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Chapter 2

Mary realized that she should have remained with the family until they had gone to bed. Her parents knew she was going to tell Matthew—had encouraged her, in fact—and so they wouldn't have questioned seeing the two of them hang back as everyone went upstairs, but she had wanted to speak to Anna to let her know that she would be late. Well, really, she had just wanted to speak to Anna.

It had helped to steady her but as the minutes ticked by, and Matthew hadn't come, she found herself wishing she hadn't said anything tonight. Once she had resolved to tell him, though, she just had to get it over with and besides, she didn't know how much time she had before the story came out. Well, in any event, there was no going back now. "Meet me in the library, I don't mean to be mysterious, just completely melodramatic!" she thought ruefully. Matthew was probably beside himself with worry.

She picked up a book, put it down, paced, peered out the window at the night sky. The moon was hidden by clouds, and she wondered if it might snow. Finally, she sat down and stared at the fire, trying to let the dancing orange and yellow flames mesmerize her into something resembling calm. It must have worked because she was quite startled when the clock chimed eleven, her heart fluttering in her throat. Where was he? Her father's raised voice, which meant he was really shouting, if she could hear him in the library, answered her question. Sybil! They were at it again about Ireland. Where had this interest of hers come from? It could take Matthew forever, now. She thought she would jump out of her skin.

Spying the stack of gramophone records next to the Victrola, another new interest of Sybil's, she got up and crossed the room to the table and started to look through the titles. There were a number of classical pieces that would certainly have fit her mood, but she needed something light and distracting, she really didn't care what, so she chose the first musical number she came upon and set it playing with a shaking hand. Yes, this was good; she would just keep listening to music until he came.

Her gaze moved slowly around the room and then stopped by a window, she wasn't sure why, and then realized with a start that she was looking at the place where they had first propped him up in his wheelchair. When she looked at him now, she didn't see the chair anymore, she really didn't; she simply saw Matthew. But it had not always been so. The first time she saw him after he had been gotten up out of bed, she had seen only the chair and then, impossibly, that it was he, Matthew, in the chair. And then she had been sick.

.

She had not been expecting to find him at Downton that day. Dr. Clarkson had told her only the evening before, as she left the hospital, that he thought Matthew would be stable enough and strong enough to be moved at the end of the week, three days hence. She always waited now for him to be cleaned up and bathed before visiting, so she had breakfasted and then helped her mother with some scheduling tasks. Sybil had found her in the entrance hall just as she was leaving.

"Ah, I'm so glad I caught you, I thought you might not have heard! A new transport arrived very early this morning. We had to move several men here to make room—Matthew's one of them." she smiled and pressed her arm. "They were getting ready to wheel him into the recreation room when I left him."

"What, he's here and he's up?" This was good news!

She quickly removed her hat and gloves and headed for the crowded recreation room. It was full this morning, as usual, men with bandages and slings and sticks, but she was looking from wheelchair to wheelchair. Most of the men were well enough to be in uniform, but of course it was much too soon for Matthew. Across the room, an orderly was settling a patient in a wheelchair by a far window. As the orderly moved away, Mary's eyes traveled from the chair to the blanket that covered the man's lap, to the man himself, slumped in the chair, head down, hands resting flat on a pillow that had been placed on legs that would never move or feel. Mary felt the sick come up and she ran from the room.

She knew she would never make it upstairs. She grabbed a towel from a cart as she left the day room and ran down the hall to an alcove and heaved up the sick. She retched a few times more, then gasped, her breathing finally quieting as she leaned her pounding head against the cool plaster wall. She was completely unprepared for this reaction. What was wrong with her? He was in a wheelchair. This was nothing compared to his arrival and those first horrible days after his injury had been diagnosed. This meant he was getting better, stronger. She shook herself and wiped her mouth. On her way to the day room, she paused at a mirror to make sure her face wasn't blotchy, took a few deep breaths. All right, don't be a ninny.

