Chapter Three
It wasn't long after the end of the War that the trucks full of new injured officers stopped arriving to replace the ones who were leaving. Slowly Downton Abbey was returning to being a private home. As there was less and less to do, everyone felt a mixture of relief and uselessness. Everyone had become accustomed to always having something to do, and Sybil in particular couldn't remember what she used to do every day before the War. She wandered aimlessly around the house, looking for tasks to perform, people to help, and finding that there was often nothing useful she could do.
She found herself drawn more and more often to the garage and Tom Branson. He reminded her of the world outside and beyond Downton, of the lives other people were getting on with now the war was over while hers seemed to be slowly ending and returning to how it had always been: purposeless and trivial. Of course, he was pestering her for an answer, but although this annoyed her a little, it also reminded her that there was an escape if she wanted it.
Christmas loomed up suddenly. Nobody had really got excited about Christmas during the War; it seemed wrong to celebrate with so many men away fighting in the trenches. But now the War was over, it seemed right to celebrate properly. They could hardly have a large party or invite guests to stay with some of the officers still there and half the rooms still being used for them, but even with rationing making it difficult, Robert in particular wanted to have a Christmas like the ones before the War.
The atmosphere in the house was more relaxed since Major Gordon had gone, disappeared, leaving a letter saying it was too hard to convince the family he was Patrick. Edith was heartbroken all over again, but to Mary it proved beyond a doubt in her mind that the man was not Patrick. She had not loved Patrick, but she had known him well. And Patrick would never have given up like that.
One frosty morning in early December, Mary was pushing Matthew around the garden in his chair. Since Lavinia's return, they had stopped this, without ever having to actually discuss it. But today Lavinia had gone to visit her Father in London. He was ill again, not dangerously so, but Lavinia didn't want to leave him alone, and she would be gone a few days. Mary and Matthew had both missed this time together. Talking with Mary was the only time Matthew had felt anything approaching happiness since he had come home.
Matthew plucked at the blanket Mary had insisted on placing over his legs when they went out in the freezing weather.
"You do realise I can't feel the cold, don't you," he said.
"That doesn't mean you don't get cold, only that you don't realise you are. Besides, your mother insisted and I don't dare to go against her orders," she replied.
"Since when do you follow orders, Lady Mary?" Matthew asked playfully.
"Since I agreed with them."
"It's bad enough being a cripple without looking like an invalid too," he muttered, scowling down at the blanket. Mary's heart clenched with sympathy for him, but she was also angry; she couldn't bear that word. She stopped pushing the chair and walked around to face him, standing in silence until he looked up.
"I wish you wouldn't call yourself that, Matthew. Would you be as cruel to any of the officers here as you are to yourself?" She spoke sharply, and Matthew couldn't help but see the logic in her words. But she didn't understand.
"No, but that's different…" he began, but stopped when he found that he couldn't really explain why it was different.
Mary nodded, looking satisfied, and went back behind him to continue pushing. When they reached her favourite bench, underneath the tree, she stopped and sat down, knowing Matthew preferred to look at her when they spoke.
She wanted to have a pleasant, teasing conversation with him, it would allow them both to forget their worries for a while and cheer them up. Somehow though, she just couldn't start. There were too many serious matters on her mind. Eventually she gave in and said,
"So will you marry Lavinia then?" It came out rushed, and a little louder than she had intended.
Matthew looked up, surprised. There had been an unspoken agreement between them not to talk about Lavinia and Sir Richard.
"I mean," she began more calmly, "You have been engaged for two years, and she… she clearly loves you very much." Mary tried to smile and failed, so she looked away, waiting for Matthew to answer. 'I love her very much too,' she imagined him saying.
"I'm not fit to marry anyone, Mary, never mind a sweet young girl like Lavinia. I refuse to ruin her life. I don't want to talk about it."
Mary was saddened to hear him talk like that, but also secretly glad that he had called Lavinia only a 'sweet girl' and hadn't mentioned love. She knew her thoughts made little sense. If he wouldn't marry Lavinia, he wouldn't marry her, and anyway, she had to marry Richard, so what did any of it matter anyway? Surely she should want Matthew to be happily married to a woman who loved him. But somehow, much as she liked Lavinia, she couldn't bear the thought of her becoming Matthew's wife.
