A/N: Enormous apologies for the huge delay! My muse deserted me. It's been very frustrating! Finally, she returned to me, and here is chapter 9.

In the meantime, I've been overwhelmed to keep receiving alerts and favourites for this fic, and of course reviews for chapter 8 - thank you so much, for every single one. It's incredibly rewarding to know so many people are keen to know what happens next!

Huge special thanks to Eolivet who gave me some utterly beautiful inspiration for parts of this. She knows which parts they are, and I'm incredibly grateful for it, as well as her endless encouragement! :)

With no further ado... Enjoy!


Chapter Nine

It didn't take long, really, for the Crawley family to accept the change in Mary's situation, particularly after Matthew's effusive letter. Mary had thought correctly; he'd known exactly the right thing to say to pacify them. She found, with rueful pleasure, that she could no longer begrudge Matthew's position of favour in her father's eyes.

After much deliberation and agonising, Cora wrote to the wider family to explain that, with the war upon them, Mary and Matthew had decided to marry in a quiet, private ceremony, desiring little fuss. Her first suggestion had been that they should arrange a 'proper' wedding for Matthew's return, that everyone could attend and be none the wiser, but Mary would not have it. It was strange, but it felt to her as though it would somehow cheapen what they had shared, to cover it up so.

Even Violet had, to most people's surprise, come around to the idea with relative smoothness. Though, she made no secret of the fact that she had always championed their union, and was frankly beyond caring how or where they got about it, so long as they did!

Really, though, the notion became more palatable because… it was not apparent. In their eyes, Mary was still their daughter, lived at home with them, went about her routine as she did before – though with a greater spring in her step, a brighter smile, and a flush of excitement twice a week when she received his letters. It seemed difficult to contemplate that she was married, whilst her situation remained so unchanged.

To Mary, though… Oh, how could anything be the same! Everything was changed. Now, she walked around the Abbey knowing that one day it really would be her home – no, not hers – theirs. The sheer, ever-present awareness that she belonged to Matthew, and he to her, seemed to pervade everything. She almost felt like a different person. The devotion she read in his letters, remembered in his touch, his look, seemed to set every fibre of her being alight. It touched everything. Ever since she had returned, as his wife… food tasted different. Everything seemed… to matter more. She felt more. Her body felt different, changed, affected by the memory of his love. She could not be the same as she was before… It was quite beautiful.

She wondered, that first month when it passed, if somehow the sheer force of their love could have affected her even more than she'd thought. A brief flutter of panic swept her, but she ignored it, put it down to stress of the emotional turmoil and upheaval she'd experienced, combined now with his absence… It had been intense, so intense, and so brief… Yes. That must be all it was.

The second month also passed, and the faint fingers of fear began to creep into her gut. But again, she ignored it. She'd been so tired, recently, surely it was only that… War was a straining business, and she missed Matthew so much – all she had was a photograph (generously donated by Isobel) and his shirt, and though they were dear reminders, so dear, they were not him. Though part of her mind pricked at what it must mean, she resolutely ignored it, burying the thought deep in her mind. No, she could not comprehend that, not yet, not with Matthew away. He must be here for that, she couldn't possibly – no, she wouldn't even think about it. The worry of the prospect alone was beginning to make her ill, her appetite became unsteady and on some days she could barely palate food. No, she mustn't even think it, it would be too much.

The third month passed, and Mary warily began to consider that she must, now, heed it. Must she? Yes, she grudgingly supposed she must. But she was terrified, so terrified by the prospect. How could she possibly deal with it alone? What was she supposed to do? Sometimes, just sometimes, a glimmer of excitement, or pleasure, at the thought would seep through. It would be such a perfect fulfilment of things… But then the terror would just as swiftly return. She was barely used to being a wife, had only been a wife in the truest sense for a couple of days – this was unthinkable! For a week, she worried over it, her lethargy growing as her appetite diminished, until she realised that she must do something. For her own sake, for Matthew's sake, for… She could barely even finish the thought.