She dropped the towel in a bin as she entered the recreation room and poured herself a glass of water. Drinking it slowly, she let her gaze find Matthew again and her heart sank when she saw that it seemed he hadn't moved at all. Putting down the glass, she walked quickly across to him. She thought, hoped, that perhaps he was sleeping—he had to have been given lot of morphine to be able to endure sitting up—hoped that was the reason he was so still. But to her dismay, she saw his eyes were open; he was just looking down at his lap.

She touched his shoulder gently and smiled brightly. "I'm so glad you're here."

He lifted his head slightly and raised his eyes to meet hers. How could eyes that had no color still be so blue?

"Hello, Mary." He attempted a smile and then looked out the window.

"It's so good to see you up."

"Is it?" he asked, looking out at the garden, although Mary felt sure that he really saw nothing.

"Why ever would it not be? It means you're getting better."

"Yes, this is better," he said, not turning his head, hands so still. "I guess that's the problem." He spoke quietly, steadily. "You see, as long as I was in bed, I didn't really have to face it . . . face that this is as good as it's going to get. I don't mean that I haven't been thinking about it, I can't seem to stop thinking about it, it's always on my mind. But as long as I was in bed, I didn't have to live the reality of . . . of the rest my life." He paused. "And now I do."

And Mary realized that this was why she had been so affected, like a wave overwhelming her, by seeing him in the chair; that she, too, had only now understood, in a way she hadn't before, what his future would be.

They had settled him with a book on the pillow. She reached for it. The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins.

Her throat constricted as she managed to say, "Would you like me to read?"

He continued to look out the window. "Yes, please."

She opened the book, but before she could begin, he turned to her, his mouth working, his chest heaving. He finally managed, "Thank you, Mary." Then he looked out the window again.

.

It did get better. Each week he grew stronger, each week he sat straighter, each week his eyes grew a bit brighter. Oh, it wasn't easy, but Mary had been determined to bring him to a better place. She would still see his chair first and inwardly flinch, but she made herself look at his face and there was Matthew, still Matthew, and bit by bit she helped him find himself again. And then one day, she came upon him reading an old copy of Punch and laughing out loud and he insisted on reading the article to her and then they had both laughed so hard they were choking, and she knew that day that he could face it.

In fact, the next day he was in uniform for the first time, and she didn't see the chair and then Matthew, she saw Matthew who happened to be in a wheelchair. They took walks, and she would push, but sometimes he wouldn't let her, eventually he insisted always on wheeling himself, and she sat on their bench, so he could see her face and they talked about William, and Richard, and the cat who walked by himself. Sometimes it was very hard, but it always got better.

After the Armistice, it had been an easy decision for Matthew to remain at Downton, although she knew it had not been a decision that was easy for him to accept. But there was no downstairs bedroom or bath at Crawley House, and even if there had been, he would have felt so confined, he would have gone mad. They settled him in a larger room on the first floor and he was grateful for the spacious house and grounds, the family's constant company, the considerate staff. Isobel was grateful, too, and always welcome.

So it was that soon, he was in civilian clothes and one morning came into the dining room for breakfast, all on his own, and she didn't see his chair, didn't see Matthew in his chair, she just saw Matthew. And now, not even six months after he had been carried into the hospital with a tag tied to his wrist, he was so changed that Mary could hardly take it in. His back was straight, his color good, he held his head high; he moved with authority, as if his chair were simply an extension of his body.

Mary knew that the war was never far from him, and sometimes it was front and center. He never, ever talked about it, but she would find him with a book in his hand, eyes staring but unseeing, for minutes on end. Or they would be talking, and he would stop in mid-sentence, not as if he had lost his train of thought, but rather had become lost to this time and place for a moment; then he would give a kind of small jerk, as if he had been gently shaken awake. Sometimes he would pick up where he had left off, sometime,s he would start a new conversation, and sometimes he would give her a small smile and just shake his head.

And she knew he had nightmares, often absolute terrors, because she had overheard him talking to her father about it. She had purposely eavesdropped because she was so desperate to understand what he was going through but didn't dare ask. What she had not expected was to hear Matthew comfort her father, who broke down relating the dream that had haunted him for nearly twenty years.

