"And Major Crawley…"
All sound seemed to die in her ears at the announcement.
Numbly she stood, forcing an automatic smile to her face as her mother approached their Cousin Isobel in greeting.
"Matthew, I cannot tell you how delighted we are that you have returned to Downton. I'm sorry that Robert is not here to greet you as well. I know how much it would mean to him to be here himself to welcome you back." Her mother spoke with genuine warmth, having come to care deeply for the cousin who would inherit her wealth and her husband's title.
Cousin Isobel was herself still glowing; the joy of her son's return lit her features like a flame from within.
Matthew smiled, "I had dinner with Lord Grantham last night in London before catching the morning train. He sends his best and said he hopes to be able to make the trip himself in a week's time."
Cora smiled a tremulous smile. Her mother craved the short and rare visits that her father had been able to make to Downton since the war had begun. To see their genuine affection at those tender reunions had been touching, but had also rubbed at a raw wound of her own making.
Mary knew that she had been staring at her cousin since his entrance; an unladylike display, but she could not help herself. To see him again was a warm spring rain that thawed the cold earth after a harsh winter.
And then he turned to her politely. "Cousin Mary."
She was lost. The deep blue pools of his eyes pulled her under the swift current of emotions that had always swirled just beneath the surface.
She remembered the intense look he had given her when she had first coyly confessed her own attraction to him, before they had shared their first kiss, before he had asked her to share his life and be his wife.
She also remembered how those same eyes had burned coldly when he accused of her of not loving him enough to marry him when his prospects were in doubt. And his words, so ironic in the context of the actions that she had hidden from him and the world, still haunted her: Are you a good liar?
She realized that an awkward moment had passed with no response to his brief greeting.
"Matthew."
She hated that her voice trembled, that she could force no smooth words from her lips. She was robbed of all language, struck dumb by his presence, something that had only been a dream sustaining her for the past four years.
Her eyes were drawn to the long, thin scar that traced his temple – still new enough that it had not weathered yet to silver. Unaware of her own actions, she stepped towards him, filled with a desperate wish to caress the scar that made him only more handsome in her eyes. As if one touch would make him real. She caught herself in time, but briefly saw in his eyes recognition of the act not done. He flinched almost imperceptibly, and Mary felt her chest constrict. Years of silence between them and he had not forgiven her. Perhaps the kernel of heartbreak and disappointment that she had left him with before the war had grown and blossomed into full-fledged hatred.
It had not taken her long to regret her indecision with Matthew all those years ago. But when she had resolved to throw herself upon his understanding and mercy, to come clean with all and declare her feelings, it had been too late.
The morning after the declaration of war, Mary was preparing to ride to the village to find Matthew, having resolved to declare all to him. As she headed out, she saw her father sitting in the library, his head resting in his hand. She had rarely seen him look so vulnerable, excepting when her little unborn brother had been lost, and found herself silently drawing up to him.
"Papa?" She asked, concern in her voice. She hoped that he had not yet volunteered for service; she knew the day would come, but it would crush her already fragile mother. Her father raised troubled eyes to her, and reached out to hold her hand. Fear creeping up her spine, his fingers burned her palm.
"Mary…" He swallowed, looking at her pityingly. "Matthew…Matthew has left. He's gone to London to enlist. He took the first train this morning."
She backed away from him, leaving his hand to drop back by his side. Unable to face the pity in his eyes, she turned and rushed to the front foyer.
"Carson!" Her voice was unusually frantic, but she cared not that her manners might be exposing her to the knowing looks of her family and the servants.
"Milady?" Carson appeared almost immediately, concern etched on his face.
"Have Branson fetch the car…immediately!" She was breathless, a desperate plan forming in her mind.
"Mary." It was her father's voice, authoritative and questioning. He stood in the doorway to he library, his hand still holding the note that had probably broke the news of his heir's departure.
She turned to him, shaking her head.
"I have to go to him, Papa. I can't let him go without…" she broke off, unable to finish the sentence.
Her father's face was filled with doubt. She knew she had disappointed him again. She had not accepted Matthew when she'd had the chance, and she had lived up to his worst expectations of her character. She looked away; too many times to count she had felt this crushing sense of unworthiness.
His voice was low when he finally spoke, "Go, Mary." She took a deep breath of relief, but froze when he spoke again. "But I'm afraid it may be too late to fix what you have broken." She didn't look back at her father when she heard the sound of the car pulling up to the front of the house.
It had been too late. She had taken the train to London, accompanied by Branson, who had insisted that she not travel alone. They had barely spoken, but she'd sensed that he understood the hopeless mission that they were set upon. Perhaps it was something his Irish soul knew and respected, reaching for a love that one has unknowingly thrown away.
