Upon a Midnight Clear

Amiens, France, December 1917

This was his favourite time.

The night sky was remarkably clear and full of stars. Dawn would come far too soon, but for now it was still hours away.

It was quiet. That was probably what he liked most about it. There was no dreaded whistling in the air. There was no shaking of the ground. There were no chilling screams. It was quiet.

If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could imagine himself back home. The snow crunching beneath his feet was not covering mud and dirt and the filth of the trench, but the frozen ground on which he rode horses or lay down idly or played games with his cousins in warmer times. If he tried hard enough, he was no longer here, but only at this time of night.

Daylight brought with it an awakening, a return to the fear and constant agitation, the darting of eyes left and right, the swallowing to moisten dry throats and the deep breaths to calm nerves that had been frayed for going on three years now. Daylight was unwelcome. Daylight reminded them of where they were and what they were doing.

Three years. Had it really been that long? Sometimes it felt like he had just arrived. Sometimes it felt like he'd been at the Front for thirty years. Three years. He had spent every Christmas in a foreign land for the past three years.

He smiled as he thought of his last Christmas at home. December 1913. A lifetime ago he thought. It was his second Christmas with his "new" family, his second Christmas in his "new" home, and he had finally begun to feel comfortable. The small things that confounded him upon his arrival became second nature – where to sit, how to address different people, what cutlery to use, finally allowing Molesley to dress him for bed. There were moments where he wandered the halls of the Big House as if he belonged there, rather than as a wide-eyed innocent from Manchester with no idea what was in store for him.

He wasn't just more comfortable with the house though, or the title even. He was more comfortable with her, and he smiled now thinking about this. They still argued of course. They would always argue, naturally. But he no longer saw it as a challenge, a way for her to put him in his place, to claim superiority. Taking Alex's advice, he realized that it was more of an invitation. She wanted to see if he could keep up with her, see if he saw her as a fragile Princess like everyone else, all looks and style with no substance or opinion of her own. When he deciphered this riddle, he found he enjoyed their verbal sparring immensely. She was brilliant, and he loved taking her on, showing her that he was not afraid of her sharp wit, and that he could give as good as he took.

He had scoffed at the notion that they could get along at first. She would never see past his middle-class upbringing and his unintended rudeness when they first met at Crawley House. He would always be put off by her cold veneer, her mocking gaze, levelled at Edith regularly but usually reserved just for him.

But time had changed them, even without their knowing it. She could laugh. She did laugh. It was pure and gleeful and so unlike her, and yet so very much her at the same time. And it was sultry. He couldn't deny it despite repeatedly trying to do so. Her laugh, her smile, the way her eyes danced when she was truly happy, it was all incredibly seductive, as if she was luring him in to discover more, and he usually followed willingly.

He learned when to play her games, and when to stand firm. He knew when to concede a point without appearing weak, and when to fight vociferously until she grudgingly accepted it was possible he may be correct. He found himself often hoping to have her admiration and affection, but he was rewarded with something even more valuable – her respect.

Christmas Eve 1913 at Downton was so calm and picturesque that he had convinced her and her sisters to walk back with him from Midnight Mass in the Village. Sybil had of course wandered ahead, with Edith fiercely scrambling after her to keep her in sight. Some of the servants had wandered along with them and they had enjoyed a comfortable silence, the crisp air and the bright stars guiding them home. Then the snow had whipped up and the temperature dropped a bit and he found her huddling against him as they walked, chastising him with mock indignation for fooling her into walking when a warm motor could have had her home already. He had apologized with a smile and placed his hand on the back of her coat, guiding her along while barely maintaining propriety. She never seemed to mind as they walked close together the rest of the way. When he saw her safely to the Great Hall, everyone else had already gone straight to bed. He tipped his cap, snow falling from the shoulders of his coat, and prepared to wander back out into the winter night when she pulled on his arm.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not going back out there already," she scolded him.

She had made him remove his coat and boots and follow her downstairs to the empty kitchen. They had rummaged around unsupervised like truant schoolchildren and somehow managed to make two mugs of cocoa that they smuggled up to the library with a plate of shortbread cookies made just that morning by Mrs. Patmore.

Sitting on opposite sofas with the fire blazing in the hearth, they had talked casually for another hour, before she fell asleep with her head against the cushions. He had crept over and covered her with a quilt, smiling at the firelight caressing her neck and face before he stole away and left for home, the cold air unable to chill the warm feeling he carried back to Crawley House.

