The White Room, Arnhall Castle, May 1921
Mary emerged from her bath the next morning in a more optimistic spirit than by far she was used to. Her previous employ had required her to become an early riser and even in the two years she'd attempted to accustom herself to the routine it had not indented itself to her nature. It felt good to be given purchase to awaken at her leisure; a pleasure of her former life she had indeed missed.
She wrapped herself in a blue gown, expensive thin silk embroidered with white flowers—yet another reminder of the former life she'd given up—and picked up a towel that had been laid on her bed earlier that morning by Anna, the bubbly head-housemaid.
Mary idly sauntered to the window, drying her hair absentmindedly as she looked out across the stretch of gardens before her. The grounds were vast, somewhat wild and untamed, and beyond them lay a few fields, a cliff edge and then the sea. She cast her gaze from the sumptuous view, looking down to the garden directly beside the house so see two figures on the grass. One was familiar, with messy blonde hair and a floppy fringe he habitually swept back with a careless hand, holding a ball in with his other grip. The second, small and dark headed, must have been the boy, brandishing his cricket bat before the wickets and giving it a clumsy swing as the man threw.
He hit the ball, but even from her height Mary could tell the bowl had been deliberately easy. The boy ran, dropping his bat behind him and dashing somewhat uncoordinatedly toward the other post. He was stopped in his tracks by the man, meeting the child half way and sweeping him up into his arms. The boy screamed with laughter as Matthew tickled him, his wriggling body flopping back until he was being held upside down. He laughed extatically as he was dangled by his ankles before Matthew picked him up properly in one easy motion, placing him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and running between the flowerbeds as more giggles erupted from the child.
Mary found herself smiling at the scene.
There was a knock at her bedroom door.
"Yes?"
A slender, more elderly woman bustled into the room. Her hair, greying at the temples, was held in a bun so neat and tight it looked as though it may rip her scalp out with it.
"'ello, dear," She said with a thick accent, though Mary wasn't quite sure from whence it came.
She fervently hoped this woman would not make a habit out of referring to her as 'dear'.
"I'm Mrs Lynn, the house keeper," she introduced herself.
"Pleased to meet you," Mary replied, disingenuously. The woman seemed far too jovial and forward for her liking.
"The master said you might be up late and in which case you're to breakfast with 'im and master Edward. They've been out in the garden all mornin', bless 'em."
Mrs Lynn, Mary thought, talked too much.
The woman walked over to the window.
Mary vaguely wondered when she was going to leave.
"It's a lovely day," she voiced, wistfully. "Given the storm last night I was expectin' somethin' a bit drearier."
She had to reluctantly agree with the woman on that score; it was a beautiful day.
Soon enough, Mrs Lynn promptly left Mary to dress and, since donning a white blouse and blue skirt, she made her intrepid way to search for the dining room.
The pathways in the great house were confusing and seemingly non-ending, causing Mary to grow tired of hunting out the room and instead embark on finding Mr Crawley in the garden.
The brightness came as a surprise to her eyes, bringing her hand to shield her brow from the sheer brilliance of the sun. She glanced around, taking in the wide garden and earthly scent of grass fresh from rain. Wandering a little further, through hedges and shrubberies alike, she heard laughter of a child before she spotted either Mr Crawley or Teddy.
She rounded another corner, finding herself greeted by a large pond, by which the pair of them lay on their fronts side by side, leaning over the edge of the bank as Mr Crawley pointed out the fish beneath the water surface to the fascinated young boy.
Unknowing how to announce herself, as neither had noticed her presence—too wrapped as they were in their own little world—she stayed stood still to the spot for a long moment, watching their antics with an eyebrow raised in confused disapproval.
After a short moment, patience had admittedly never been her strong suit, she gave a short cough, to which, she observed with a badly stifled laugh, Matthew looked up sharpish in her direction, eyes widening in shocked embarrassment, rather like a startled mouse. Teddy made no means to move until Matthew pushed himself up from the ground in a flustered rush to which the small boy scrambled up and stepped behind Matthew, peering round his leg to see her whilst obscuring himself from her view.
"Good morning, Miss Levinson," Matthew offered bashfully, brushing himself off a bit giving her a somewhat awkward grin. "I trust you slept well?"
"I did rather, thank you," she answered, giving him a scrutinising look as he gulped under her obviously thoughtful gaze. "The flowers in my room were a pleasant gift."
He seemed cheered at this.
"I'm afraid that was my doing," he said, running a hand through his thoroughly tousled hair. "I don't think flower arranging is one of my skills unfortunately."