It came to her suddenly that she had spent most of her life expecting to marry for duty and security, not love. If she had never met Matthew, she would have been happy enough to marry a man of her parents choosing or anyone with money and position. She could have ended up with someone far worse than Richard.
But she had met Matthew and she now knew what it was to feel love for a man. It was both wonderful and painful. It was caring for someone more than she cared for herself. It was feeling pain when he felt pain, and joy when he felt joy. It made it impossible not to compare any other man with him, and always find them wanting.
But even though loving Matthew had made everything more difficult and more complicated, she would not change her feelings if she could. Loving him had changed her, and for the better. There were moments with him when she had been so exquisitely happy. They may be in the past now, but they would remain in her memory forever.
"So will you marry Carlisle then?" he asked her suddenly, using the same words as she had.
"I have to," she replied simply. What else could she say? There was no use pretending she loved him, Matthew knew her too well. And she couldn't say more, or she would find herself telling Matthew, and that she vowed she would never do.
Matthew looked as though he was about to speak, so she added
"And I don't want to talk about it either."
They were silent for several minutes, each trying to understand the other and failing, needing to ask questions but knowing they would not be answered. Eventually, Mary forced her mind back to the present.
"Are you looking forward to Christmas?" she asked in a falsely cheerful voice. She was aware even as she spoke how pathetic her question sounded, but she had to say something, and Christmas seemed like a fairly safe subject.
Matthew was about to give a short and probably rude reply, but stopped himself, understanding her need to say something, anything.
"It will be the first Christmas I've spent in this country since 1913. I suppose that's something. But really, there doesn't seem to be much to celebrate. The birth, nearly two thousand years ago, of the son of a God I'm not even sure I believe in. It's hard to get excited about anything these days anyway since..." he trailed off, guessing correctly that Mary would understand what he meant. He found it hard to feel anything other than sadness and indifference now. Christmas was hardly likely to change that.
"Is Lavinia staying here or with her father?" Mary asked, hoping the latter was true.
"I'm not sure," he replied, "I don't think she knows herself. I know Cousin Cora will be keen for both her and Sir Richard to be here." His voice was bitter. He knew Cora was worried there was still a chance for him and Mary. He agreed that it would not be fair for him to marry Mary, he would not even consider it. But even though he agreed with Cousin Cora, it still hurt that she was so against him. It made him feel like even more of a cripple. He also resented her interference. He, Mary, Lavinia and Sir Richard Carlisle were adults, and capable of making their own decisions, without being manipulated.
The conversation stopped again. The silence was at first awkward, but soon they both relaxed and it became friendly and companionable. Mary looked up at Matthew's face and saw to her surprise that he was smiling, a rare sight these days. She smiled back. He reached out and took her hand in his.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm in such a foul mood all the time. None of this is your fault, I shouldn't take it out on you." His voice was soft.
"It's quite alright…" she began, but he cut across her.
"No, it's not. None of this is your fault. You have been wonderful, Mary. You realise the only time I'm not desperately unhappy is when I'm with you, and then I always ruin it."
Mary smiled and squeezed his hand gently to let him know he was forgiven.
"Do you… do you ever think about what might have happened if things had gone… if I had behaved differently back before the war? If I had said yes that night, instead of saying I'd think about it?" she asked tentatively.
Matthew sighed deeply before replying. It was as if she had read his mind. It was the question which most often occupied his mind.
"Of course I do. It was all I could think about for a while." He broke off, recalling that time, when he was training for the army, and every night was spent in torment, wondering why Mary had not accepted his proposal immediately. Sometimes he thought it was the money and title, but somehow, the way Mary had behaved, when he thought hard about it (too late, of course), didn't seem to fit with that theory. Recently, he had been more and more sure that there was something else, some unknown factor that had influenced her decision. "Oh Mary, what is it you aren't telling me? Why couldn't you say yes? Was it the money and the title, or was it something else? Why do you have to marry Carlisle when it's clear to everyone, even him, probably, that you can't stand the man?"