Downton Abbey, England, December 1917

She rubbed her arms lightly, shivering slightly in the cold air. She should have put on a wrap or a scarf before venturing outside, but she could not be bothered to go back in now. She smirked as she heard the imagined disapproval of her Mama and even Carson in her head. She stood still and looked up at the starlit sky.

She found herself coming outside at night more often as of late. Some nights she was so exhausted from dealing with the soldiers and her numerous tasks that she would retire early and be fast asleep almost as soon as Anna let her hair down. Other nights she found she had a remarkable reserve of energy, and it caused her to linger in the sitting room long after everyone else had retired, or wander into the library in search of another book to devour, or, as it was tonight, to walk just outside the house and look up at the stars.

He had explained to her once why the stars appeared so much brighter here than in London. Skyglow he called it, although he said the technical term was light pollution. She smiled at the memory. He was a fountain of information. She learned so much from him, once she got around to actually listening to what he said, instead of trying to boost her own fragile self esteem by attacking his.

She sighed. She hadn't seen him since July. Months ago, but they seemed as years. Each day as more soldiers arrived and news continued to be pessimistic from the Front, she found herself wondering if he was all right, glad that she had not seen him arrive on a stretcher, or worse. She could bear the separation, would have to bear it for the rest of her life, but she would gladly if it meant he was safe, somewhere in a far off land.

She debated writing to him, even began numerous letters that went unfinished or unsent, put away in her drawer, the victims of her own cowardice. It was not her place to write to him. It was not her place to care about him. It was not her place to love him. She had lost all of that years ago on a summer day that began with everything being possible, and ended with the World at War.

She looked up at the stars as the Witching Hour approached, and she smiled, remembering back to a time long past, before War, before broken promises, before forced pleasantries to his new fiancée and forced smiles to her new suitor. Christmas Eve 1913. It was almost shocking how she had fallen in step with him at Church for Midnight Mass, sitting next to him as though it were the most natural thing. Then he suggested the absurd idea of walking back home. She opened her mouth to reject the thought, but Sybil was already darting out the door, with Edith behind her, and she could only roll her eyes as her parents left with Branson in the car and she was outside walking with him on a clear night just like this one.

She shivered again as she remembered his warm hand on her back, feeling the heat of him even through his glove and her coat and clothes. He was always warm. Warm eyes. A warm smile. A warm manner and way with words that were soothing and reassuring like a comfortable blanket. She remembered walking rather closely beside him the entire way. Her Mama and Granny would have likely disapproved, but on that night she didn't care, didn't even think twice about it. He guided her home with a sure stride and a warm touch and she felt safe and normal and the night was a little less scary than it had been for her up until then that year.

She didn't know what she enjoyed more, coming up with the idea of sneaking into the kitchen, or the fact that he willingly followed her. She didn't know the first thing about making cocoa and would have probably melted the chocolate into a sticky morass and ruined the pot if he hadn't playfully suggested adding the milk and cinnamon.

They had sat in the library drinking hot cocoa and eating shortbread and talking incessantly about nothing important and she had felt happier then than she had all year in fact. There were no other suitors to distract her, no silly bets with Edith, no miscommunication or misunderstandings. It was just the two of them, together in the middle of the night in their own private world.

She sighed again as she looked away from the stars and out across the snow covered grounds. Christmas Eve 1913. She did not realize it then, but she bitterly understood it clearly now. Their time together that night after Midnight Mass was the beginning of her falling in love with him.

Amiens, France, December 1917

He looked into the distance, the white of the snow seeming to bend and shift in the moonlight as he gazed over the miles of barbed wire and towards the German line. What were they thinking? What were they planning? Would the two sides allow each other a respite as Christmas arrived in the morning?

He breathed and walked back towards his tent, trusting that they were well out of range and his silent evening would continue uninterrupted. Christmas. He encouraged the men to celebrate as best they could, to bring some normalcy to this abnormal world they were forced to live in. There were usually little trinkets they exchanged – socks, playing cards, cigarettes, whatever they could round up from packages from home or on short leaves in Paris. He also wanted them to write and send cards back to England. Like most officers in command though, he wasn't particularly vigilant about following his own orders. He had numerous unsent letters and cards that she had never seen to attest to that.

