Author's note: Well, my work may suffer tomorrow but this must be the first time I've written nearly 4500 words in a day since uni. And this was much more fun. One thing I've loved about reading DA fanfic are the echoes, sometimes, of one story in another. It's almost like fanfic of fanfic. If you should see echoes of your own story here please know that it was unintentional inspiration. Also, this is my first smut M-rated fic. It was meant to be three innings but ended up just the one. It's a double home run though! (I'm not American so apologies if I have mangled the baseball analogy). Plus, all the usual copyright disclaimers.
The long way back
I
"Cousin Mary, hello!" Matthew said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
He was in a part of the Downton grounds that linked the house to the village. He had walked this path dozens of times before the war but he had never seen the small stone cottage that now stood before him, or the small stream that flowed nearby. Lady Mary was on the landing about to enter the cottage, her arms holding neatly pressed fresh linen.
"Major Crawley, how nice to see you," Mary said brightly.
"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," he said as he opened the door for her. She placed the linen on the bed and walked outside again.
"We're all very proud of you Matthew, though I'm – we're – not too keen on you being quite so brave."
After inspecting his boots for a moment or two he looked up and said: "You know, I've never noticed this place before, how is that possible?"
"It was terribly overgrown and quite down at heel. Some of the men who were almost recovered brought it back to life. They said it felt good to be building something again, rather than tearing things down."
"Now we use it for the men who have the worst of the shellshock. They stay here for a week or two with one of the medics and a nurse. We get them into the fresh air, walking the grounds, swimming, riding, chopping wood. If this blasted war goes on much longer, there won't be a tree left on Downton."
"And you help?"
Mary paused: "I'm just here to change the linen Matthew."
After a short silence he said: "What will become of it after the war?"
A small smile danced around Mary's lips: "It's nice to hear you talk of a time after war...Some say it should become a memorial. But I'd like to see it replaced with happy memories somehow."
Without thinking he said: "It looks a rather cosy place for a honeymoon."
As soon as he said it he wished he could take it back. He didn't like to flaunt his engagement to Lavinia, even now with her connection to Sir Richard Carlisle standing as the final confirmation that they had both moved on.
Mary blanched but betrayed no emotion. She might have been as shocked as Matthew to learn that it was not Lavinia he was thinking of when he said it.
"Yes, perhaps it would, if roughing it is your idea of a good time." Mary winced as she said it, for all Matthew had been doing for the past three years was roughing it, and she was quite sure it was not a good time.
II
"I happened across Mary today. I must have walked that way a hundred times and never known that cottage existed."
"Yes, she's put so much work into it. It's a real credit it to her. It was her idea you know," Isobel replied.
"She didn't mention that."
"Mary is many things, but boastful she is not, especially now. She's very good with the men. I think she has a natural affinity with those that cannot speak of what pains them."
Matthew ignored her intimation and hoped to steer the conversation away from Mary.
"She told me that you're quite fierce in your insistence that the men with shellshock be treated with kindness, not cruelty."
"She said that was me, did she?" Isobel said.
III
Mary was having one of her daily chats with Owen, a journalist and poet, a man of wit and intelligence, a man who almost certainly would not live to see the end of the war. In his fifties, he was much too old to fight but he was on the front line, documenting what he saw in prose and verse. In a cruel twist of fate he had been wounded, but not badly, in the abdomen, certainly a survivable injury. When the surgeons operated they found he was in an advanced stage of cancer. A lifelong bachelor, he had no living family. He had come to Downton not to convalesce but to die.
Mary loved their talks. She could ask him anything, about life and about the war. While it was hard to hear, it helped to know exactly what he was facing out there, and Owen was one of the only ones who would talk about it freely. He reminded her of Carson and of her father. She also loved the way their conversations would inevitably involve some lighthearted thrust and parry; it rather reminded her of someone else. She also found that despite herself she opened up to him. She didn't like to admit it but, in part, her openness came from the safety of knowing he would take all he knew about her to the grave.
That's how they came to talk of love one day. Even by their usual standards of candour, Mary found herself particularly unguarded. They had been talking and laughing about this and that when out of the blue he asked her if she loved Sir Richard Carlisle. She wasn't engaged to him, but not for want of his asking.
"Owen, I lost my chance of love long ago. There's only one man I could marry for love and I ruined it. He's engaged to someone else. I dithered and delayed. Not only did I lose him but I broke his heart. I was foolish, cowardly, a snob, young. And I was hiding something from him, something I feared would steal his love for me away.
"You did love him, then."
"Yes, I did. I didn't think that marrying for love was a possibility for a woman like me. From the moment my parents despaired of having a boy, it was assumed I would marry the heir, my father's second cousin. My only alternative was to find someone of greater rank and wealth."
"Your cousin Patrick?"