"I… I can't tell you. I just can't. I'm sorry." There were tears in her eyes.
"You can. You can tell me anything Mary. Anything. I…I have to know," he said quietly.
Mary fought internally with herself. She was bursting to tell someone, desperate not to have this secret between her and Matthew. Maybe he would despise her, but she hated having any secret between them. She knew she could trust him not to tell anyone. But then who mattered as much as Matthew? He was the person she wanted to know least, but also the person she wanted to tell most.
Matthew watched her struggle with herself, and the desire to know what made her so unhappy became more and more intense. Finally she looked up, and it appeared as if she was going to say something.
"There you two are. It's almost time for lunch you know. And it's freezing out here."
It was Isobel. Mary instantly put on her invisible mask, an expression that showed no genuine emotion. The moment for telling Matthew had passed, and although she felt some relief, she could not be entirely glad.
Isobel took Matthew's chair and started to push it back to the house, embarrassed because she was aware she had interrupted something. Mary rose from the bench and followed a few paces behind.
Matthew mentally cursed his mother for interrupting them at that crucial moment. It had seemed that Mary was really about to reveal her secret. He twisted around in his chair to look at her. From her expression, he knew that the moment had passed and would likely not come again. At least he had established that there was a reason though. Mary didn't hesitate because she didn't love him or because of the money. She didn't want to marry Carlisle because she loved him or wanted his money. Matthew suspected that the bastard had some sort of hold over Mary. He likely he knew her mysterious secret. Matthew decided to devote himself to discovering this secret and releasing Mary from Carlisle's clutches. He could not marry Mary, but her happiness was still the most important thing in the world to him.
He would find out, he vowed to himself. He had plenty of time on his hands.
Daisy clutched her basket tightly, her knuckles white. If she hadn't been doing so, her hands would have been trembling uncontrollably. She was terrified. But when she tried to think what precisely she was afraid of, she didn't know. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen William recently; she had spent every spare moment she had with him while he had been convalescing at Downton Abbey. To begin with, after their marriage, it had been through choice. He had needed her and she was so fond of him, she couldn't stay away.
But as he had begun to recover, much to the doctor's surprise, the familiar guilt had begun to plague her again. He had started to talk about the future, their future, and it had suddenly dawned on Daisy that she was going to spend the rest of her life with William. She had known she had to tell him the truth about how she felt, but had told herself she would do it when he was stronger. She had stopped wanting to see him so much, and it had been Mrs Patmore who had kept sending her up.
But at least back at Downton Abbey there had been other people coming in and out, doctors, nurses, occasionally even members of the family. She had been able to claim that she had work to do and leave if William started asking her about what she wanted to do in the future.
Now he was home, resting and spending time with his father before he returned to work, and she had been given the whole day off to go and visit him. She had been given a basket full of Mrs Patmore's best food, and now she was on her way to see him. Her husband. The word still sounded strange to her, unfamiliar and as if it was describing someone else, not her William.
What would she say to him when they were alone (for Mr Mason was sure to leave them alone)? She wanted to see him and speak to him so much, had missed him awfully in the two weeks he had been home. But now, there would be no reason to put off talking about the future.
The cart stopped, and Daisy realised she was there. She took a deep breath and stepped down. She was straightening her skirt, trying to calm her nerves, when William rushed towards her and pulled her into his arms. The basket got in the way, but he didn't seem to mind, and Daisy suddenly felt calm and safe. Without thinking, she put the basket down and allowed William to pull her closer. She found herself putting her arms around him, wanting, needing him close to her.
"I've missed you, Daisy," he breathed.
She looked up at his smiling face and felt her own mouth turning up into a smile, lit by a warmth that was growing inside her.
"I've missed you too," she said. It was true, she told herself: she had missed him. But as she thought about it, her smile faded a little. What was she doing, letting him hold her like this, when she knew he was doing it because of her lies?
She bent down to pick up her basket, trying to hide the blush colouring her cheeks.
"Come inside," William said eagerly. Daisy followed him into the house.
She did not have to talk to William alone to begin with. They had tea with Mr Mason and talked of the farm, the family back at the house and the end of the war. But soon, Mr Mason said he would leave them alone, giving them a wink and a cheerful smile before going out.
