Mary

She paused for a moment outside the post office. Once again she had gone for a walk and discreetly checked for any letters coming to her father from France. She knew that Matthew had written to her father once or twice, but to Mary's irritation, never shared the contents.

Mary started to walk slowly back home, back to the stifling quiet and order, while inside her still a storm brewed. Nearly a year now, she thought, since Isobel had told them he'd enlisted in Manchester. While Her father had seemed somewhat affronted he wouldn't go with a York regiment, Mary could only receive the news with silent horror. This was all her fault. She should have listened to her grandmother and her mother and oh gods what if he never came back? What if she'd never get to tell him how sorry she was, for not being honest with him, as he'd always been with her. Along with the letter was a photo, one that Isobel had Matthew sit for..in case. Mary shuddered at the memory. That night she'd gone down to his study, to look at it. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held the picture, though it was not in colour she could still picture the bright blue of his eyes. As she turned it in her hand she noticed it was thicker than it ought to be. Running her finger along the side, she found a second proof copy, possibly sent in error...

She carefully pulled it apart, bringing it back up to her room and placing it in her bedside table.

It wasn't long after that the nightmares started. They weren't everyday, and they varied, but the main theme was the same. Matthew, wounded, dying on a battle field in France, crying out for help. Never having the chance to make things right between them.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. He loved cycling home from the train station, cycling around the village...she turned her head and froze-there he was walking to Crawley house.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again, it certainly looked like him, blonde hair, brisk stride. She was about to cross the street when an approaching car honked its horn at her. It pulled up and stopped in front of her, and her grandmother poked her head out of the window. "Mary dear!" You should be more careful." She pursed her lips, her usually composed grand daughter looked as if she's seen a ghost. "Why don't you hop in and come to the dower house for tea? Cook's made a delicious pound cake"

The look on Violets face brooked no opposition and Mary smiled, before opening the door and climbing in the back. She'd imagined him, she told herself. He was in France, not coming back from work. Still unsettled, she peered out the window as they drove on, but he was nowhere to be seen. Of course not.

Matthew

Matthew sat on the lawn, obscured, he hoped, by the front gate. Though it hadn't been particularly hard to jump the gate, his heart pounded. He suspected that had more to do with the fact that he'd just seen Mary. Mary, looking as lovely as ever, in her dark red coat. Matthew had panicked, as he'd sport and started to cross the road-but then the car had mercifully blocked him from view. He had no idea what to say to her! So he took the rather cowardly way out and hid behind the gate. Matthew stayed on the ground for a moment, trying to calm his racing pulse and hoping no one had seen his rather silly imitation of steeplechase.

He got up slowly, peered over the gate-the coast was clear. He brushed off the grass from his trousers, glad for once that his uniform was green, picked up his case and walked to the front door. Mosley greeted him at the door with a smile,

"Welcome home sir."

He smiled back and let the butler take off his greatcoat, which had started to feel rather warm, "Good to see you again Mosley."

He heard his mothers approaching footsteps "Matthew? Is that you?"

As she came into the hall she quickened her pace and pulled him into an embrace. Though he had been taller than her for some years now, his mothers hugs still made him feel like a boy. She squeezed him tightly then drew back "let me have a look at you" she said thickly, running a hand along a shallow cut on his cheek.

He smiled at her warmly, feeling his throat tighten slightly. She seemed to be satisfied. "You're looking well my dear."

His expression tightened, thinking of all the men who'd lost limbs..been horribly disfigured..

Isobel had seen the look on soldiers faces before, and didn't press the matter.

"I hope you're keeping your feet dry, I've knit some more socks to send back with you. told me terrible things about what they're calling "Trench foot."

Matthew grimaced, for he had indeed heard all about what happened when men spent too much time in wet conditions.

"Yes, mother. I'm lucky my regiment is in somewhat higher ground for the moment. They are trying to improve conditions though."

She squeezed his hand. "Good, good. Now come in! You must be hungry. Mosley please-"

"I'll have tea brought up right away m'am" Mosley said smoothly, having anticipated as such. Matthew followed his mother into the sitting room and took a seat in his favourite spot, a sapphire blue wing chair. It was bizarre, to be sitting here with his mother in Crawley house. Something he'd done a hundred times, and yet it felt like a different life, when he was a different person. Shaking off the strange feeling and tried to focus on his mother and the fact that he was lucky enough to still be here, while so many weren't.

"So, he said, thinking of something neutral to talk about, "what's new in the village? How's your work at the hospital?"

Later that night the strange feeling returned, as he dismissed Mosley and climbed into bed. Had it always been this soft? He had noticed when he was washing he had slightly grazed his hand on the gaze when he jumped. God, he thought, I'm a grown man-I shouldn't be hiding from girls like a boy. But it wasn't just any girl, it was Mary, he knew. He sighed, thinking again of how different things might've been if she'd have said yes. Perhaps tomorrow he might pluck up the courage to go and see her. He turned off the lights and closed his eyes.