A/N - Phew, just about managed to get this done in time for tonight's episode. Please excuse the very rushed and waffly nature of this chapter, I really just didn't have the time to polish it, so it's even worse than my stories usually are! That being said, I hope you enjoy reading nonetheless.
If you happen to be reading this after the episode, please bear in mind that this was written before watching episode 6 and based entirely off my own ideas from the episode 6 preview.
Oh and thanks everyone for your kind reviews. They've been so encouraging and have really helped my muse get this story finished!
So here it is - the last chapter of my story.
Rest did not come easy to Matthew; his mother's words were echoing around his thoughts and preventing him from sleeping. She made it all sound so simple, so black and white, as if his injuries didn't change anything, as if his uncertain future as earl did not matter. But then, perhaps it was that simple, if they were willing to marry him, even like this, then perhaps it was simply a question of his own choice. And that, too, was simple enough, clear, for there was little choice involved. Mary was engaged to Sir Richard, he was engaged to Lavinia and nothing else mattered. And yet… Every time his thoughts turned this way, Mary's voice would sound in his mind, he'd see her face looking at him so earnestly, telling him she still loved him. He had not expected that, could hardly even believe the words when he'd overheard them, yet Mary had confirmed them and now….
He never thought he'd ever hear those words from Mary, he hadn't before and now, over 4 years later, she was finally saying them? He did not know what to think, had not thought upon it for so long. Had not let himself think upon it. Not since the garden party, when he'd walked away, hurt and betrayed by her lack of regard. Then war had been announced, he'd signed up and the whirlwind called life had taken over. He didn't have time to think, to remember, to regret; remembering those days at Downton was a luxury he could not afford. Then he'd met Lavinia; sweet, kind, gentle Lavinia. He had no reason to doubt her regard and the thought of her had been a comfort whilst he had been away at war, her letters a delight and his visits something to look forward. It had been simple with Lavinia; he always knew where he stood, not like with Mary; a puzzle he'd never quite been able to figure out. He was glad that they were friends, he could admit to that, glad that they'd built their bridges and righted past wrongs between them. That was how things would, should have stayed, but now… He did not regret Mary telling him, and it had been accidental he'd even overheard, but now… He did not know what to think, did not want to let those past memories, regrets, feelings, take control again. He thought they'd all gone, not just buried, but dead, no more. He had moved on, he was with Lavinia now, and yet…
No, it did not matter and even now, part of him could not accept her words, could simply not believe that she loved him, still loved him, even now, had loved him even then. Yet whilst he sought to find evidence against her, things only fell more clearly into place. He'd never allowed himself to question their friendship before, once he'd first returned to Downton after joining the army; how she was so pleasant, kind towards him, so welcoming to his fiancée and how she had helped nurse him when he returned injured, wearing her apron, wheeling him about and keeping him company...
No, he supposed he could not doubt the sincerity of her words, not now, but he did not let himself think upon them for long, for that was far too troubling. She loved him and he would, had, only hurt her, caused her pain. It had been unintentional, but the guilt remained, especially when he knew he would only cause her more. For he could not marry her, even if he wanted to. Her fiancée was blackmailing her and he could not let her risk that for him. For it wasn't just Mary who would be hurt, but the whole family. He did not know if he would ever be able to bear looking in Lord Grantham's eyes again, knowing it was he who was responsible for her secret becoming known. Her secret... Yet one more thing he was trying to push away from his thoughts. She'd been with another man, had covered up his death, had involved her mother and her maid… The added knowledge that this had been a reason for her delay only brought another wave of pain and regret. He pushed it back. There was no use in thinking of what might have been. No use wondering whether if he, perhaps, had been more understanding, less forceful and impatience, she may have told him, then… And even if she had, what then? Would he have been able to marry her still, knowing this? At least that was a question he could answer, for whilst he would have been disappointed, it would not have stopped him from marrying her, for he'd loved her enough, then. Now… Well the secret seemed of little consequence any more, to him at least, not after all that had happened to him, to them, not after the war, after everything else had changed. No, her secret did not matter to him, did not affect his feelings for her, whatever they may be…