For a few seconds, they sat in silence. Then they both spoke at the same time.
"I've been thinking about…" William began, and Daisy said, "I need to tell you something."
They both stopped and William laughed. "You first."
Daisy gulped. Now was her opportunity, her chance to tell him the truth. It was too late, they were married, but she couldn't go on living a lie.
"William. I hope you know I'm… very fond of you," she began.
"I do know it, Daisy. And I love you too, very much," he replied, taking her hand tenderly. Daisy looked down at their hands and resisted squeezing William's. This was hard enough as it was.
"Well, that's it. I don't… Oh William, I like you ever so much, you're the best friend I ever had, but… I led you on. When you asked me to be your girl, William, I said I would because I wanted to make you happy. And I do want to make you happy, I just…"
"You don't love me," William finished for her, staring with blank eyes at the fire. His voice was resigned rather than shocked or angry. When Daisy had begun to talk, he realised he had known for a while. The way she had avoided any serious conversations with him, the way she had tried to put him off marrying her, it all made sense now. His Daisy, his beautiful, sweet, wonderful wife did not love him.
He looked up, and saw that there were silent tears running down her cheeks, and suddenly, her revelation seemed to matter less. All that mattered right now was to stop her being upset. He wasn't certain that it was what she wanted, but he tentatively put her arm around her, and after stiffening for a moment, she relaxed and leaned on his shoulder. He held her and whispered comforting things in her ear, saying everything would be alright, although part of him was silently screaming that it wouldn't be.
"Why… why did you marry me, if you… don't love me?" he asked quietly when Daisy had calmed down a little.
"Because we all thought… you were so ill, we thought you wouldn't… Oh William, I thought you were going to die, and I wanted your last hours and days to be as happy as possible. But I know it was wrong, I know it was terribly wrong, and I'm so sorry." Daisy spoke softly, but she was no longer crying. It was, in a way, a relief to free herself from the lie she had been living for so long.
William felt almost as if he might cry now. It touched him more than he could say that Daisy had done something she believed to be wrong just to make him happy, and it made him love her almost more than before, if that was possible. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her. But he had to be sensible and practical now. He had to find a way to deal with this situation.
"Oh Daisy," he said. "You did that for me?"
"Yes. I love you very much as a friend."
"Just not as a husband." William sighed. "What are we going to do now then? Do you want to divorce me? I can make it so it's all my fault, if that is what you want." His heart was breaking as he spoke, but they had to decide what to do.
Daisy was shocked at his response. She had expected anger, and here William was accepting what she had said, sadly, but without blaming her or shouting. But then she supposed that this was just like William; to be kind and calm and put others before himself.
"No. Oh, I don't know what I want. I want you to be happy," she said despairingly.
"Could you… learn to love me?" William asked, without much hope.
"I don't know. I don't remember ever loving anyone before, not like you mean. Or being loved like that either."
"You are loved by me," William assured her, and he pulled her close to him again.
Daisy felt so loved and protected in his arms, she began to look at the future with some hope. Perhaps, now she had been honest and William still loved her, there was hope that she might learn, in time, to love him in return. She certainly felt more for him than she had ever felt for anyone else in her life.
"I think maybe I could come to love you," she said slowly.
Hope flickered in William's chest.
"I will never force you to do anything you don't want to. We don't have to… sleep together, if you don't want to. But I will love you until the day I die, Daisy."
As she lay in bed that night, Daisy found herself wondering what it would be like to have William in bed next to her. The thought made her feel hot and made her heart beat a little faster, which frightened her a little. To her surprise, it was not an unpleasant thought. She knew there were other things a man and wife did together in bed, apart from sleeping, but didn't really know what these were, and thought it better not to dwell on them. Imagining William's arm around her as she drifted off to sleep, his voice comforting her if she had a nightmare, his face being the first thing she saw each morning, made her happier than she would have thought possible. Now William knew the truth, nothing seemed as bad as it had done before.
The second part of this chapter wasn't originally part of my plan for this story, but a review made me rethink William and Daisy's importance in the story. I hope it's not too random and rushed.