Out of a sticky day in the abrasive August sunlight was born Mary's fearful, sickening fantasy. The plot remained the same, yet the scene was recast in her mind a thousand ways, and each time she prayed it would remain a thought, not a premonition. And yet, as the cool envelope settled on her fingertips, here she was.
The cast was one of the smaller possibilities, thankfully. Sybil, her darling, sweet sister, staring sympathetically at her, her hand hesitating to clasp Mary's arm assuringly. Her father, the bearer of bad news, his gaze flickering troublingly between Mary's face and the slip of fate between her fingers. Mama and Edith were away in Ripon by some small slice of providence. The setting was the library. She had just been finishing reading a book of poetry.
The prop: the letter. Of course, their opulent room held thousands more knick knacks- the shelves of classics, the rare scroll dating back to the conqueror, her mother's hideous houseplants, the firepokers from the fifteenth century - but the letter was the only one worth paying attention to, and thus it had all three's explicit attention.
Mary could feel all their eyes upon her and so she kept her own down, determined not to crack. She measured the slow, steady pace of peeling open the envelope seal, her hands still enough not to quake, but fast enough not to pause forever in their task. The longer they waited, the longer they could avoid the shift.
Carefully she prised the letter from the envelope, angling away from her father's eyes, so she and only she would know the truth, at first at least. He owed her this one, small thing of her own.
She tried to continue just as slowly, measuring each word on the page to avoid the awful conclusion, but here she lost control, and her eyes jumped, skipping frantically across the page between each vague word until somehow she made it to the other side without slipping in and rushing away. A sigh slipped from her lips, and tension released from her shoulders. She hadn't been aware that she had been withholding either.
"Injured," she intoned softly to the room, and at once the rest of the tension seemed to dissipate entirely, fleeing away from the once pregnant moment as life continued on. "Captain Crawley is injured, not… well, not… Anyway, it doesn't say how, just that he is, and that they've sent him for treatment at the hospital in Manchester." As the need for her numbness slipped away, Mary allowed feeling to return, and with it came indignation. "Manchester? Why on earth would they send him to Manchester? His home is here in Downton, and we have a perfectly good hospital here!"
"Well, it has been rather crowded. Only yesterday Dr. Clarkson -" Sybil started, but Mary cut her off with a glare.
"Perhaps there was a mix-up. Things like that can happen very easily during a war," Robert stated, still too elated by the comparatively good news to share in Mary's outrage.
"He's a captain and an heir to the earldom! Certainly they can't just lose track of men like him!" Mary countered.
"Oh, Mary! Things like that matter so little when we are at war and have hundreds coming in from France each day! What matters is he's safe!" Sybil attempted to soothe her sister, this time daring to lay the hand on her arm.
"Sybil's right. Besides, it's not a huge matter. I'll telephone Shrimpy at the war office and have him moved here as soon as possible," Robert continued.
"As if I'm trusting them again. Make all the phone calls you like, Papa, but I'm going to Manchester myself to get my husband," Mary declared, standing and leaving the room.
Robert looked up exasperated, catching Sybil's eye. "Is she really going to Manchester for him?"
Sybil returned a challenging look. "Have you ever known to bluff in a situation like this?"
"I know, but honestly, she hates the place. And to think how much she used to dislike him! Four, three, even two years ago, one never would have expected her to go running after him, with the way they carried on. But then again, I suppose a lot of unexpected things happen once there's a war on."
Alone on an afternoon train to Manchester, Mary finally allowed her stiff exterior to crumble. While she had refused to wilt in front of her Papa or even Sybil, the truth of the matter was that holding the telegram from the war office in her hands had seemed to age her at least twice the length of her life span. Only a few words were needed to concoct a lethal combination, to confirm an irreparable rift being shred in her life with the untimely departure of her truest friend.
Captain Crawley, injured.
Injured.
Not dead.
Injured.
Mary had no idea what extent the injuries on her dear husband might entail. Although she didn't spend much time in the hospital at Downton, remaining ignorant of the nightmare encroaching upon England's youth was impossible. Mary tried to push each of these thoughts out of her mind. No matter what she found in the hospital in Manchester, it could not diminish from the simple truth that her husband was alive, and for now, she had that to be thankful for.
"Lady Mary Crawley, here to see Captain Crawley," Mary pronounced to the secretary at the hospital, emphasising her title. This seemed to do the trick, as her eyes jumped up. The girl hesitated for a moment, seeming to consider voicing an argument, then surrendered.
"One moment, please, milady. I'll fetch the doctor."
Mary kept her posture rigid, her face impassive, refusing to acknowledge the overwhelming, sickening stench of body and antiseptic, or the screams echoing from the rooms beyond.
The mousy girl at the desk returned, leading an aged, puffing doctor. "Excuse me, miss…"
"Lady Mary Crawley," Mary interjected pleasantly but firmly.
"Lady Mary," the doctor continued uncertainly, "but we've just brought your husband in. There has been no time to clean him or see to him more properly, so generally we do not allow visitation yet. If you'd care to come back…"
"Excuse me, doctor, but I have just stepped off the train after having received a rather vague and harrowing telegram mentioning only that my husband, who I feared dead, had been "injured" and was sent here, instead of to the hospital at his home. I will be seeing him now."
"Very well," relented the doctor. Honestly, he had no time nor energy to argue with aristocrats. "Follow me."
Mary fell into step behind the doctor, keep her eyes planted firmly on his back as they wove through the crowded hospital ward until at last they arrived at the a bed on the far end of the room.
Mary gasped.
Brown was the prevailing color in front of her; a harsh, earthy tone mixed of mud and blood, encrusted in his fair hair and soaked deeply into the bandages wound about his arm and legs. More grime covered his peaky face, and even from her distance of a few from the bed, she could hear the labored rattle of his breathing.
The doctor turned to her. "I'm sorry, I know this can be very distressing…"
"This can't be!" Mary exclaimed, fear coursing through her again, alarm rising in every orifice.
"Lady Mary," the doctor tried again, gently.
"That's not my husband!" Mary cut him off sharply.
"Lady Mary, I know it may be hard to see him in this state, but this is, indeed, your husband, and I promise he will look more recognizable once our nurses see to him."
"That's not my husband!" Mary repeated more strongly, her world spinning.
"Lady Mary, be rational. Is your husband not Captain Crawley?" the doctor continued patiently.
"Yes," Mary snapped, "but-"
"Well I am positive I am speaking the truth when I tell you that this is, indeed, Captain Matthew Crawley, your husband."
Mary turned to scowl at him, a look of utter disbelief and disagreement slashing across her face. "No, sir, you are wrong. My husband is Captain Crawley… Captain Patrick Crawley."
Please review! I'll provide more background context next chapter, which should be out soon, God willing.