It didn't matter anymore anyway. He couldn't marry Mary, for even without her secret, he was engaged. He'd pushed Lavinia away, because of his injuries, because of his own self pity, made her return to London because he couldn't force this life upon her. A life that had been forced upon him and he must bear alone. Yet she had not given up on him, according to his mother she still wanted to marry him and he knew, if he were honest with himself on this at least, that the entail would probably not change her mind either. So if he was to marry anyone, if he was willing to inflict this on someone, he must marry her, it was that simple. He could hardly marry another when he'd been the one to push Lavinia away, when she had committed to him, stood by him when he'd first arrived, was willing to marry him despite everything… No. That would be wrong, dishonourable and he could not hurt her like that. He must still marry Lavinia. And he loved her, he knew that much. She'd been such a constant, such a hope, a joy to keep him going through the war. Yes, he loved her and would marry her, wanted to marry her. And yet… Mary's face filled his vision again and he screwed his eyes tightly shut, willing it away. It did not matter anymore, it was too late for him and Mary, if they'd ever even had a chance. It did not matter anymore. And yet…
His thoughts would not leave him alone, circling round and round, each one contradicting the next, just like they had when he'd sat outside, watching the shadows lengthen and the wind scatter the few fallen leaves around the grounds. Try as he might, he could not will his thoughts into silence, could not force them down with the words he kept on repeating. He was not used to this inactivity, of having nothing else to distract him, nothing else to occupy his time and push away his thoughts. He was used to being out there, fighting, planning, keeping his own and his men's spirits alive. He was used to the continual sound of gunfire, of shells exploding and screaming men. Here it was too quiet; there was no noise to drown out his thoughts. Here there was nothing to do but sit and think. It had been easier when he'd been on leave. It was always for such a short time and there was so much to fit in before he returned. Now… Now there was little he could do, even if he wanted to, stuck in this bed or in that blasted chair, nothing to take his mind off his melancholy thoughts. And he had thought a lot, since he'd returned, about his future, his injuries, about the war. Now his thoughts were turning towards Mary, Lavinia, and he did not want that. Did not want to think any more about what ifs. It did not matter, the choice was simple, for there was no choice, not really.
He turned his face away and saw the dog she'd given him, sat on his bedside cabinet, though he wasn't quite sure why, why he even still had it with him. Something had always stopped him as he left each time to fight. Something had made him pick it up, cradle it momentarily in his hands before shoving it in his pocket. He'd never bothered to question it before, had never allowed himself the luxury, it was just a symbol of good luck, nothing more. Yet it was hers, she had given it to him and he had kept it with him, all those years… And here it was, sitting there with barely a scratch, just as she had asked. He smiled then, strangely enough, thinking of the joke he must make when he returned it to her, just as promised. And he would return it to her, he had to, for it did not matter anymore, it was no longer right for him to keep it.
Still his thoughts would still not settle and when his mother returned, he was incredibly relieved to have company and action once more. His mother spoke no more of their previous conversation as she helped him get ready for dinner and he was finally able, at least momentarily, to push his thoughts away, forcing himself to remember that Mary must marry Sir Richard and he must marry Lavinia. Though why he picked up that little dog and tucked it into his pocket as his mother wheeled him out, he did not dare to think upon, for it did not matter, not any more.
It was a useful skill of Mary's, being accustomed to awkward dinner parties, one she'd learnt through much practice and it was tested to its limits tonight. The only way Mary could think of making this particular dinner party more awkward was if her Aunt Rosamund had been here. For she was never one to keep her opinion to her self and there were far too many opinions being thrown around the table as it was. Cousin Isobel and her mother were once again discussing, the only polite word Mary could think of to describe it, the running of the hospital and convalescence home at the Abbey. Edith was trying to stir up interest in another concert and Sybil was trying to change the topic of conversation to the events in Russia and the rumours of the war nearing its end. Her grandmother was dropping in her opinion on all these matters whenever she deemed it worthy, which was as frequently as ever, and her father was trying his uppermost to juggle and manage all these different topics and try to keep the peace.