She gave an amused laugh her voice unexpectedly teasing, "But you're an accomplished flower collector?"
He blushed. "It's not the most manly of occupations is it? I don't usually do it, but Mr Skelper, the gardener, is on leave and I think it makes a nicer welcome than a bare room."
His smile re-emerged, and she noticed quite suddenly just how exceedingly bright the depths of his blue eyes were—crinkled sweetly at the edges when he grinned.
"Well," he turned to the boy who hid behind him, pushing him gently on the shoulder so he emerged from behind his legs, "Teddy, this is Miss Levinson, your new governess."
Matthew turned to Mary.
"And this is little Edward," he said, ruffling the boy's dark hair.
Mary eyed the boy with interest. He looked little like his father, she thought fleetingly; they shared no similar features—for, where Mr Crawley's eyes were a bright and vibrant blue, Edward's were a deep green in colour and though Mr Crawley possessed messy golden blonde hair it was polar opposite to that off the young boy's chestnut brown and somewhat unruly locks. The child smiled widely at her, his grin was cheerful and sweet, if a little mischievous, his little nose twitching as he pushed his round glasses more firmly to his face with a clumsy hand.
"But we all call him Teddy; his mother didn't believe the full name suited a child and neither do we really," Matthew finished. He smiled at Mary, once again admiring the perfection in her countenance, the depth and beauty beheld in her dark eyes. She was elegant in stature and graceful in movement, her stance was dignified and look distinguished. It felt to him at once that he was captivated by the presence of beauty herself and yet there was so much hidden behind her radiant profile that he was left inwardly muddled as to where he stood. He was her employer, and yet she had an air of superiority about her that almost weakened him at the knees.
"Hello Miss Levinson," Teddy stuck out his little hand toward her, still grinning innocently. "I'm Teddy," he announced the name proudly with childish vigour and Mary gently shook his hand, a little non-plussed. Having lived the life she had done up to last year, her experience with children was limited to when she herself was one and her own governess, a disagreeably fierce and somewhat beefy woman, was not an example she wished to follow. She was out of her depth, but she knew she would never admit it.
Matthew led them promptly inside to the dining room for breakfast and then gave her his tour of the house. She was told Teddy's night routine, briefed on his illness and told her terms, all of which went by largely uneventfully until she got back to her room and took a seat, planning to write to her granny as promised on her arrival before heading back to the drawing room where Teddy had been left to play.
As she sat, she felt a wriggling in the pocket of her cardigan. She frowned in nervous anticipation, moving a hand in to remove whatever deplorable thing had been put in there.
Mary yelped, her palm bringing out a frog, and clamped a hand over her mouth a second later, swiftly moving to dispose of the slimy creature out of the open window. She blew out a huffed breath, knowing her irritation would be best placed under careful management. Teddy was young, after all, and despite her vexation she couldn't take it out on the child. That would only make things worse. He'd rid himself of thirteen governesses over a two year period, but he was going to have to do better than a mere frog if he wanted to add her to the list.
When she returned to the upstairs drawing room, she found him silently sat by his toy train, watching the door in waiting for her to return. She could tell he was anticipating anger, so she found a small victory in offering him nought but a smile, seating herself poised on the sofa and opening a book with a falsely innocent breeziness. As if nothing had happened.
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the boy's face screw up in concentration and eyes narrow in deep thought, no doubt cooking up his next plan.
It didn't take him long to work one out because the next time it was a mouse.
The White Room, Arnhall Castle, June 1921
Dearest Sybil,
Arnhall Castle is a vast place, not quite the size or picture of excellence that Downton has always been, but beautiful with a more modest nature. It is haphazard in layout, full of corners for hiding in, nooks and cupboards that pose exiting prospects for a child as young as Teddy. There are fully furnished rooms that have been left barely used, a grand piano in the second drawing room that hasn't been played in years—or so Anna, the head housemaid, tells me. It's full of undiscovered pathways to unknown places; rooms that lead rooms, quarters that wind around each other, halls that intersect to other halls and landings stretching to many mangled staircases. It has character, but it is not what I am used to. Sometimes, I will open a door and, expecting a room, will be surprised to be greeted by another twisting path of stairs leading to god knows where. It is easy to get lost and I do so frequently. It is nice, homely, and yet I do not believe I will feel quite at home anywhere but Downton.