With a trembling hand, she knocked one morning at the door of Crawley House. Molesley opened it, smiled warmly (she was always welcome there, now) and showed her through to the sitting room. Gingerly, she sat, and passed the time waiting by glancing nervously around. Somehow, just being here calmed her. She looked around the room – at its cool, blue walls, the photographs on the mantelpiece, books upon the coffee table – and felt a kernel of contentment. One day, this would be their home. One day, when he was back, and the rotten war was over, they'd be together and this would be their home. It was a pleasant thought. He, and she, and… She stopped. Shivered. Started again. He'd sit in his armchair, there, with the newspaper or a book. She'd sit at the little table in the window, writing, or doing whatever it was that wives were supposed to do. And in the corner – or by the edge of the settee, perhaps – her instinct was to stop again, but this time she pushed the thought through. By the edge of the settee, a crib, that contained a child with striking blue eyes and blonde, downy hair…

This image of family contentment amused her for a little while, and she began to feel a comforting ease come over her, when her thoughts were startled by Isobel bustling into the room. She jumped a little, twisted to the door and smiled nervously.

"Isobel!"

"Mary, dear, I do hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Oh, no, not at all!" Mary's tight smile trembled, and she clasped her hands tightly together. Her voice was coming out higher, strained, she could tell. Swallowing nervously, her throat constricting, she blinked up once at her mother-in-law.

Isobel sat down carefully, watching the young woman with a practised eye. Mary dropped in with relative frequency, these days, and the two women had quickly established a firm bond in Matthew's absence. Immediately, it was clear to Isobel that this was not a routine visit. In truth, if she were entirely honest, she was only surprised it had not occurred sooner.

"I'm glad," she smiled brightly. Deciding to cut straight to the chase at Mary's evident tension, Isobel sat up straighter and clasped her hands purposefully together. "Now then, do I have the pleasure of purely a social call, or is there something troubling you, dear?"

Mary stared at her hands in her lap, fiddling agitatedly with her wedding ring. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to speak, and when she did, it was in a very small, hesitant voice.

"I – was hoping for some advice." She still didn't look up.

Isobel got up and moved closer, to the corner of the settee nearest Mary, and placed her hand gently over hers.

"What is it?" As always, she saw no point in dilly-dallying around an issue – whatever it might be.

"Well, you see, it's that –" She stopped and took a breath. This was hard! It was all very well being a quiet, unvoiced concern in her head that she could ignore, but this would make it so very real… As she sighed, she felt Isobel's hand tighten reassuringly, willing her to go on. Mary moistened her lips and tried again.

"I've begun to wonder if – perhaps –" She squeezed her eyes fleetingly shut, then looked at Isobel with a flash of determination. Out with it. "Oh, Isobel, I'm beginning to suspect quite seriously that I might be – with child." By the end of her sentence, her words were little more than whispers upon her breath, that Isobel had to strain to catch.

She clasped Mary's hands and opened her mouth to respond, eyes gleaming, but now that the prospect was verbalised, Mary felt such a rush of release that she could not seem to stop.

"Only I don't know, and I don't know what I'd – Matthew isn't here! And I should be thrilled, I'm sure, and I think perhaps I am but then it scares me so –"

"Mary, dear!" Isobel cut her off before she threw herself into a wild, needless panic. Mary stopped, startled, staring wide-eyed at the older woman. Isobel could see her throat constrict as she breathed in fear. She smiled reassuringly and leaned forwards a little. "Of course it's overwhelming, and especially with Matthew away. Even if he were here, I think!"

Mary nodded tightly.

Isobel continued. "Now, then. Do you know for sure? Does anybody else know?" Her attitude was practical and sensible as ever. It reminded Mary of Matthew, and she smiled gently.

"No," she said quietly. "I've hardly dared think about it myself, even, until this last week." She looked faintly apologetic.

In truth, Mary wasn't entirely sure why it was Isobel she'd come to first. She decided it was because Isobel was a nurse, she knew about things such as these, could help… It should have perhaps been her own mother, she thought. But it was Isobel who had championed her marriage to Matthew, Isobel who made her think of Matthew, and it was only for Matthew's sake that she could even begin to comprehend the possibility of… this.

