Author's Note: As fair warning, Matthew here is extremely morose and self-absorbed, as he is by Lavinia's gravesite in S02E08. I was frustrated with him over this, and basically wrote this to answer the question "what happens if he never stops being like this, or doesn't stop soon enough?"
Many thanks to Cyrillah, who betaed this assiduously and really helped me with characterization and many suggestions. Any remaining problems are my responsibility alone!
This is my first Downton Abbey fanfic, so suggestions and con crit is gratefully received!
Matthew slumped silently as the new valet, Hobbes, helped him out of his dinner jacket and bow tie. It was one of his last nights in Downton before moving back to Manchester, and Matthew had spent it as he had spent most nights since Lavinia's death: enduring strained pleasantries until he could no longer bear them and receiving pitying looks when he then made his excuses and retired early. Most of all, his nights involved the delicate social organization necessary to ensure no intimacy, confidence, or time alone spent with Mary. That had been easy at first, his anger and self-loathing had given him energy and will. As the former had gradually weakened with no lessening of the latter, he now found himself cold, trapped, and utterly, utterly bereft. Not even the necessity of arranging his move to Manchester had provided any respite. He was trawling all of Manchester for somewhere to live, since his mother had optimistically sold the house there.
"You see, it is no longer suitable for the heir apparent of the Earl of Grantham, Matthew," she had argued.
"Heir presumptive, mother," he had sighed. " And I always liked that house."
But that had been during his courtship of Lavinia, and the War, and what thoughts he had of the future had not involved moving Lavinia from all she knew to such an industrial, unfashionable city. So he had let it drop. He sighed heavily at the thought of the life the two of them had planned together, and Mr Hobbes looked up from brushing the jacket.
"Anything I can do, milord?"
Matthew paused briefly in buttoning his pajamas. "Not really, Hobbes. I was just thinking of...wartime. How cruel it is that those years seem so joyous, now, when I was desperate for them to be over at the time."
Mr. Hobbes said little in return, and in short order excused himself to let Matthew sleep. It was little wonder, Matthew knew his thoughts and conversations had been repetitive and circular these last months, and Hobbes was hardly the sympathetic listener that Mr. Bates had been. There was no escaping the bleakness of it; he had thought himself surrounded by death in the trenches, but now he felt death inside him, like the rot in an old tree stump. He had felt himself responsible for all the young men under his command, but rarely felt at fault for their deaths like he did for Lavinia's.
Now he prepared to return to the city, packing up his essentials in Crawley House by day, as by night he was subjected to the extended mourning period precipitated by his leaving Downton. His mother and Cousin Robert had even joined forces, before she left for another refugee return trip, to browbeat him into sleeping the last few days at the great house.
"I hate to think of you alone in Crawley House, now that Molesley's gone," his mother had pleaded, with a sideways glance at Robert.
"Yes, of course Matthew should stay here Cousin Isobel, we shall see little of him soon enough. And with Cora still so weak I could do with some help running the house." So it had been settled neatly, and without his input, as these things so often had after he returned broken from the front.
He sat in bed, hands limp on the bedspread and eyes fixed on the painting hung on the wall opposite, dragged his eyes unwillingly over the details of the winter scene and the Rococo swirls of the oversized frame while fighting insomnia and regrets. Eventually, like most nights, he would fret himself into something that approached sleep. He heard the noises of the house diminish gradually, heard doors shutting somewhere far off and knew most of the inhabitants would soon be asleep.
A quiet knock at the door startled him more than it had any right to, but before he had finished a guarded "Yes? What is it?", Mary had swept herself in through the door in a manner that briefly recalled the Dowager Countess. Her hair was loosely plaited, and she wore only a nightgown. Concern was his first response - had something happened to his mother in France? Was someone ill? He started and pulled aside the bed clothes, preparing to swing his legs out of bed.
"What's wrong?" Her face was impervious, but he stood up anyhow and stood across from her.
Slowly the collected look on her face dropped slightly, as if she had no more idea than Matthew why she was there. She shook her head slightly.
"Nothing, it's- nothing's happened. I mean- I need to- Do you realize how foolish you're being?" she finished with a confidence belied by her uncertain words, and strode to sit in the chair by his bed.
"I'll leave aside the question of how you were planning to learn the workings of the estate from Manchester." Gathering steam, she folded her hands together and stared at him disconcertingly. "You seem to think if you leave, you will be left alone with Lavinia's memory, that what has passed between us will fade away. But I know that it will simply follow you there." Her voice hitched almost imperceptibly. "This isn't something you can run from."
At her every word, Matthew felt his anger return and his nerves grate. "I'm not running, I'm getting on with my life. I've ensured that there's nothing left for me at Downton. You shouldn't feel sorry for me, none of you should. I behaved terribly to you as well as to Lavinia. But you can't stop me going, and I've said what I want to. It's late, and I'm tired." He walked to the door and opened it, ushering her out.
But, of course, she didn't budge. "Shut the door." She sounded almost amused now. "You ought to know better than most how determined I can be, and I'm going until I've said my piece. Properly."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then when Thomas comes up to give you the hot milk that you asked for, I will look extremely disheveled and embarrassed in your bedroom at an unseasonable hour, two weeks before my wedding."
The plot was rapidly slipping away from Matthew. "That I asked for?" he attempted.
"Yes. You had a terrible headache so I took it upon myself to ask Anna to send for him."
"Not Mr Hobbes?"
"No. Because Thomas delights in scandal, and Thomas is about to be told by Papa that his services are no longer required, and Thomas knows the value of information." She was sitting forward in the chair, almost primly, but her hands were very, very still and her gaze was fixed firmly on him.