My own room is a beautiful open expanse with bay windows looking over a large four poster bed. A tall wardrobe stands adjacent to it, a lamp either side before white walls atop polished wooden floorboards. It is called the white room, which is apt, and according to Anna has been revived in its use for my purposes only. I've been given a bathroom en suite and after two years moving through shared houses and small hotels it's nice to see the familiarity of a bell chord by the door and be afforded luxuries that I have dearly missed. There are deep blue curtains at either window end to shroud the glass in dark once night falls and a vase of flowers has been placed in the view of the morning light, new by look and I surmise that, without other option, they must have been picked fresh for me. It might perhaps be a welcoming gesture, but I suspect it is more likely a ploy to help convince me to stay, for I gather from Anna that if I make it three months, I will have been the longest staying governess as of yet. Apparently, Teddy makes a nuisance of himself deliberately to be rid of each one and in the past weeks I've learnt that I make no exception.
Teddy is remarkably skilled in employing his knowledge of the house to his advantage; he's a mischievous little boy, unceasing in his pranks and attempts to be rid of me since the first frog I found in my pocket. There have been spiders in my hat, mice in my wardrobe, I could go on but I fear this letter would be exceedingly long. He likes to hide from me to avoid lessons—which are timetabled by Mrs Crawley and so infrequent that it he'd be better off getting them over with—and due to how unaccustomed I am to the ins and outs of Arnhall, he is mostly victorious in these attempts.
Mr Crawley, as ever, baffles me. Teddy is in his sole charge during weekends—although when I relayed this to granny in my last letter, her only reply was to query as to what a weekend actually was—and it seems to be the only time where Teddy is truly happy. They spend their Saturdays playing cricket in the garden if it's fine and if it's not they play together inside, either with Teddy's prized brass train set or another one of his toys; occasionally I've caught them at hide and seek, in which Mr Crawley looks truly ridiculous squeezing into a cupboard that looks far to small to fit someone half his height. On Sundays they go to church, a tradition which I have strayed from, something I have refrained from notifying granny of, but the more time I see them spending together, the more I cannot fathom why Mr Crawley continues to leave Teddy when he seems to love him more than many fathers I've known.
I am sorry to hear that you're so restless. Perhaps Mama could be persuaded to allow you to do something more industrious but your chances of getting Papa to allow you to get involved in politics are slimmer than none— as for granny, well, I doubt she'll be agreeable to your going canvassing.
Do pass on my love to Carson, but, as always, be mindful to keep this letter where it won't be found. I hear from granny that Papa will not give up trying to find me and should he find you've been in contact with me he may be angry with you for keeping my whereabouts secret and I do not wish for you to suffer on my account.
I miss you dearly—all of you—even Edith some of the time—so do write back and tell me everything that goes on in my absence. I do miss much of the drama at the dinner table.
All my love, your sister,
Mary.
She passed Teddy's bedroom on her way to her own bed every night. On the days of the week when Mr Crawley worked in Manchester, it was her responsibility to make sure the child was in bed at the correct time; she was to be the one to get him to swallow his medicine, brush his teeth, lay his glasses on the bedside cabinet and lay down. But on weekends, it was Mr Crawley who took over his night time routine and this puzzled her. She would be given the evenings to rein free, a very uncouth arrangement she was sure, and she'd spend this time reading or walking or writing to Sybil. But every night, when she passed his room on her way to bed, she'd see the light from the lamp beside his bed and through the gap in the door—always left ajar—she'd see Teddy laughing from under his covers, Mr Crawley sat next to him on the bed, tickling him mercilessly until he begged happily for him to cease. Only when he did stop, the boy would giggle and chant for him to continue.
He seemed to love his son, and Mary couldn't fathom why on earth he continued to leave him. Because, during the week, Teddy was comparatively miserable. He stared out of the window during lessons, barely paying grudging attention and put little energy into playing during his free time. it was sad, yet she was powerless to change it.
When she came to her room, she found the window closed—opposite to how she left it—with a chilling night breeze, despite the hot summers day that had preceded it, allowed to blow in. She moved to close it, sauntering calmly over, drawing the curtains in the process where she heard a faint hissing from the floor.
Instinctively, she leapt back, her eye line jumping downward where, to her absolute horror, a great green snake lay, adorned with black streaks on what she could only describe as its sides.
Mary was not a squeamish person, for all, what you might've called, a sheltered upbringing, she did not find many manners of creatures as disturbing as many others did. Spiders were less than frightening in her opinion, frogs seemingly a little unhygienic but otherwise part of the mundane, mice a simple nuisance, but snakes—snakes were where she drew the line.
Her dwellings on how sorry she felt for Teddy ceased then and there as she pondered how to get rid of the thing. Asking for Mr Crawley's help was a concept she found wholly unenticing. She could ask Anna, but doubted she wished to deal with it anymore than she did.