By the time that they had arrived in London, all was chaos. It seemed every eligible man, and many of the ineligible, was signing up to enlist. It had been nearly impossible to discover the unit that Matthew had signed up for, and by the time she had, there had been one final desperate trip with Branson to the train station.
The train carrying his unit had already been loaded, and she had thrown all caution to the wind. Calling his name, over and over, she had run down the platform, frantically searching the young faces for a familiar one. But if he heard her, he did not answer. In the end, Branson had had to take her firmly by the elbow, supporting her as they walked back to the street.
Mary's thoughts wandered hopelessly through this minefield of memories as Isobel and her mother gamely carried on their conversation. Matthew responded in a friendly and open manner when directly question or required to, but otherwise he remained as mute as herself. She took some small comfort from the fact that he had not met her with total equanimity, that he had not become indifferent to her. Somehow she preferred to be the object of his hatred than to be nothing to him. At least she stilled stirred something in his heart. Perhaps that was wrong, and an echo of her earlier selfish self, but it was true.
Every once in a while, she caught both her mother and her Cousin Isobel's looks in their direction. They were cautiously inquisitive, but nothing more. If they had held hopes that the two would fall into each other's arms in relief upon his return from war, they had been wrong.
The tangle of thoughts and emotions was cut through suddenly from a knock at the door. Carson barely had a chance to announce the doctor before he entered hurriedly but apologetically.
"Lady Grantham, please forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping to request Mrs. Crawley's assistance downstairs in the hospital."
Isobel caught the alarm in the doctor's voice, "What is it, Doctor?"
"Influenza, ma'am. " A chill made the hairs rise on Mary's arms. "I'm afraid it has returned."
Mary knew, from the good doctor and Cousin Isobel, that this new wave of pneumonia was far more deadly than the strain that they had weathered earlier in the year. They had waited in dread for its arrival since the first reports of the more virulent flu began to surface.
"Thank you, Doctor. I will be down in a moment." Dismissed – and free to return to his own worries – the doctor departed, leaving a sense of dread to settle upon the room.
Isobel turned to Cora, an authoritative edge now entering her voice. "Cousin, I must advise you and as much of your staff not essential to hospital operations, to depart Downton Abbey as soon as possible."
"Is that really necessary?" Cora asked, doubt and concern in her voice.
"I'm afraid it is the best course of action. The reports on this new virus are quite alarming. Perhaps the Dowager House?" Mary snorted in the background at the thought of her mother and her grandmother cooped up together in the smaller house on the estate. Her mother clearly shared her sentiments, for her lips were pressed together in distaste. Isobel, sensing that Cousin Violet's extended company might be too much for even her closest family, offered, "And of course you would be welcome at Crawley House."
Cora smiled at the gesture, even if she knew that it was ridiculous to consider a move to the small house in town. "No, you were quite right. Robert's mother will just have to put up with the inconvenience of company for the time being. It will rob her of the ability to swoop in upon us unaware, of course, but I'm sure she will find amusement in other ways."
Mary and Matthew shared a chuckle at the comment, but abruptly stopped themselves when they felt the shared intimacy of the moment.
"Good. I know that Lord Grantham will be at much better ease knowing that you and Mary are safely away while we weather this storm at the hospital. "
"Me? Going away?" Mary broke through. "I'm not going to Grandmama's. I'm staying here." Thoughts of Matthew were banished for a moment as she fought against the assumption that she would abandon her duties to the hospital, to the men downstairs, running with her tail between her legs until danger passed.
Her mother's voice was a harsh whisper, "Mary! We will discuss this later. But please remember that you promised your Father…"
Mary stood, color rising in her cheeks. "Mama! I promised Father that I would not do anything rash. And I haven't. I'm not in France with Sybil, am I? I stayed here, I stayed at Downton. But I'm not leaving Downton now. I didn't ask Cousin Isobel and Dr. Finchley to support my training so that I could leave when they needed me most."
"Mary," both her mother and Cousin Isobel began.
"I'm sorry, Mama, but my mind is quite made up." Mary straightened, and turned to leave the room, her thoughts already on the deadly fight they faced downstairs, on the men who would face another deadly battle—this time on the home front.
The expression on the face of the one man in the room, however, caught her eye as she walked out with her head held high. The assessing look, the hint of admiration in his eyes, made her throat catch, but with all the will power she could muster, she forced her mind back on the task at hand.
As much as it made her heart ache, Matthew, for the moment, would have to wait.