He remembered the last proper gift he gave her and chuckled. He was nervous as a teenager on his first date at the time, even though there was surely nothing between them back then. Christmas 1913. The previous year he had given small presents to Lord Grantham and Cousin Cora, and cards to the rest of the family. They were barely acquainted, and they had gotten off to a terrible start in September that they had not exactly recovered from by the time Christmas 1912 arrived. He received token thanks in return for his token gifts, and they had moved on to luncheon and not spent another moment thinking about it.

The next Christmas, though, he wanted to get everything just right. He found that having spent over a year with all of them, gift ideas now came easily. A new hat for Robert, from his tailor in London but in a different style than what he normally wore. A shawl for Cora, matching the colours of the gowns she usually wore in the autumn when it would be needed the most. New evening gloves for Sybil, who was approaching her debut Season. A fountain pen for Edith, who secretly loved to write but seemed intensely private about it.

He knew he would agonize over the final gift – the one for her – the longest. He toured through shops in London during the Winter Season and even watched carefully when he was with her in the Village to see if she eyed anything in particular. He realized to his dismay that it would be too easy to just get her something she wanted. That would be easily forgettable, and would carry no meaning. He would need to be creative and yet not overwhelm her with something so serious as to be embarrassing or improper. They were just cousins.

He smiled. There were entire files at his job that he had not worked on as hard as he did her Christmas present back then. And there were few victories at the office that ranked anywhere near the feeling he had when seeing the look on her face in unwrapping his present for her.

Downton Abbey, England, December 1917

She should have seen it. She should have recognized it immediately. She should have done something about it. She was smart. She was sophisticated. He was a middle-class simpleton. She could read him like a book.

It was his eyes that gave him away. Those damn blue eyes. Why did she assume stupidly that they looked upon others the same way as they did upon her? Why did she not pick up on the hints, the pleas, the desires that they desperately showed her? Why did she not look at him, truly look at him?

For if she had looked at him during Christmas 1913, she would have seen everything, would have known everything, would have understood everything that was ever important about him, about her, about them.

Her eyes wandered to the long driveway and she tilted her head, remembering watching his tall figure approach on Christmas morning as she looked out from her bedroom window. Of course he had walked, probably rejecting the idea of riding in the car with his mother. She went downstairs to greet him, her stomach fluttering strangely. When Carson announced him, she smiled demurely and allowed him to approach her. She wanted to thank him for being so gallant, so kind, so considerate the previous evening, but she surprisingly blushed at the thought of their secret dalliance in the library, so she pushed those thoughts away and greeted him more warmly than usual.

"Happy Christmas, Cousin Matthew."

He returned her well wishes with a brilliant smile and she stared at him slightly longer than she should have. They went through to join the rest of the family and he stood dutifully by as she and Edith handed out presents with Mama to the servants. She caught his eye from time to time and they were always locked on her, a small smile on his lips.

When the servants were dismissed, they were able to have their own family Christmas. They all exchanged presents and she grew bored rather quickly. Her family was not particularly original in their gift giving. She received a coat from her Papa that she had picked out herself the last time they were in London. Mama gave her jewellery again, this time a brooch that was actually quite nice. Sybil gave her a barrette that matched the one that she herself gave to Sybil. Edith gave her a forgettable book. She set her gifts to one side and patiently watched as everyone opened their presents so she could move on and have lunch. She was distracted as a simple box wrapped in blue paper was handed to her. She looked up at him from her chair and he smiled nervously as he mumbled that she had one last present to open.

She looked at the box curiously. She did not expect anything from him, although she did notice he gave Sybil a lovely pair of gloves and Edith an elegant pen. Anything would be an improvement on the card he gave them last year, so she nodded to him and smiled pleasantly, delicately unfolding the paper and opening the box.

Her practised calm detachment was quickly forgotten as she gasped at the contents of the box. The handle was silver with ornate etchings of flowers along it. The band was silver, with the initials "MJC" clearly visible, as well as a small crown etched perfectly into the shiny metal. The leather was supple and a dark shade. It was easily one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

"I'm sure Diamond doesn't disobey very often at all, but you'll be able to show him who's in charge more easily now," he smiled at her. She could only stare at him in shock.

"A riding crop?" Edith exclaimed, breaking their shared reverie. "Well that's rather practical of you, Cousin Matthew."

Mary blushed at the intrusion and looked away from him. She covered the box and set it aside with her other presents. They rose to go through for luncheon and she did not speak to him further about it beyond giving him her polite thanks.

