Facing The Ghost – Chapter I
Bright shadows danced across his closed eyes as he tilted his head up to the sun and breathed in the fresh afternoon air. He let his arm fall relaxed against the old wooden rail of the garden bench and stretched his feet through the crisp green grass. He could sense her beside him, but he didn't want to open his eyes in case she disappeared. He just needed to stay as he was, right now. Together. Them. Here. Forever.
A sombre morning alarm hummed through his frosted windows. Matthew shot his eyes open. His tired blue eyes peeked from over his blankets and focused on his surroundings. His dark, simply furnished room, his desk buried under various case files, jacket and ties tossed over his chair, and the dull light shining through his window, shutting out the grey sleet of the Manchester morning.
No. He's awake now.
He rubbed his eyes, hard, trying to erase the short moment of innocent joy of his dream. This hadn't happened for a while. He never dreamt about there, about her, since he left. He can't start again now, it would hurt too much.
With a quiet groan he pulled back his blankets and slowly rose from his simple bed. A sharp pain ran up his back and he looked over to his cane as it rested against his bedside table, taunting him. A sardonic smile pressed on his lips when he remembered how quickly he thought he would be done with the stick. But in the cold industrial air the pain had returned, some days worse than the others, though never to this degree. With a tired sigh his reached out to the cane and pulled himself up from the bed. He knew he should consider himself lucky he was no longer consigned to a chair, but any thoughts of luck gave way to darker regrets.
The city outside began to hum with activity, mercifully blocking out his memories as he splashed his face with water and stared at himself in his small basin mirror. He had lost weight. His face was pale, the bags under his eyes grown darker and he was two days off a real shave. His old law school partner would not mention anything, he was a veteran too, he knew they all had bad days; you just didn't have to talk about it. He took him in when he suddenly turned up in Manchester asking for a job, but he didn't ask him why: because you don't need to talk about it. No good comes from bringing up old wounds.
There was a light tap on the door.
"Come in." Matthew answered in a baritone voice, roughly drying his face with a towel as he limped over to the door and opened it.
"Thank you Mr Crawley!" A small voice piped up as a short plump woman shuffled into the room carrying a tray of rattling china and toast. "Good mornin' Mr Crawley."
"Good morning Mrs Weston." Matthew couldn't help but form a tired smile at the now typical morning routine. "Here, let me take that."
"Oh no Mr Crawley, I can manage!" The woman manoeuvred her way around his small table, trying to find a gap between the mountain of paper work. "If you could just…"
"Oh, of course." Matthew quickly hobbled back to the table and cleared some stacks from the table, tried to find another place for them then gave up and stacked them on the end of his bed.
"Every mornin' you make space and then every next mornin' there's no space." Mrs Weston rattled away kindly as she placed down the tray and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Thank you Mrs Weston." He gave a small smile as she shuffled back out the door.
"Oh – " She suddenly stopped and turned back, pulling out a letter from her apron front. "Almost forgot. Letter came for you."
As she held up the small white envelope to him, the memory of his dream rushed back into view. It couldn't be from her.
Cautiously he took the letter from her hands and forced a smile of thanks. Mrs Weston wished him a good morning again and closed the door but he wasn't concentrating. The small letter seemed heavy in his hand. Since he moved back up north he received few messages, just as he had wanted. The day he left he cut all ties from that house, the house that had caused him nothing but tragedy and confusion.
Matthew flicked over the letter to see his name written on the cover. He gave a sigh of relief – it was his mother's hand. He considered tossing it over on to his desk, and leaving it until he felt he could face the ghosts of his abandoned life, but he knew if he left it, the image of it sitting there, unread, would burn into his mind.
In a sudden jolt he opened the envelope, sat down on the end of the bed and brought his eyes down to read his mother's careful words.
My Dearest Matthew,
I know it has been some time since I last wrote, but you never responded to my two recent letters so I gleaned that you desired some peace from news of life up north. I truly hope Manchester is treating you well, and you are happy and occupying your brain with good work.
However, I feel I should get to the point. I miss you dearly, my son, and though I understand your deep sorrow connected to this place, I want you home with me, at Downton, for Christmas.
For five long years I have spent the festive season wishing that the fates would have mercy on my lonely heart and protect you, so now that you are but a few miles away, safe and well, it would be too painful for me to be without my only son for one more Christmas Eve.
I understand your wounds will still be open from the tragic events earlier this year, but your family is your family, and they will be here for you when you want them to be.
But for these few days, my dear, come back for me, come back for Christmas.
With strongest love,
Mother
Matthew let out a deep sigh as his eyes glistened with a tear. He looked back down at the letter in his hand. A message from a past life, a shadow from a dream he tried to forget. But now he knew he had to stop running. It would take everything he had to confront his past, but he had no choice. He had to go back.
NB:
EDIT: now with less glaring geographical stumbles!
Hi ho Downtonians! Aren't you all looking fabulous! This here is my first foray into Downton fanfic, so I thought I'd say hi!
Hi!
Right – now that all that boring intro stuff is out of the way, I thought I'd give you the low down of why I'm here. The dealio is I've been out of creative writing juices for an embarrassingly long time now, so I've forced myself to write for at least 2 hrs a day – and what happens when a fangirl is forced to write when she has no bloody idea how to write? We get fanfiction!
So you're probably thinking: Why are you telling me these boring details and why is she staring at me in this strange way?
Well first off, you've got some pasta in your hair – but mainly: I need your reviews! In order for me to keep up my writing regimen and not fall back into my Procrastinator in Chief role, I need some sort of momentum or feedback to keep this story going! I accept Cheerios, but they tend to be expensive if you send them overseas, so I think the best thing for everyone would be if you drop me a line and tell me what you think!
So if you want to see Matthew returning all twisted and sad to Downton to get bombarded by three (non-copyright) ghosts who show him the true meaning of Christmas and then have a cheery song and dance with Mary: REVIEW!
Tak!