He saw the picture with a jolt. "So if I won't speak with you, you will make me responsible for engulfing this house in scandal and ruining your marriage?" He hissed the last words, he was so angry at her. She inclined her head in slight acknowledgment.
"This is very conniving, Mary." he allowed his face to express the full brunt of his emotions, but kept his voice in check.
She shrugged. "Perhaps. You'd better decide quickly, I think I heard the back stair door." Her face remained mainly expressionless, except perhaps for some slight redness in her cheeks and a faint hint of triumph.
"Fine," he relented in a hoarse whisper. "We can talk for fifteen minutes."
She smiled then, stood, and deftly strode over to his wardrobe and climbed into it, pulling the doors to behind her as she crouched. In another few seconds, there was a gentle rap on the door.
Thomas' face was characteristically ingratiating. "Sorry that your lordship is feeling unwell. Can I do anything else sir, would you like an extra blanket?" Thomas placed the tray on the bedside table and moved towards the wardrobe.
"No. " Matthew threw up his hand and his first response was an almost bark. "Er, no thank you Thomas, that will be all. Good night."
Looking slightly affronted, the former footman left silently and pulled the door shut behind him.
Matthew stared at the wardrobe gloomily. "I don't know why you risked so much when my mind's made up." His voice sounded plaintive even to his ears. Mary emerged from a sea of dinner jackets and riding clothes, looking surprisingly practiced in the graceful exit of a wardrobe. "I am sorry I was so angry after the funeral," he continued. "It was wrong to speak to you like that when I'm the one to blame. But it's no good. I couldn't possibly stay here, marry you, run Downton when I know who paid the price for it. I'd be too ashamed."
"But you must marry," Mary interjected impatiently. "You have a responsibility to the estate, to father. If you insist on living the life of a hermit, then you leave Downton in the same state it's in now." She saw the expression on his face, and stopped. "But you'll tell me I'm heartless and practical again. Anyway," her voice softened, and she sighed. "I didn't come to argue the same old points. There is a choice you have to make, even if you refuse to see it." She seemed to be reflecting on something that she wasn't saying, her gaze somewhat distant. It was strange, he thought, how she used to be only frank in anger or sadness. He was used to peering beyond the flippancy and sarcasm to see what she felt, but something had changed in her. With a start, he remembered when it had changed, remembered her white face and restless hands as she told him of his paralysis.
"And what is this choice you see me having?" His voice softened with the question.
"First, I need to apologize, Matthew." She twisted her hands together awkwardly, then sat at the foot of his bed. It reminded him of how close she had come when he was first back from the war, and despite himself he was comforted by the memory of her calm lilting voice, her sure, collected movements as she washed his injuries. But that sparked equally vivid memories of someone who tended to him equally devotedly, and his back stiffened and he pulled away slightly.
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I am, for the way I treated you when you first proposed. I was so proud, and so angry."
"That was a long time ago - you can't think that any of that matters now? That I don't know you regret those early cruelties?"
Mary shook her head, and her voice was higher and shook slightly. "But I've never told you- I need to say that I'm sorry for ever making you feel I was playing with you. I didn't choose to be married off like a fine broodmare, but I never should have made you compete like I did."
Matthew shrugged. "You are just not the kind to apologize, Mary. I know that well enough now, and I forgave you long ago." He gazed at her beautiful lips, bright red and thin with repressed intensity. "And I accept your apology now. But this isn't why you came tonight."
"No," she admitted, glancing down at her hands. They were carefully composed in her lap. "I told you before, I suppose." She looked up, briefly meeting his eyes before turning slightly. "I don't have to marry Carlisle. I don't want to. But I will, if you won't choose to stop me."
It was as close as Mary Crawley would ever come to pleading with him. He felt desire, impatience, and despair well equally within him. He had made himself so clear by Lavinia's grave, so clear on her deathbed. He had chosen her, but Violet, Lavinia herself, and now Mary had tried so hard to dissuade him. "Whoever marries you will be a lucky, lucky man, Mary," he started, ignoring the unspoken proposal. "But it will not be me. I will not forgive myself for the harm I caused by being unfaithful to Lavinia, and I cannot marry you when I've shown myself to be so dishonourable."
"Do you hope to atone for one mistake by making a series of larger ones?" Her voice was rushed now. "You want me to marry...Richard," the horror in her voice was acidic. "...Or spend my life reliant on your allowance?"
"Mary, marrying Sir Richard was your choice! If he is no longer the husband you want, find another. There was a time you seemed very accomplished in that arena."
She made a noise like the wind had been knocked from her, and Matthew felt immediate remorse. "Well, that's disappointing," she bit off the words with cold fury. "The great middle-class champion of free will is advising me to cozy up to the nearest bag of money."
"I'm not being intentionally cavalier, Mary. But I'm no good to anyone, and I'm certainly not good enough for you. Who's not to say you won't find happiness at the next season?"
She laughed, quietly and bitterly. "If I don't marry him, he'll make sure that my life is over. I'll be a laughing stock." She briefly wiped the sides of her eyes.
"It's a bit late to reconsider, but surely you're not the first aristocrat to renege on an engagement." He let his lips twitch slightly at this, trying to catch her eye.
But she wouldn't look at him. She looked everywhere but his face, and the silence crept up on them suddenly. Matthew thought for a second she was about to end the conversation, to rush off once more just as he was getting his bearings in the discussion.
When she did speak, her cadence was unsteady and her voice raw. "You say I'm too good for you, but the truth is that I made a mistake once far, far greater than a simple kiss. Sir Richard knows about it, and he means to ruin me with it if I break the engagement."
Matthew's brow furrowed. "What kind of mistake?"
A little exclamation escaped Mary's lips, and she turned away slightly. "I let Kemal Pamuk into my bed, when he visited with Evelyn Napier before the war."