Mary sighed, pulling a large book from her shelf and approaching the thing in trepidation and disgust. It was a grass snake, she knew that much, so it was perfectly harmless, but the idea of touching it made her feel simply nauseous. She lay the book before it, without any real credence to her plan, backed away and waited. The snake slithered over the cover, curling around the spine and resting there. Mary took a deep breath, grit her teeth and picked up the book from an uncovered corner, holding it outside the window and giving it a good shake. It dropped off with relative ease and she brought the book back inside, replaced it on the shelf and closed the window.
She let out a deep, shuddering breath, checking the rest of the room thoroughly before retiring to bed in the knowledge there were no other hidden monsters for her to sort out.
Teddy had yet to meet a governess quite as formidable and determined as Mary. She wasn't tenacious exactly, that would be the entirely wrong description, but Teddy was blissfully unaware what he was getting himself into.
He'd have to do better than that to contend with her.
The upstairs library, Arnhall Castle, June 1921
It was an impressive room—not so much that it outshone her father's magnificent library, but like everything at Arnhall it was warm and pleasing to look upon.
Matthew sat on one of the sofas, reclined easily against the back, flicking through a copy of The Times with wavering interest.
He glanced up as she came in, folding his newspaper and placing it to one side.
"Miss Levinson!" He called, catching her attention.
Mary turned to him and stopped, smiling automatically despite herself. It was almost strange to see him back for the weekend without Teddy around to occupy his every second. She was about to question the boy's whereabouts, but Matthew sensed the query on her lips and gave an answer before she could produce the words.
"He went exploring the kitchens, most likely to beg Mrs Crabtree for extra biscuits."
Mary nodded to this, averting her eyes as she caught herself staring once again into his. It was becoming an accidental habit that she needed to cut out.
"Please sit down." Matthew waved to the seat opposite. "I wanted to speak with you, as a matter of fact."
"Oh?" Surprised by this, she took a seat.
"Yes well," he started, somewhat clumsily, "Mary, it seems a little strange for us to be working in such close proximity without really knowing a thing about each other."
Mary, startled by the informal address raised an eyebrow a little disapprovingly. She knew enough about him, she thought defiantly.
"Well," she said, "What would like to know?"
"Where are you from? What are your hobbies? Any little thing you may think pointless to help me get to know you a little."
This seemed such an odd request.
Mary cocked her head to the side, attempting to gauge why his smile seemed so genuinely well meaning when she knew very well it couldn't possibly have been. A man like him would hardly want to get to know his employees. A man who barely spent time at home, with his child, in favour of whatever good-for-nothing activities he engaged in in the city, surely would not be interested in her hobbies.
But she studied his countenance thoroughly and found no trace of falsehood there, so she answered his query, trying all the while not to give too much away.
"I'm grew up in a village in Yorkshire," she started plainly. "My mother is American—much to my granny's distaste, I might add – and my father…" she didn't quite know what to say without outwardly lying. "…works on an estate."
He nodded along. "Do you have any siblings?"
"No brothers," she answered, "which has always been a sore point in my family, but I have too younger sisters, the youngest, Sybil, is seventeen and a darling, the other, Edith, is twenty and I can't say we've ever thought much of each other."
"Differing personalities?" He asked.
"She broke my favourite doll when I was six, in return I put her favourite dress on a pig."
Matthew laughed heartily, and she couldn't help by join him slightly, much to her own distaste.
"But yes," she continued. "Mostly differing personalities. Although I can't say I'm much like Sybil either. She's very political, very hands on and doesn't really care what other people think. I'm interested but find politics hard to get particularly exited about and I'm afraid I do care of others' opinions."
She asked him a little about himself and inwardly scolded her own curiosity for it. He answered in kind—his mother, whom she'd met, was a nurse, father a doctor who passed away when he was nineteen. She felt sorry when he got to that bit, reluctantly softening under his beguiling bright gaze. There was something about him she couldn't quite fathom out, something that felt intrinsically obvious and, yet she was missing it, making whatever it was all the more mysterious.
He was amusing, and she found herself laughing at his humour, smiling at his jokes and listening to what he had to say, replying jovially as whatever awkward feeling there had earlier been seemed to disappear. She had momentarily forgotten about the reason she held him in such low regard, instead letting the conversation flow naturally between them.
When Teddy came bouncing in, however, she snapped herself back to reality, offering his bewildered expression a quick goodbye before she excused herself to go for a walk to the village.