But still it got better. She found him pensive one day in mid-December. "I can't quite account for it in my head. I find myself feeling more and more as if the world outside of these walls, these grounds, the world I once lived in, doesn't exist anymore. Crawley House is just minutes away, but it might as well be on the other side of the moon. It's as if that life belonged to someone else." He paused, gave her an apologetic smile and turned his chair to leave. "I guess really, in a way, it did."

"Well, maybe it's time for a visit." He stopped and looked at her. "I can't do that." And she looked back. "I don't know whyever not. Branson is at your disposal as much as anyone's, and I'm quite sure he can lift you."

He had said something about being loaded into the car like luggage and had changed the subject. But the next day, Mary was in the village and saw the car pull up to Crawley House. Branson brought out the chair and then easily lifted and settled Matthew and rang the bell. Mary could hear a block away Isobel's cry of delight that ended in a sob. The next day, he had called Harvell and Carter and spoken to Mr. Carter. He wasn't quite ready, his stamina and concentration weren't yet what they needed to be, but he hoped that in the New Year, he might begin take on work, just small things at first, if it could be sent to him at Downton and—Mr. Carter had been quite delighted.

Of course, one thing could never get better. They had talked about it only once. In late November, Mary had come upon him sitting alone in the dining room holding a letter, tears quietly streaming down his face.

"My God, what is it, whatever has happened?"

Wordlessly, he held out the letter to her while quickly wiping his eyes. She read the first few lines and looked up.

"Oh, I can't believe it. I am so very, very sorry."

They were quiet for a moment thinking of the beautiful young woman who had been good and kind and never caused a moment's sorrow in her life. Then Mary thought the question and said it before she could stop herself.

"Do you ever regret sending her away?"

If he had found her inappropriate, he gave no indication. After a moment, he looked up at her and shook his head, "No, no I don't. No woman should have the life she would have had with me. And how could I marry her when—." He had stopped abruptly and started again. "No, I don't regret it. You know, her father, who was always very good to me, wrote to me after she returned to London. He said how much he had wanted me for a son-in-law, but he thanked me in the kindest way possible for releasing her." He nodded at the letter. "He thanked me again and he's right. My only regret is that she didn't live long enough to find the happiness she deserved."

Mary had walked over to a window. How odd that at this moment the world outside was bright and shining. Finally, she turned and looked at him. "What about the happiness you deserve?"

He waited a full minute before answering. "It's all right, Mary," he said softly. "I'm not afraid of being alone."

She had wanted to ask another question but didn't.

.

Mary was surprised when the song ended. Her head swung automatically to the library door. The music had calmed her momentarily, but now, looking at the empty doorway, her stomach clenched, and she realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly. Breathe, she told herself, he can't be long now. She made herself sort through the records, taking her time. She chose a new title and set it playing. Closing her eyes, she held on to the edge of the table and tried to let herself feel the music.

.

Her life had not gotten better.

With each passing month, she had found it harder and harder to be around Richard, but she had made her choice, and she had to live with it, didn't she? So she had put on her Lady Mary face and done her duty to their relationship. She had planned Haxby with him—God how she hated that vulgar house, it would simply scream nouveau riche by the time Richard was finished with it; gone to endless dreary parties introducing him to her people while cringing at him and yet also feeling sorry for him as he tried to find his way; and endured him visiting at Downton, where it became increasingly clear that he was jealous of her friendship with Matthew. Rather, her "devotion" to him, as Richard had called it. Well, what of it? That devotion had been her only solace as Richard continued to set her teeth on edge, and she had begun to realize what her life would be when they married.

On his last visit up before Christmas, he had confronted her.

"You spend too much time with Matthew. It will be a big adjustment for him after we marry and you're living at Haxby, busy with our new life," he began quietly enough, but his delivery was deliberate.

"Matthew will be fine," she said lightly. "He's come so far, he'll manage." She had a feeling she knew where this was going.

"And will you manage?"