Upon Isobel's sound advice, they summoned Doctor Clarkson from the village hospital; luckily, he was having a quiet afternoon. Mary wanted as little fuss as possible; she couldn't possibly face going there herself – far too many questions would be raised – and if she were to summon him to the Abbey, explanations would be required by her parents, and she was certainly not yet ready for that!

To her quiet delight, Isobel suggested they use Matthew's bedroom for privacy. Mary immediately felt at ease there – it was as though she could feel his very presence in the room – and when Doctor Clarkson left, it was with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Is everything alright?" Isobel asked earnestly at the door.

"Oh yes," Clarkson nodded, with that easy, comforting smile. "She'll do perfectly fine. Or, should I say, they'll do perfectly fine."

Isobel grinned widely and touched his arm in thanks. "I'm so glad to hear it."

It was several more minutes before Mary reappeared, looking drawn. Isobel had taken the liberty of having some tea prepared, and Mary took a cup gratefully as she eased down into a chair.

"Well, then?" Isobel gently pressed.

Mary simply nodded. "Oh, yes. Everything is – as we suspected." She gave a wan smile. "Thank you, Isobel. It's such a weight from my mind, to know for certain."

"Of course it is, my dear." Already, she could see that the tension had dropped from Mary's shoulders, though there was still a slight unease about her. She smiled brightly. "I couldn't be more thrilled for you, Mary."

"I'm sure! Thank you," Mary breezed, her smile widening a little, before she gave a little sigh. "And I'm sure Matthew will be too." Oh, Matthew… Her heart ached for missing him. She hardly dared imagine his reaction to the news, because as soon as her mind strayed there, she remembered that she would not see it.

"And how do you feel about it now?" Isobel broke gently into her thoughts, a kind expression covering her face.

"I hardly know!" Placing her teacup down gently, Mary folded her hands in her lap and sighed a little.

She certainly wanted to be thrilled – she should be! She was… She was carrying Matthew's child. What a simply wondrous thought. It was so wondrous, it seemed too much to take in. The final, perfect seal of their union. A piece of Matthew, oh, what a wonderful piece, that would be with her now until he was returned to her (she refused to believe that he would not be, it was too much). A part of Matthew, always with her. Yes… she could welcome the bubble of joy within her for that.

But, then, it only served to remind her that Matthew was not here now. That he wouldn't be, for months at a time. The prospect of doing this alone… Oh, she would not be alone, she knew, but without Matthew, and really was that not the same thing? Cold fear pooled in her at the thought that he wouldn't be present to see his child born – for his own sake as well as hers. Dear Matthew, he would be overjoyed – from his barracks, his trench, wherever he happened to be. And that thought stabbed at her more than anything.

Feeling restless and agitated, frustrated at her own self-imposed barriers to happiness, she stood up and paced lightly across the room. Isobel sat calmly, allowing her to work out her feelings in silence. Her presence alone was comfort enough.

For some time, they remained like this. Mary, lost in her thoughts and Isobel, sitting, waiting, calmly picking up a book in the meantime. It was perfectly alright. Mary gazed out of the window, and laid her hand lightly against the frame.

"What was Matthew's father like?" Her quiet voice broke the stillness of the air.

"Reginald?" Isobel couldn't disguise the surprise in her tone.

"Yes." Mary turned around to face her, a gentle, enquiring look on her face. "Matthew's never really spoken of him, you see." Her eyes naturally fell upon the photograph of Matthew on the mantelpiece when she spoke of him. She wasn't sure why she suddenly wanted to know, but curiosity had stuck her.

"Oh! Well, he was…" Isobel pursed her lips slightly and thought. Nobody had asked her of Reginald for such a long time. Mary was right; Matthew never talked much about him, though she knew he wasn't often far from her son's thoughts. "He was very like Matthew," Isobel finally settled upon.

Standing up, she crossed to the little cabinet and pulled out a small album. Flicking through its well-thumbed, worn pages, she beckoned Mary to join her on the sofa.

Isobel was right. Mary let out a soft gasp as she looked at the old photograph, of a much younger Isobel with a tall man, with blonde hair and that same soft smile…

"He was very handsome," Mary said softly.

"Yes," Isobel smiled. "I'm afraid I must credit Matthew mostly to him, in that respect!"