The White room, Arnhall Castle, July 1921
She woke with a start, alarmed by the sound that alerted her from her sleep. It sounded like broken glass, perhaps the smashing of a window or the shattering of a mirror, but it was enough to throw her unceremoniously from slumber and encourage her to move from the comfort of her bed, throwing off the covers and donning a dressing gown with a little haste. It was an uncouth Friday night; Matthew had phoned from Manchester to say he would not be arriving until the following morning and what had been a humid and exceedingly hot afternoon had broken into a colossal storm while she slept.
At first, she thought the noise might've been the beginning of another of Teddy's pranks and this led her to grasp a lamp from her bedside, light it, and trail down the hall to the boy's room, but on finding his bed empty, the water glass smashed by his bed and his glasses abandoned on the cabinet, she began to believe that she'd been wrong to jump to such conclusions.
She left his door flung open carelessly as she searched for him about the house, knowing it only just well enough by now to remember which rooms were which. She searched the drawing rooms, both libraries, the whole of the first floor, the servants' hall and kitchens in the basements before reaching Mr Crawley's old study.
On first glance, it looked as if that room too was empty, but a small sniffling from the corner led her over to where he was hidden.
The boy was hunched into a ball underneath the desk, his tiny body shuddering with his face hiding in his knees, arms gripped over his bowed head. He cowered, jumping violently with every crack of thunder and hiding his eyes to shield his vision of the way the room lit up with every flash of lightning.
She moved over to him fluidly, her nightdress floating out behind her as she swept across the room and knelt by the desk. She placed her lamp to one side on the floor, allowing the illumination to let her see him properly. She crouched down very slowly and peered under at him, a hand reaching out to pry his grip from the roots of his hair. She brought his arms slowly from his head, crawling into his hiding place little by little until she was huddled under the desk beside him, giving her purchase to stroke his hair back from his forehead to see his red and water-filled eyes in the dim light.
"Teddy," she murmured, laying a hand on his tense back. He continued to shake in fright, not daring to look anywhere but his knees. He let out a whimper. Mary's heart squeezed.
"Teddy, it's alright," she whispered. "Nothing's going to hurt you."
Goose bumps covered his skin, his slightly oversized pyjamas accentuating how tiny he was.
"Teddy, please listen to me, it's alright."
He gave no indication of accepting her words, still terrified, going back to clutching his head in his arms when another burst of lighting lit the room.
She counted the seconds in her head.
1, 2, 3.
Thunder followed.
Teddy let out a cry of pure terror at the noise and a moment later he'd retreated further into himself than the hunched form she'd found him in, bringing his arms once again to clutch over his head, body conforming to a tightly curled ball with his face buried again to his knees and his small frame rocking with silent sobs.
She breathed out slowly, willing some unknown instinct to tell her what she could do.
She simply couldn't get through to him—perhaps this was the climax of her failings as a governess; she hadn't expected to invest any kind of prestige or feelings in this job, hadn't ever anticipated feeling any more strongly for the child in her care than she would for the child of any stranger, and yet, Teddy unknowingly sought that understanding, that affection, that he felt so deprived of in Mr Crawley's frequent absences. This was to be the reasoning behind his eagerness and determination to be rid of each new governess that stepped into the post—with no constant part of family since his mother passed, it seemed to him, if his schemes worked, it would compel Mr Crawley to come home for good.
She'd never truly been able to understand him, giving no pretence of awareness as to why he played his tricks, and now through his fear defencelessness she saw his vulnerability. He didn't play his tricks out of malice, it had not taken her long to work that out, he did it as a product of his insecurities, a cry for Matthew to stay that had gone unnoticed by everyone.
Everyone but her.
Perhaps if she could lay proof to her care and understanding, she would gain his trust.
"You're safe," she murmured. She could think of little else to say, spilling over any words that might give him some peace from the fear that crippled him under its weight.
He sobbed harder still, breathless and exhausted.
She couldn't fathom what else to say, for she had never been trained or practised in this respect, having never been around children since Sybil had been young and, even then, seeing to her younger sister had never fallen under Mary's responsibilities. She was left at a loss. This child, this small, vulnerable little boy was so desperately afraid and as much as she wished she could retract his pain, she didn't know how.
"Teddy, it's alright. Everything is alright," she paused, stroking back his hair, then adding in a hushed and tender tone: "I promise."
He raised his head slowly, letting his arms go loose and his eyes meet hers for the briefest of seconds.
His lip quivered, tears streaming from his eyes as he wailed loudly, moving into the embrace Mary offered and clutching her tightly as she pulled him from the cold floor and into her lap.