Mary took one last look up at the stars. She still used his gift years later whenever she rode. It fit her hand perfectly, the weight and balance ideal for her. How did he come up with such a touching and significant present? He knew she loved to ride. He somehow knew that riding was her escape, one of the few indulgences she was allowed which let her have complete control. When she rode, there were no expectations, no duties, no one else holding her back or ordering her in a specific direction. It was just her and Diamond and the leagues of green fields and miles of blue skies before her. He knew all of that. And by giving her an elegant and custom made riding crop, he was speaking to her far more loudly and profoundly than any of her family, or any suitor, had ever come close to before.

"I know your heart, and I will help you fly."

She said a quiet prayer, the same prayer she had been saying every day for the past year before going to bed. It seemed more fitting to say it out here under the stars, before she repeated it later on her knees, staring at his photograph in the privacy of her bedroom.

"Dear Lord, please, I beg you to keep him safe."

Amiens, France, December 1917

"Sir," William called softly, afraid to interrupt his Captain's private thoughts. "You should retire, sir. We may not have much respite in the morning."

Matthew turned and nodded to the young man who had followed him to the Front from Downton, one of the few reminders he had of his home.

"You're right, Mason," he said, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and walking past him into the tent. He sat down heavily on the makeshift cot and sighed, placing his helmet on the small table and running his hand through his hair. He looked over and frowned as he saw the photo staring politely back at him. He looked away, but paused when he came across the toy dog sitting dutifully close by, looking up at him with a perpetual smile stitched on to its face.

"Mason," Matthew called.

"Sir?" William answered from his nearby cot.

"Any word from Daisy?"

"She wrote to me a week ago, Sir," William answered and Matthew could swear he could see the boy's smile from the sound of his voice. "She says it's very busy back home, Sir, but that everyone is managing. She sends her regards, Sir."

"Very good," Matthew nodded.

"Mason?"

"Sir?"

Matthew frowned. "Do you ever wonder if you perhaps chose wrongly? Do you ever wish that you and Daisy had married during our last leave, rather than wait for the end of the War?"

"I wanted to marry my Daisy right away, Sir," William replied cheerfully. "She said we should wait, so we wait. She's the one for me, Sir. Whether we're married now or a year from now or whenever the fighting stops, Sir, it'll all be fine in the end. I know I want to marry her, so that's all that matters."

"It doesn't bother you that she did not want to marry you right away?" Matthew asked carefully.

"No," William answered immediately. Matthew could picture him chuckling. "I'm sure that she wants to, but we can't cause of the War and all. She's not very good about showing how she feels, but it's enough that I know she's waiting for me, Sir. It makes all of what we're doing here worth it if I think about Daisy waiting for me when it's all done."

Matthew blinked, absorbing the young man's words. He reached over and picked up the toy dog, holding it in his hand and looking at it intently.

"Happy Christmas, Sir," William whispered.

"Happy Christmas, Mason," Matthew answered, his eyes still on the toy dog. "Good night."

Matthew pulled the thin blanket around him, the familiar chill of the Front setting in and dulling his senses once again. He held Mary's toy dog close to his chest and breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, a small smirk crossing his lips as he pictured firelight against pale skin, dark brown eyes wide in surprise and joy, and brilliant smiles and unguarded laughter that soothed him to a sleep that would be interrupted far too soon.

Downton Abbey, England, December 1917

Mary pulled the bedcovers up over her shoulders, curling her arms across her chest. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing.

If he was safe, that was enough.

The War would end someday soon and he would return safely and she would greet him as his cousin and they would be friendly and even though all would not be right again, it would be enough.

She would see him married to his fiancée and take his rightful place at Downton someday and she would visit for holidays and family gatherings and they would be cordial and maybe even playful with each other and that would be enough.

She would see him live out his life and receive everything that she should have given him but didn't – love, happiness, a family of his own – and she would see him enjoy all of it with another woman and knowing he had everything he deserved, even though it wasn't with her, would be enough.

She would go on, settle down and marry, raise a family of her own with a man she did not love, and have a life that, while not nearly enough, would have to do. It was all she could hope for now.

Mary sobbed quietly, as she had on many evenings just like this one. She blinked the tears away and instead remembered hot cocoa and shortbread biscuits, blue eyes and meaningful presents and private moments that she would cherish for the rest of her life.

She smiled as her lip trembled and her body shivered, waiting again for sleep to come.