Mary chuckled. "You look very happy together," she observed.

"We were!" Isobel's voice was tinged with sad remembrance. "Very much so."

When Mary turned the page, a delighted gasp slipped past her lips.

"Is that –"

"Matthew, yes."

"Oh!"

Staring out from the photograph at them was a boy of eight or nine, with ever so slightly too long hair flopping over his forehead. Despite the faded image, his eyes seemed to sparkle brightly, his smile proud as he perched upon a gleaming bicycle, his cheeks boyishly full and a school cap upon his head.

"It took him a very long time to learn," Isobel remembered.

"Yes, he told me!" Mary recalled the tale, recounted by Matthew on that blissful morning after their wedding. "I'm glad he didn't give up! He wouldn't be nearly so endearing without that bicycle," she trailed off softly.

"I'm afraid he's inherited his stubbornness from me," Isobel laughed. "Reginald was gentle as a lamb – as Matthew certainly can be, I know, but – he certainly has that streak in him."

"I know it, believe me!" Mary smiled brightly. Her fingers traced over his image, then she turned back to the previous. "You must miss him very much," she almost whispered.

"I do. Very much."

At Isobel's soft sigh, Mary looked up, eyes clouded with sympathy. She suddenly realised how deep the understanding they shared ran. Of longing, absence, memory… Only, alongside that, she had hope. Hope of Matthew's return, and hope in this child. Just as, she supposed, Isobel had Matthew.

And all at once, she felt at far greater ease than she had done for weeks. Somehow, with that understanding, she knew it would be alright… and this time, when that little kernel of joy sprung up, she could not quash it.


Even so, it was another two weeks before she dared write to Matthew to tell him. She felt it only right that she were comfortable with the idea herself, before burdening him with it. Not burdening him with the news, no – but it was such a shock to her, still, that she wanted to be fully accustomed to the situation – she could not burden him with any latent unease over it.

With a fluttering heart, she sat down to write. Now that she knew, she recognised all these signs as being an effect of it – her heightened emotions, tiredness, tastes – and so wasn't surprised when she had to blot falling tears from the page. She was carrying Matthew's child. She'd allowed herself to indulge this thought, now, and the thought of Matthew being a father… That seemed easier to palate, somehow, than the thought of herself being a mother, which she hadn't quite dared contemplate yet. She knew without a doubt he would take to it admirably, and the thought brought fresh tears to her eyes.

She wrote quickly, naturally, allowing her thoughts to spill onto the page to him without too much care. Matthew preferred her letters, she knew, without too much forethought. He believed it more as though she were talking to him, then. As if she did not think before she spoke as a matter of course, she'd thought!

As soon as it was written and sealed, she gave it to Carson to post. He did not understand her haste, nor the trembling of her hands or nervous smile, but she knew it had to be straight off before she lost her nerve.

When a letter arrived only a few hours later then, with the afternoon post, she was surprised. Chiding herself for the foolish, ridiculous thought that by some spell he could have responded already (true, he was only in Coventry but the post was not that efficient!), she took his letter up to her room. She'd received a letter only the day before, and did not generally write again until he'd received her reply. Brows furrowed in perplexed expectation, she slit open the envelope.

Her hands started to shake until she could barely read it any more, and the letter dropped to the floor at her feet.

Darling Mary,

I have news. There isn't an easy way to tell you, Mary, but the company is needed in France, to support the front lines. We are to leave in the morning. Our training, such as we have received so far, will have to do well enough – we're considered ready, at least. We wouldn't be going if not.

I'm so sorry, darling, that I shan't see you before I go. If I could... I'm sorry, my love. Don't worry – please, Mary, try not to worry – it won't be long before I'm back with you. A couple of months, they've said. If all goes to plan.

I'll be alright. This is what I was training for, after all, isn't it? It's just come a little sooner than expected. I'll write to mother. I'm sorry I can't tell you more now, that's all I know just now. I'll write again when we arrive.

I'll see you soon, darling – think of me.

With all my fondest love,
Matthew.

TBC


A/N: Thank you so much for reading! It's lovely to know what you thought, reviews are always hugely appreciated! I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you!