Mary, for her part, smiled and laughed, rolled her eyes and spoke when necessarily, long since versed in the art of maintaining appearances, but her thoughts were far away and her attention very much diverted. For one thing, she had to struggle to avoid catching Sir Richard's menacing, threatening gaze. She'd managed to avoid speaking to him so far, occupying Sybil before dinner and she planned to do the same in the drawing room later. She did not know how to face him at the moment, did not want to explain why she had not returned to the library this afternoon. Her tears had fallen fast once they'd started and she had been in no state to entertain her future husband, but she could hardly tell that to Sir Richard. And so she avoided his heavy gaze as much as she was politely able, but his own did not leave hers. He was watching her; her every word, expression and glance all scrutinised and held as evidence to possibly use against her. Not that it mattered, his study, Mary would have avoided watching Matthew regardless, avoided catching his eyes for she did not think she could bear what may lie within them. And Matthew was avoiding looking at her, too, his gaze and attention determinedly focused elsewhere. Not that his somewhat vacant expression and lack of conversation was unusual. In fact Mary could at least be content that no one else seemed to be paying enough attention to notice the tension simmering between her, Matthew and Sir Richard. Perhaps awkward dinner parties were not quite so without their virtues after all, or maybe she had simply underestimated even her own skills at dealing with them.
Yes, it was indeed a very useful skill and one she happily extended to the drawing room after dinner. She had successfully managed to occupy all the time there with her two sisters, both seeming so desperate to talk about their particular concerns that they did not question Mary's somewhat unusual interest in what they had to say. However, as she was leaving the drawing room to retire for the night, she heard distinctive footsteps behind her. It seemed Sir Richard was not quite so easy to ignore, after all.
"Am I not to speak with you at all today, my fiancée?" His voice was perfectly civil, as he came up behind her, though Mary did not miss the underlying, threatening tone.
She paused for a moment, tempted to just continue on, but he came nearer to her, a silent threat, and Mary knew that would be too unwise. "I am sorry, Richard. My sisters would not leave me be this evening." She turned around and forced herself not to take a step back despite his nearness, instead fixing her smile to her lips. "They can be quite talkative if you give them even the slightest hint of interest." She laughed softly, but it was cut off almost immediately when Sir Richard came nearer still.
"And you rushed off so this afternoon, I barely saw you." His voice was still cordial, but Mary was not fooled, for the eyes that had been watching her all evening were piercing into hers now, the anger and frustration simmering there, a definite warning. Mary did step back, then, unable to quite fully stand against his barely concealed rage.
"I am sorry, Richard, but I was tired. I needed to rest before dinner. You know how weak we females can be." She smiled innocently, hoping, more than expecting, him to accept her explanation.
"And yet you still found the time to sit with your cousin."
"I could hardly leave him on his own, Sir Richard! I would not wish that upon any of the soldiers here, least of all my cousin."
"Your sudden interest in nursing is most astounding, Mary. Especially after I made such an effort to arrive here early today, in the hope we could spend more time together." His voice was gradually growing colder, the tone laced with venom as he pressed himself closer towards her.
"Perhaps if you had contacted us about your change of plans, alternative arrangements could have been made." She paused, tried to find her voice again, which was growing weaker as her anxiety grew. "As it was, however, his mother and all the nurses were busy."
He stepped closer still and as Mary moved backwards she found herself prevented by the wall. She forced herself not to look furtively around, checking for any servants or members of her family. They were probably still all arguing in the drawing room and this particular stretch of corridor she knew was not widely used. Still, she was concerned that Sir Richard would think to threaten her in so public a place, worried that their being seen was only part of his plan.
"I have warned you before to not try to fool me, Mary."
The malice was clear in his voice now and unwittingly Mary shrank back further from him. "And as I have said before, Sir Richard, I have no reason to." She tried to smile, tried to move away from him, but he came nearer still, trapping her against the wall.
"You have given me the power to destroy you, and don't think I won't use it."
"I do not doubt that for a moment, Sir Richard." Her voice was weak now, her eyes furtive as a flicker of panic rushed through her. Was this really the man she was to marry? But she had no choice, not then, not now. She must marry him to keep her scandal secret. Besides, Matthew did not want her, so what did it matter, anyway. "I am well aware what you are capable of." She thought of Lavinia then, wondered at the hidden strength within the woman, when she had been made to help Sir Richard, for he was indeed no man to be trifled with.
He watched her carefully for a moment, saw the furtive, anxious look in her eyes, in her voice. He stepped back, knowing his message had been received. "Then do not try my patience, Mary. I am your fiancé and expect to be treated as such."