Mary just stared at him, and Richard burst out, "And don't pretend you don't know what I mean. Half the time you finish each other's sentences."

"You needn't worry," she had returned coolly, "there's no one who wants me married more than Matthew." Well, it was true—Matthew did want to know that she had a "real life coming," as he had put it, just not with Richard. He had told her she didn't have to marry him or anyone, she would always have a home at Downton, as long as he was alive. Of course, she did have to marry Richard; she would have to be more careful.

Somehow, she managed to get through Richard's visit at the holidays without provoking him, and she made sure she was attentive enough to keep him from complaining. Richard clearly took satisfaction in the fact that Matthew, of course, hadn't been able to participate in the shooting on New Year's Day, going on and on about the day's events when they were all together after dinner and then "apologizing" to him.

"Matthew, I'm so sorry—how thoughtless of me! It must be so very frustrating for you always to miss out, always having to live life from the sidelines as you do."

The condescending remark was met with stunned silence, and Robert looked ready to throw him out on his ear. Mary stood, but before she could say anything, Matthew looked up at her and rolled his eyes in conspiracy, then turned to Richard and observed mildly that as he had never been very good at shooting, there was not much for him to miss. "But, please, do continue. When one lives the circumscribed life of an invalid, hearing the experiences of others is always interesting, really quite exciting, in fact." And he looked at Richard expectantly. Robert had changed the subject.

But the benefit was that Richard's relatively good mood meant that he didn't mind her conversing with Matthew from time to time. She went up to him later that evening. "Thank you for stopping me earlier, before I said something I might regret. But I can't imagine how you kept a straight face."

Matthew looked at her innocently and then grinned. "Really, it wasn't hard, you know. He does rather beg to be teased, doesn't he?"

The day before the Servants' Ball, they were all gathered before dinner, and she and Matthew had started arguing about Lloyd George, of all things. Matthew had no great love of Lloyd George but supported his education reforms; Mary really had no reason not to support the reforms but could not abide Lloyd George.

They had gone back and forth, neither giving ground, voices rising, getting more and more heated and annoyed with each other, almost angry. Mary noticed that Richard seemed amused and rather pleased to find them at it. Finally, simultaneously, they had clamped their jaws shut and just glared at each other. Then Mary had raised an eyebrow, and then Matthew had cocked his and smirked, and they had burst out laughing together and, it seemed, couldn't stop. When Mary finally caught her breath, she looked up and saw Richard staring at her, outwardly composed, but Mary could tell he was seething. Dinner was announced, and Richard moved swiftly to her side, taking firm hold of her elbow. He held back as the others moved to the dining room, then guided her out, and suddenly Mary found herself backed up against a wall, Richard's face inches from hers.

"Am I never to be free of him?"

Mary looked at him and considered her response. "Of course not," she said evenly. "You know how families like ours work, and he'll be head of it, one day."

His eyes were locked on hers. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. Will there be three people in our marriage?"

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"I have tried, Mary, God knows, I've tried, I've done everything I can to please you—"

"Look, I know you're used to having your own way-"

"Yes, yes I am. And I will say something now and do not ever forget this. If you think you can marry me and then set me aside, I tell you now, you have given me the power to destroy you. Don't for a minute think that I won't use it. I want to be a good husband. I want you to be happy. But don't ever cross me. Absolutely never. Do you understand?"

Yes, yes finally, she did understand. She would have to brave the storm.

.

How in the world had this become her life? A life once so mapped out that she had railed against it, and now she couldn't even picture her future. She watched the revolutions of the record and thought back to the garden party: how she had loved Matthew so much, she thought she would break apart; how she had wanted so much to reveal her secret; how she couldn't bear for him to know. All these years later, nothing had changed. Round and round and round. I love you I love you I love you.

The song finished and Mary placed the arm of the Victrola back in its stand. She suddenly understood that she had always known she would tell him, that everything that had happened since that day had led to this moment. She should have seen how it would end, but she hadn't. Looking up with a start, she saw Matthew enter the library. Their eyes met, a smile lit his face and her heart began to pound.

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