"Yes. When he died everything changed, everything I thought I knew and valued was turned upside down. Falling in love came as a bit of a shock. I'm not quite sure I knew what it was to begin with. By the time I realised what it was, and how rare and precious it was, it was too late."
"And now?"
"Now," Mary took a deep breath. "Now, no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake it."
"Don't you think you should tell him? You're here every day helping the men with shellshock, extolling the virtues of saying what you mean, what you feel and what you fear."
"Don't you think that would be terribly unfair? He's fighting a war, for his life. He's engaged to another; a kinder, sweeter girl than I could ever be. And after all this is over, he'll need the comfort she can offer him. She's warm where I am cold, soft where I am hard. She'll make him happy, she won't hurt him."
"You know, I've often observed that it is the heart of the romantic that needs the strongest armour to protect it."
Mary was silent, looking down, for a long moment she couldn't speak.
In time, she took another deep breath, straightened her back and flashed her brightest smile:
"And the mind of a poet needs stimulation, which you won't get in this room. There's only so many sentimental sonnets you can write about pretty wall coverings and upholstery. You know, you really are quite clever, drawing this maudlin tale from me to avoid doing what you had promised for today."
Owen sensed that the conversation was over, this part of it anyway. "And whatever would that be?"
"You promised that you and I would take a turn in the sunshine before the weather turns its attention towards winter."
"I'd really prefer that we didn't."
"Then it's a good thing you're in that wheelchair. You have very little choice in the matter."
IV
Matthew had been devastated when he heard that Owen was dying. In the stench and filth of the trenches he had brought a little light and intelligence and humour. He had heard he was at Downton and was on his way to see him when he heard her laugh. Not the brittle, convincing but artificial laugh he'd seen her use in the company of a bore, but the unguarded warm laugh that never failed to move him, even against his will. He steadied himself against the wall and, in opposition to all that he knew was right, he listened. With every unfolding revelation his heart beat harder, so much so that he had to strain to hear their conversation. He couldn't take it in. He knew, he now realised, he always knew this was how she had felt then and felt now but to hear it so plainly shook him. As his mind raced he realised he needed to move, to get away, that they would be upon him at any moment. He ducked into the adjacent room, standing out of sight as they moved past.
He sunk onto one of the beds and put his head in his hands, his mind and heart racing.
Matthew had never really thought about the change his arrival had brought into Mary's life, apart from the great matter of course. He could only see how his life had been turned upside down. She was only 19 when they met. And she had seen so little of the world outside Downton and a small circle of London society, and all the expectations that world brought with it, expectations he had felt the weight of and railed against. How could he have been so foolish not to see that those expectations would be equally burdensome to someone born under them. He saw only the silver spoon, not the silver shackles. At least he had the advantage of knowing there was another way to live, another way to see the world. He may well have been a sea monster, he was so foreign a creature to her. And yet, she had fallen in love with him and was in love with him still.
Over the years, when he had needed to drive away memories and dreams of her, he had told himself again and again that she was selfish and grasping and superficial. Now he had to look himself square in the eye and recognise how proud and purblind he himself had been.
V
Matthew had seen Owen one last time. He was careful to ensure that Mary did not see them together.
He stopped at Crawley House on his way back to London. He told himself that he loved Lavinia, was engaged to Lavinia, would marry Lavinia when this bloodiest of wars was finally over. While he told himself this again and again, his actions betrayed him as he retrieved, from the farthest reaches of his dresser, a sapphire-coloured velvet box. Despite himself it travelled wherever he travelled, whether London or Downton. The only place it didn't go was the front line.
VI
Matthew and Mary were coming from their final meeting with Sir Richard Carlisle, a meeting at which he was finally convinced that he had much more to lose were he to publish the story of Mary and the Turkish diplomat or pursue his designs on Downton. Carlisle was known, despite his charm, as a war profiteer and a muckraker. What was not widely known was that his profiteering knew no allegiance, that he was making money from all sides of the conflict. He would be ruined on both sides of the Atlantic if word got out, and Matthew and Mary would make sure that it did if he did not abandon his scheme and his threats.
When Mary had refused yet again to give him an answer to his proposal, Carlisle made what he told himself was a grand gesture. In truth it was an exercise of power that would have made Machiavelli blush. He had always said that after the war there would be a raft of estates with owners eager, desperate, to sell. Mary never thought it would be Downton that he set his sights on.
When she delayed answering him yet again, he had offered to buy Downton, with the promise that the family could stay in residence as long as Robert lived. Her mother's money, and Mary's inheritance, would be secured. While she wouldn't have the title, she would be mistress of Downton. There would be a substantial sum to pass to Matthew, more than enough to purchase his own estate or settle in luxury in London.
He quickly understood that Mary was appalled by the idea.