"I've got you, darling," she hushed, "everything's going to be alright."
She wrapped her arms around the child tightly and hushed his terrors using any means she could muster. Mary enveloped the little boy with her body, her back curved, head bowed over his, starting to slowly rock him, fervently hoping the small movements would quell his hurt.
She took her time in shuffling out from under the desk, moving inch by inch and then standing languidly with Teddy still held securely in her arms.
She cradled him gently, feeling the weight of him held against her and recognising how delicate and precious it was. How the child trembled with fear as he sobbed into her nightdress.
"Hush, darling. It's alright now." She felt his cheek press to her shoulder, tears on the cool skin of her neck.
He mumbled something, an innocent and soft cry for his mother that broke her heart. He was referring to her and she could form no reply, for she couldn't go along with it as that would have been just as wrong as acknowledging the plea as a mistake. She hushed him soothingly once more and played to her instincts, holding him and comforting him because he had no one else to do so; he had barely known his mother, Mr Crawley was not at home and his previous governesses were described to her as either cold like those of her own had been or failing to stay long enough to even get to know the boy. Mary had been the same, spiting her teachers to seek the attention of her parents, and, in her, Teddy had met his match. Yet he had also met a kind of kindred spirit. As he clutched her through his tears, as she sang a gentle lullaby to soothe his cries, they formed an unspoken truce.
They knew each other more closely now, and they could be friends because of it.
The Green Room, Arnhall Castle, July 1921
"Miss Levinson?"
She woke abruptly, eyes drawing open heavily. She was exhausted, there was a crick in her neck where she'd slept against the edge of the chair by Teddy's bed.
Immediately she looked down at the bed, smiling at where the boy still lay silent and contented, deep in sleep with the blankets neatly tucked around him.
She turned away, seeking the source of the voice and the hand on her shoulder.
Matthew.
Instinctively, she pulled her shawl more comfortably over her shoulders, shielding her nightdress only slightly from his view. She hadn't been so undressed before a man since… she would not think of that now. She shook the thought.
"I do apologise, Mr Crawley—Teddy was frightened by the storm."
He looked perturbed, running a hand through his hair, wrinkles of stress appearing on his forehead, knitting his brows together. He glanced down at the boy lying curled under thick bedsheets, his eyes softening as he nodded to acknowledge what she'd said. It took him a few moments to formulate a reply.
"Him and me both," he muttered.
Somewhere behind his handsome features a shell exploded in the back of his mind, sending shrapnel blasting through flesh caked in thick mud. The smell of blood consumed him. Rotting flesh assaulted his nose. Dirt attacked his every sense.
"Are you alright, Mr Crawley?"
She had her hand on his upper arm, stood up before him with a concerned expression etched in eyes that had grown sympathetic since he'd last focussed on them.
He snapped out of it as quickly as he'd fallen in.
"Fine, thank you, Miss Levinson." He smiled, all traces of a former far-away look cleared away. "Thank you for taking care of him. God knows it should've been me."
She couldn't argue with him on that point.
"I was only glad I could help," she shrugged, her words said loosely to mask her sincerity.
He offered her a smile in thanks.
"I can sit with him until he wakes, you should get some sleep—I know the discomfort of that chair all too well. Gives your neck a trial."
She breathed laughter. "It certainly does," she agreed. "But I promised Teddy I'd stay with him."
Matthew nodded slowly. "Well, when he wakes up, would you be so kind to come and get me?"
"Of course, sir," she answered.
He was halfway to the door when he turned.
"Mary, there's no need to call me sir." He addressed her with her first name again. It felt peculiar. "Matthew would do perfectly fine."
Mary was cold in her answer, her toneless voice making her suddenly remembered ill-feeling toward him accidentally more plain.
"It wouldn't be my place, sir."
He was in the upstairs drawing room when Mary came in to pack Teddy's toys away from the afternoon before. Matthew had gone in to see him while she had breakfast, had dosed him his medicine and sent him back to sleep for the morning before going to sit in his armchair to mull things over in his tired mind.
She set about packing away the train tracks into a box, resolutely silent.
Matthew could barely think straight—his coherent thoughts unable to string together in a pattern he could either recognise or understand. His mind whirred, feelings overriding everything as he rubbed his neck out of nervous anxiety.
His ponderings burst out of him before he could stop them.
"I can't be here for him like I should be. I suppose it shows how often I'm away."
He put his head in his hands.
"I didn't even know he was afraid of storms," he said, wobbling. "What kind of person does that make me?"