"I will endeavour to do nothing less," Mary replied, "goodnight, Richard." Then, whilst she still had chance and not caring at that moment how weak it appeared, she stepped away from him and quickened her pace to her room.
She was stopped in the upstairs corridor when she saw Matthew and Isobel coming towards her. They had left the drawing room before her and she had rather assumed that they would have retired now. Their journey must have been delayed, for it appeared they were only now approaching his room. Mary did not want to face Matthew then, not after her run in with Sir Richard and her strength and skill at appearing indifferent and cordial were at an all time low. They had seen her though, she could not turn her back on them now. Instead she fixed her smile once more to her face, her jaw nearly aching from how much it had been forced into this expression today. "Hello, Cousin Isobel, Cousin Matthew," her voice bright with feigned cheerfulness.
"Hello Mary," Cousin Isobel greeted her, her voice as warm and friendly as it ever was. There was something else there too, a deeper sympathy perhaps, and Mary feared for a moment that she may know her secrets. Matthew mumbled his own greeting, though it was not so warm as his mothers.
The politeness and etiquette that had been drilled into her since birth, twinned with her fierce desire to appear nonchalant, made it unable for her to retreat then and instead she was forced to think of polite conversation. It was not usually such a chore, but then so much had happened today and even her great skills had their limits. "I trust you had a pleasant evening?"
"Yes, thank you, Mary," Isobel replied, before her smile suddenly fell as she continued, "though I am sorry, but I just remembered I forget to tell one of the nurses something about a soldier." She looked anxious as she looked at Mary. "I really must go, but would you be so kind as to take Matthew to his room, I'll only be a few minutes."
Mary's smile widened further as dread filled her heart. She did not want Cousin Isobel to leave her alone with Matthew. "Of course, it won't be any trouble."
"Thank you, Mary." Isobel smiled sweetly, before turning around and walking away, her footsteps not all that fast considering how urgent her request had sounded.
Mary watched her leave a moment, before snapping to action and stepping behind Matthew. She wheeled him to his room without a word, for it was close by, but when she entered and shut the door, she was suddenly at a loss as to what to do. She had helped Matthew to bed numerous times over the months, but that was before… Now, the idea filled her heart with panic and she stood around for several moments, trying to compose herself enough to work out what to do. Isobel had said she'd only be a few minutes, but the thought of just leaving him here, in that chair, only increased her anxiety. She also knew how important it was to maintain normality, for if she could pretend things were as they ever were, maybe they may both start believing the lie.
Her bright smile never fell from her lips as she pushed Matthew towards the bed and before her confidence failed her, she moved to help him up. It was easier now anyway, his strength was growing and he could take much of his weight on his arms. Gone were the days when he needed several nurses to help him move. She stepped away once he was sitting up on the bed though; considering how things currently stood between them, she would leave his mother to continue.
"Thank you, Mary." Matthew's reply was surprisingly heavy, his voice filled with so much more than mere gratitude for her recent help.
She felt her heart stutter at the emotion in his words, at the kind, melancholy, wistful way he was looking at her. For a moment her smile faltered, her hands itching to reach out and take hold of his, to look into his eyes, lean over and perhaps even kiss him… Wondered for a moment how he might react… But then Sir Richard's words echoed in her mind, and she did not doubt for a moment he would even hesitate to bring about her ruin. And what then anyway, even if she could marry Matthew? When the scandal of her shame would plague her life and anyone associated with her, including her sisters and Matthew. Could she really do that to him? No, Matthew deserved better, had always deserved better and she forced her smile ever brighter, hoping the movement would not crack her mask too much, for she could feel the tears tickling her eyes and threatening to fall. She stepped back further, nearing the door though she made no move to leave, she would at least wait for Cousin Isobel.
Her smile seemed to cause something to crack in Matthew's expression, for he swallowed for a moment, before his eyes became hard, his lips once more drawing into a tight line. He motioned over to the small bureau in the corner of the room where a stationery set laid. "Would you be so kind as to pass me some paper, Mary. I would like to write a letter..." He swallowed a moment and Mary saw a mixture of emotions flicker across his face. Then, he continued, his voice firmer now, decisive. "To Lavinia."
"Of course," Mary nodded, before turning around quickly, blinking back the tears. She was slow to pick up the paper and pen though, slow to find a nearby tray, but when she walked back towards Matthew, her face was calm and collected once more.