"I thought you loved Downton, I thought you wanted to be lady of the manor," Carlisle said.
"Not like this, never like this," was Mary's breathless reply. "Matthew is the rightful heir. Matthew must inherit Downton."
The mention of his name incensed Carlisle. He was under no illusions that Mary's true affections lay with Matthew, but to hear her champion his cause in this way was intolerable.
It was then that he delivered his master stroke, a threat that would ensure he would prevail. If she did not accept his proposal of marriage and if her family did not agree to his purchase of Downton he would publish on the front page of every newspaper he owned that Lady Mary Crawley had an illicit affair with an enemy of the Empire and he had died in her bed. Mary was aware that he knew about Pamuk, he revealed that to her not long after they became involved. He had always assured her that it was long past and of little consequence to him. He even suggested that, given the war, if the public knew about it now a parade would have been held in her honour.
And yet here it was. Mary was faced with very few options. What Carlisle didn't understand was that he had overplayed his hand. If he had merely threatened to expose Mary's indiscretion she would have married him. But to bring Downton into the equation forced Mary's hand. She knew she couldn't simply convince her father to sell Downton, not with reason and argument. She had to tell him why. The whole story. And as the heir, Matthew needed to know that his inheritance was in jeopardy. So she told them, she told them everything.
VII
"You knew!" Matthew fairly bellowed as he stood in the drawing room of her London home the previous evening. "You knew, and you said nothing?"
"Matthew, the information was not mine to share," Lavinia said.
"I don't believe that for a minute, and nor do you."
They stared at each other.
"I- I couldn't bear to lose you."
"And how would revealing Carlisle's true nature have jeopardised us. By concealing what you knew, you have nearly brought Downton and the family, my family, to its knees. Lavinia, I loved you."
Despite a desire to flee she instead raised her chin and said: "Yes I believe that you did. You needed me, certainly. But…you don't love me the way you love her."
VIII
Since his injury and promotion Matthew spent less and less time on the front line and more at command posts devising strategy. It meant he could bring the full force of his connections and legal knowledge to bear on this particular great matter.
As they left Carlisle's building for the last time, Matthew and Mary heard the bells ringing from what appeared to be every church in London. Crowds were spilling into the street. They looked at each other with shock and surprise, could the war possibly be over? Matthew had shared what he knew so they were both aware that the armistice was imminent, but could it be now, could this be true? They were standing like this, facing each other, as the crowd swelled and swirled around them, until a voice behind her caused Mary to turn on her heel.
"Come on sir, give the lass a kiss, the war's over!" said the young soldier.
Mary blushed: "Major Crawley is engaged, I think he should save his kisses for his fiancee, don't you?"
Matthew was now standing close behind her. As his hand slipped onto her hip he whispered, "I'm not engaged."
Mary turned to face him again, her face full of confusion.
"I don't understand."
He looked deep into her eyes.
"I am not engaged. But I would very much like to be before the day is done."
And with that, he took off his cap, took her into his embrace and kissed her.
IX
As Mary walked to the centre of Matthew's room, he closed the door behind them. He stood behind her and, starting at her hips, he slowly slipped his hands around her waist, kissing her gently on her neck. Her hands laced with his and her eyes drifted closed as she craned her neck to one side, leaning into him as he continued to pay her neck the most deliberate of attentions.
They undressed each other slowly. How they contained their passion was a mystery to even themselves, but these were moments they wanted to savour. With each piece of clothing came a new touch, a discovery of new pleasure and sensation.
When they were naked at last, their eyes locked together, Mary first caressed his chest then traced her fingers ever so lightly along his abdomen before slipping her arms around his back and pressing her body against his, feeling the hardness of him between them. Matthew gasped at the wonder of it all and in that moment alone nearly lost himself. His hands rested ever so delicately on her neck and he kissed her, his hands gently removing each and every pin in her hair until it tumbled down her shoulders as her fingers traced lazy circles on his back. He pulled away from the kiss and looked at her. He had always been struck by her haughty beauty but he had never seen her as radiant as she was right now.
To this point they had been almost mesmerised, captured in a slow hypnotic dance. But as they looked at each other now, reverence made way for unfettered passion. As they kissed with a new intensity, drinking each other in, Mary's hands moved from his back to his hips and along his flank before wresting her arms from their clinch and wrapping them around his neck, drawing him even deeper into this kiss. Matthew's hands traced a similar if opposite path. They both gasped when he brushed her breasts as his hands made their way to her back, then moved along to her waist and her hips and lower still. Lower and lower until he found the exquisite curve where the top of her leg met the rest of her. He could feel the warmth of her there. He pulled her closer.