His expression desperate and pained, his eyes implored her for an answer.
Mary kept schtum, feeling that in this state he probably wouldn't appreciate her comments.
"I don't think you'll want my opinion," she said briskly, moving on to tidy away Teddy's train set.
He looked up. "Well, now I feel like I should hear it."
She shook her head.
"Come on," he encouraged, somewhat imploringly. "I won't be offended."
She sighed.
"If you must know, since the moment I walked into the interview with your mother I thought you a rather poor gentleman for the way in which you routinely abandon your child. You accuse me of being cold on occasion or somewhat blunt, but what else can you expect from the person you've hired to take care of your son in your absence?"
She was well into her stride by now, taking him apart piece by piece, without even looking at him—instead focussing on taking apart the train track that lay about the floor.
"You spend the week galivanting around the city, leaving Teddy miserable at home, forced to try and get rid of each governess on his own terms just to play for your attention! You cannot see that he's miserable, you have no idea how afraid he is of some things—including losing your love and if this pains you as much as you pretend then perhaps you should take him to live with you or else stay to live with him at your home."
She paused to match her hard eyes to his, staring harshly at him, disregarding the expression she found written there.
He looked blown back, his hair sticking up at a strange angle adding to his unkempt and bewildered expression of coffudlement and shock.
His eyebrows knitted together, face wrinkling in confusion before realisation dawned upon him and his surprise at her assumption became more apparent.
"Mary…" he started; his voice was very calm and very quiet. "Teddy isn't my son."
His words were slow spoken and even slower to sink in.
She didn't say anything and instead remained silent and still in shock. The reason why Teddy never called Matthew papa suddenly became abundantly clear.
She got up and headed to the door, needing to be alone to clear her head.
She found herself wandering aimlessly about the house, finally going downstairs to seek Anna after a little thought, a particular purpose and question in mind.
The servants' hall, Arnhall Castle, July 1921
"He's the kindest man alive," she said honestly. "Certainly, the best one I've ever met. Most would have thought he'd be bitter, given the circumstances, but he's so kind to young master Edward."
"What do you mean: given the circumstances?" Mary asked, perplexed at how this strange man had come to ward a child that was not his own.
"Well you see, when the Master's maternal grandfather died, all of his fortune along with Arnhall Castle itself was, by law, left to his eldest son—master's uncle—I think his names was Charles- but of course he fought in the Boer War and was sadly killed. So, Charles's son Lawrence, the master's cousin, stood to inherit. He was killed in the Great War, six months before his son was born. Master Crawley was heartbroken of course, but rich as creases being the next in line. And then it was discovered that Lawrence's widow was pregnant with his child, little Master Edward was born, and the Master was disinherited; sent back to living on his wits."
"Then the Spanish flu…" Mary whispered, knowing what fate had befallen Teddy's mother.
"Yes," Anna nodded gravely, "The pandemic in 1918 left Master Edward an orphan. They would have sent him to a workhouse, but Master Crawley took on the house and young Edward, but refused to use the boy's money to pay for it out of principal. So, of course, as you know, he works as a lawyer up in Manchester to support it all, but he can't see the boy as much as he'd like. He lives up there with his mother during the week and then he comes down to see master Edward on weekends."
"Why didn't Teddy go to live with him up there?"
"Mr Crawley didn't want to take Edward away from his home so young, he was under the impression the city was no place for a child to grow up and that his cousin would have wanted him to have a good childhood. It's terribly sad. I think both Master Crawley and Master Edward find the arrangement difficult—when it started I suppose the fact that Mr Crawley would grow to love the boy went unthought of, and now it's too late to change. Master Edward benefits but Master Crawley is left with no prospects, attached to a child that leaves him with almost no hope of marriage. It's desperately sad."
Mary felt her stomach lurch in guilt and she closed her eyes for a second, trying desperately to take it all in. After all this time, she'd believed he was simply a cad that was prepared to leave his child for his own gain. She had no idea of his motives, no idea that in actual fact he had sacrificed his way of life to take care of a boy he had no obligation to and worked all week to support a child that, not only wasn't his, but also had taken away the fortune that would have made his own life far more simple.
Porthcurno Village, Emelle Cliffs, Cornwall, July 1921
She went with them to church that next day for the first time since she'd arrived. The sea lay near still and silent beneath the jutting cliffs, any trace of mid-summer storm lost upon the gentle lapping of the waves against the beach. The service was just as mundane as any other, but the Sunday sun was bright and cheerful, warming the earth under its glare. It shone through the stained-glass windows, projecting coloured patterns over the alter and pews.