He took the gifts without a word, but as Mary stepped away, he suddenly placed a hand upon her arm. She stilled instantly and when she looked down, she saw her little toy dog held out in front of her.
"Here," he answered, pushing it towards her as Mary tentatively reached out for it. "I do not need it any more and I think he misses you."
Mary looked up at his words, his voice was thick, heavy again, his words full of meaning, but his gaze was empty, deliberately distant, his smile barely reaching his lips. "I am only sorry he did not do a better job of keeping you safe." She took her little dog from him, taking care to allow no contact between them. When she looked up again, his smile was fuller.
"He kept me safe enough, Mary. Thank you. And look, he has not a scratch on him."
She turned the stuffed animal over in her hands, almost marvelling at how not even a seam or stitch had become unravelled. "Then I shall thank you, for keeping him safe from harm." She smiled again, her smile genuine for once, but sad, melancholy and her eyes began to sting. Matthew held her gaze and just for a moment, she let herself wonder, imagine, hope. Then, the door opened and Mary spun around quickly as Cousin Isobel entered.
She looked between them for a moment, her face confused, her expression thoughtful, before she spoke, "Thank you, Mary."
"It is nothing," Mary quickly replied, her voice thicker than she intended. She quickly headed towards the door, brushing past Cousin Isobel. She only paused a moment to wish them goodnight, before she shut it carefully behind her.
As the sound echoed around the room, Isobel remained silent, but then she noticed her son staring pensively at a piece of paper in front of him. He must have noticed her looking, for he suddenly glanced up. "I am writing to Lavinia. I thought I would invite her to Downton." He looked down again then, not meeting her eyes and Isobel was spared from having to pretend to smile. She should be pleased, she was pleased that her son was finally writing to his fiancée, and yet… She had not been unreceptive to the tension and emotion in the air between him and Mary... She asked softly, tentatively, "Is this your decision then, you are choosing Lavinia?"
Her question hung in the air for a long time, before Matthew finally spoke, his answer surprisingly flippant, "Sometimes we don't have a choice, mother."
Isobel was stunned by the underlying bitterness in Matthew's tone and it only further reinforced her doubts. "There is always a choice, Matthew, though sometimes it is easier to pretend otherwise when we seek to choose the simpler one."
His mother's pearl of wisdom surprised Matthew and it gave him pause for a moment, but just a moment. For his mother didn't know the full truth, she did not know about Mary's secret and what would happen if she did not marry Sir Richard. "Yes mother. And I made my choice several years ago when I asked Lavinia to marry me."
Isobel simply nodded, not saying another word as she helped Matthew into his bed clothes and, at his request, she passed him the tray with the writing paper once more. As she began to leave though, she looked round and tried once more. "Matthew, please, think upon it and ensure you make the right choice."
Matthew didn't say anything as his mother shut the door behind her, just stared at the empty piece of paper in front of him. He had done enough thinking and the right choice. This was the right choice, he had to believe it. He was engaged to Lavinia, he could not marry another, it would be unfair, dishonourable and he could not be the reason for the shame that would be brought down upon them all if he chose Mary.
Before he lost his nerve, he quickly scribbled across the paper, Dear Lavinia. He stopped, re-read the words until they blurred together in his mind, then he quickly screwed up the paper and tossed it across his room. She was more to him than that, surely. He loved her, Lavinia, not Mary… didn't he? She wasn't distant, confusing, perplexing, she didn't dance around her words and take four years to admit she loved him. No, Lavinia was safe, secure and the right, the only, choice. Though why, after all the truths he heard that day, this one felt the closest to a lie, he did not think upon. Instead, he quickly picked up his pen again and began writing, Darling Lavinia…
THE END
A/N - Ok I know it's not quite the ending we all wanted, but hey, it's only supposed to cover a possible episode 6 scenario and I think we can all guess that Julian Fellowes won't get Mary and Matthew back together until at least the very end of this series!
I'm not sure if I will continue it though, it depends on what does happen tonight in episode 6, what's hinted about in episode 7 and how active my muse is feeling. For now, consider this story complete!
Thanks for reading! Oh and the line, "You have given me the power to destroy you, and don't think I won't use it." is also from the episode 6 preview.