They both groaned and it was clear further escalation was long overdue. Matthew lifted Mary, she wrapped her legs around him, never letting go of his hair or his mouth. He took her to the bed. Her hands in his hair, her legs tight around him, her mouth and her tongue entwined with his. He steadied himself above her as he found the warmth and the wetness of her. Mary gasped as he entered her. Matthew felt her momentarily tense beneath him, which broke him from his thrall and he looked at her with something akin to confused concern, before she brought his mouth to hers once more. What he didn't know was that whatever had transpired with Mr Pamuk, it was not this, not in deed or in passion or in meaning. They would talk of it one day but this was not the time, nor would it be for a long time to come; frankly it was irrelevant.
Mary was conscious of the pain but so overwhelmed was she with long suppressed desire and love and awe, that it barely registered. And how could it compare to the pain of them being parted for so long. These contemplations and the nearness and the taste and the scent and the feel of Matthew took Mary's arousal to new heights. Matthew felt her passion increase in time with his until he could bear it no longer. He grasped her thigh and took himself even deeper inside her. She arched against him, and her hands travelled quickly along his body to find the swell of his buttocks, and she drew him yet closer. The feel of his muscles working beneath his skin and the stroking of him within her took Mary to the brink. The force of their desire, the sounds and the movement they were making together and the feel of her all around him – her legs, her mouth, her breasts, her hips and her hands, oh her hands, took Matthew over the edge. Their hips clashed with abandon as his released himself within her, the very feel of him at this moment carrying Mary along with him. Together they shared a pleasure of such exquisite intensity it seemed akin to a delighted madness. They rocked together, slowing little by little, until the waves and twitches of pleasure subsided and their mingled breath returned to a more steady cadence.
Matthew propped himself on his elbows, as her arms moved lightly and lazily danced across his back. He gazed at her flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and languid, somewhat awestruck, smile. She in turn saw the same in him. Most of all they looked at each with such love, devotion, adoration and delight that it took their breath away. They kissed, softly, slowly, deeply, untangling from each other gradually until they lay side by side, arms around each other, legs and feet entwined. They lay like this, lips never far apart, until they slept.
XI
Robert entered the drawing room at Grantham House and told Mary that Matthew had arrived for dinner and wanted to see her in the library for a moment.
"We're just about to go in," Cora said.
"I'm sure it won't take long Mama," Mary said, perhaps a little too brightly.
"It had better not," Robert said. As she walked past him, he gave her a knowing glance and the gentlest of kisses to her forehead. If she wasn't mistaken there was the hint of a tear in his eye.
The rest of the family thought little of it. Since Robert had learned of the Pamuk business he had made small spontaneous gestures of affection and reassurance to Mary, so she knew that regardless of what happened all those years ago she was his daughter and he loved her.
The family was aware that Matthew and Mary had spent a great deal of time together of late, as they did battle with Sir Richard. While in their hearts they wanted Mary and Matthew to be together, they held no realistic hope that they would find their way back to each other.
"Is Miss Swire with Matthew?" Cora asked.
"No, I don't think we'll be seeing her this evening," Robert said, turning away so as not to arouse suspicion prematurely.
XII
When Matthew had opened the little velvet box for the first time in four years he was struck by the beauty of the ring and that, even to him, it looked a little out of fashion. He smiled to himself; it was only fitting that it should be a ring that looked like it belonged to 1914, it reflected the time that he and Mary should have been married, if only they hadn't gotten in their own way.
Mary entered the room so quietly and the light was so low that Matthew was still staring at the ring, lost in thought, when she spoke.
"Beautiful," she said in barely a whisper.
He looked up and was momentarily breathless at the sight of her. Holding her gaze as she walked toward him he said. "You can't possibly see the ring from there."
"I wasn't talking about the ring," she said softly as she looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder, looking at the ring for the first time. He kissed the top of her head, taking in the fragrance of her, a scent now as familiar and essential to him as oxygen.
"It's exquisite Matthew, thank you," she was struck by how perfectly her it was. Those who didn't know her as he did might have thought it ought to be larger and brighter but it was not, and it was just right.
She stayed nestled into his shoulder as he slipped the ring onto her finger before drawing her to him for a kiss, gentle and close, loving and unhurried.
XIII
Before he died, Owen had, separately, given Matthew and Mary an envelope and told each to open it on their wedding night. At the time neither suspected they would be marrying each other. When Mary quipped that were she to wait for that she feared the letter would remain forever sealed, Owen just squeezed her hand and smiled.
In the short weeks of their engagement they had come to know of their mutual friendship with Owen and the part that overheard conversation played in their ultimate reunion and union.
When they reached that little stone cottage after the wedding reception, they sat together on the bed and opened their letters from Owen. On each was the same poem.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Postscript
To Major Matthew Crawley and Lady Mary Crawley a son, Owen Robert Crawley born 11.11.19.