Mary glanced at them both in equal measure throughout, Matthew watched silently, but the cadence of his eyes told her his thoughts were elsewhere inclined. Teddy, however, paid rapt attention that was unheard of coming from any child his age, his gaze trained to the front the entire time, hands still in his lap, one fist clutching the stems of a bunch of flowers he'd picked from the garden before they departed.
It was warm when they trailed outside, and all three squinted in the comparative brightness. Teddy climbed onto Matthew's back, but to Mary's surprise they turned into the churchyard rather than taking the path back into the village. She followed behind, unsure where they were headed.
They walked across a couple of paths, stepping over the grass where Matthew knelt for Teddy to climb off. He padded over to a grave. Matthew followed, taking the old flowers from a vase that stood before it.
Mary stood back as Teddy knelt down before the headstone, his clumsy fist pushing the stems of his flowers into the old vase once Matthew had righted it. She read the inscription from afar, keeping a tender eye on the little boy as he kissed his hand and pressed it to the lettering. Catherine Turnbull had been her name, beloved mother, only four years older than Mary herself was now when she had died. The name below, Lawrence Turnbull, beloved husband and father, had an earlier date of death but the writing was the same age. He'd died at war, and Mary added the pieces together in her mind, realising that, although his name was on the stone he was likely buried in the war graves they'd left in France, his name carved on after his wife died for their son's benefit.
Matthew shuffled closer, laying a hand to ruffle Teddy's hair before sweeping some dirt from the top of the stone.
He then stepped back, leaving Teddy to have a moment alone.
Mary averted her gaze as he came up beside her and then looked across his features to the serene sea behind him.
They were silent for a while.
"Do you believe in god?" He asked, breaking the moment of quiet, more to Mary's relief than anything.
"I've never quite been sure," she replied. "I'd like to think there's something or someone up there, but I don't believe I have much credence with them, whoever they are."
He nodded, wondering what she meant and deciding to leave his question unasked.
"What about you?" She questioned in return.
"The idea of there being a god scares me," he answered, "almost as much as the idea of there not being one."
It was an eloquent answer, showing a raw truth to him that she'd only been able to observe recently.
He was a nice man. A good man. In retrospect it seemed absurd that she hadn't seen so earlier.
Teddy backed away, taking Matthew's hand on one side and Mary's hand in the other.
"Can we get a dog?" He asked, looking up at Matthew hopefully.
Dearest Sybil,
Since the last time I wrote it seems there is much to say. We were hit by a storm two nights past and I was woken by a shattering of glass that naturally led me to check on Teddy. After finding him absent from his bedroom I searched the house and uncovered him huddled under a desk in Mr Crawley's old study. The poor child was terrified, and it took me a long while to calm him yet once I did he seemed contented to allow me to bring him to bed, even wanting me to stay by his side until the storm had passed. Since then we have come to an undesignated truce—he has ceased his attempts to be rid of me and in return I have not only promised to teach him to use a telephone, but since then he has also roped me into a trip to the beach. He's a sweet boy really, a little overzealous at times and too enthusiastic for his own health—his tired wheezing when his lungs play up often scares me—but altogether he is a kind, gentle and often charming child, currently barraging Mr Crawley to buy him a puppy.
Then there's the other thing—it's a long story really to explain how I came about the knowledge, but after I eventually ranted my disapproval of Mr Crawley's continued abandonment of Teddy to him, he, unaware that I had no idea until that moment, told me that he was not Teddy's father. Subsequently, my feelings regarding him have softened slightly and I find myself regretting somewhat the occasional cold way in which I may have addressed or dismissed him. I gained the whole unusual tale from Anna…
Mary went on to explain the circumstances, her letter becoming long as she recounted the sad story of Teddy's parents and the passing fortune, adding a lighter note to the end of her returning habit of church going and the impending beach trip that Teddy had decided upon. She signed off to a the sound of laughter outside and went to the window, looking down over the gardens, bathed in orange light from the setting sun, to see Teddy reaching up to the apple tree from a seat on Matthew's shoulders. He giggled as Matthew jumped to allow him to reach the apple he wanted, swiping at it with a pudgy hand, missing each time.
Mary just laughed, smiling slightly, and rolled her eyes.
A/N - hope this was ok. Thanks for all the reviews, I really appreciate them. To those that said Mary leaving was pretty unbelievable, I have to say I agree with you, however in this story there is another reason for her leaving which will be brought up later on, until then, I have to say it does seem pretty unfathomable. Thanks for reading! :)