than anything—and they had granted his request. They had chatted as old friends would—which of course they were—and he had not overstepped his bounds.
Now, six years later, here they were.
"I don't know when I realized it…when I was walking away from your aunt's house in London, when I was driving away from Downton all those years ago…I know—I know it's wrong for me to say it but I must speak my mind. I..I love you, Mary." He lifted his eyes as he uttered her name, and when blue met brown, she appeared to be shocked by the information he had just imparted. "I don't ask anything of you. Not now. And that isn't why I'm here but I can't lie to you anymore. I can't go through the motions, pretending that don't feel anything for you but friendship."
Mary was the one that broke eye contact first, clearly absorbing all that Evelyn had said, and then shaking her head. "After all these years?"
"Yes, after all these years. You made me laugh again after my mother died. You were one of my dearest friends and I realized…that it wasn't just that. You were—are—intelligent, and strong, and very opinionated, but that's alright because I love you all the more. I'm not…I'm not asking anything really. I mean, I have no intentions…but as I said, I couldn't let you go without you knowing where I stand—where I've stood, for some time now." Evelyn replied earnestly, gaining more courage with every word he said. "Of course, you must know, that I would give anything to have the privilege to live out the rest of my life at your side…but I'll wait—I would wait…forever, if you wanted me to."
There was evident shock on her face and he lowered his eyes, fearing he had said too much too soon. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"
"I need time, Evelyn." she finally said, her voice shaking as their eyes met again. "I'm not ready—I might never be."
"I know. And it's alright…I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here as long as you need me." he responded tenderly, holding his arms out as his sides.
"But I can't ask you to wait if I'll never be ready—not when you could have a chance at happiness with someone else…"
"No." He shook his head, mirroring her action just a moment before and taking a bold step forward. "The thing is, I can't…be happy with someone else—because I've tried. She wasn't you, Mary. It would never have worked because she wasn't you."
Realization settled in her eyes. "That's why you called it off."
He nodded. "I couldn't very well marry Sarah when my heart belonged to you. It wouldn't have been right. It would have been hypocritical even, because I believe firmly that marriage should be based on love." he added, clasping his hands behind his back. "Which is why there could be no happiness in any marriage I chose other than one with you."
"But what about the title—and your family?"
"I'm sure they'll find someone. I'll give my all to being a good landlord—and politician—with or without a wife…though I know I'd be better at this whole business with your help. Regardless, I will not marry any woman that I don't love. No duty could surpass that."
Her father walked in, then, and whatever remnants of the conversation they had just shared was wiped off both of their faces in an instant, as Grantham insisted he stay the night and Evelyn could do little to put him off.
They were walking the grounds the next day. He was due back to his desk job in London—to the world of taxation and population and Charles Blake's witticisms—far away from Downton and her. He had intended to say his goodbyes and promise to keep in touch and let that be the end of it without bringing up what he had said, but Mary never let anything past her.
"I can't do it, Evelyn."
He turned away from a farm they had been looking at and swallowed, knowing full well what she was referring to. "I understand…"
"It's like what you said about Miss Semphill—I couldn't marry you, not when my heart still belongs to Matthew."
He nodded, smiling softly as he glanced at his feet and then into her eyes again. "I hope…that this won't prevent our still being friends?"
"No, no of course not. I'm very lucky to be able to call you a friend."
"I was always the lucky one." Evelyn answered good-naturedly, extending his hand. "God bless you, Mary. I wish you every happiness."
He expected her to shake his hand and leave it at that. But she surprised him. She did take his hand—how warm hers was—and held it, but then she stepped forward. His breath caught in his throat as her lips brushed his cheek, and he closed his eyes, only opening them when she pulled back, gazing into his eyes contemplatively, appearing almost conflicted.
Then, he was bold.
His thumb stroked the hand he had only really ever held properly when it was gloved—on the occasions they had danced at someone's ball—and his eyes fixed upon the eyes about which he had dreamed for nearly twelve years. He was searching, asking a silent question, and when she answered it, he lowered his head and joined his lips to hers, exhaling shakily as his arms wound their way around her waist and hers grasped his shoulders. He made the most of it because he knew that this would have to last his whole life long—and for those few moments he felt loved enough to last the rest of his life. The almost dream ended and he leaned his forehead against hers gently, reluctantly letting go. They shared a final glance and he was off, a glimmer of hope providing him with the strength to wait, and live a fulfilling life in the meantime.