Chapter 9 – Need

The Colonel left and Matthew got the men started on removing the ghastly pile in front of their position (using grappling hooks and ropes so as not to expose themselves to enemy fire).

"Gonna' be a bitch of job, sir. Pardon my words." Sergeant Cropper complained.

"I know. But we can't leave them there. Disease. Besides they block our field of fire. Needs to be done." Matthew explained. "The Colonel will send stretchers up with the Medical Corps to help."

Cropper sighed. "Righto. Yes, sir," he answered with disgust.

"By the way, Sergeant, it was Euler that figured out something was off last night. See he gets the word that the Colonel was very pleased. And take him off captain-of-the-guard duty for this evening. I'll take that bit myself. He deserves a rest."

"Very good, sir. I'll tell him myself."

Matthew turned to go, scraping at his boots with a flat stick in a vain attempt to remove Captain Mitchell's vomit. "Damn it," he muttered.

Cropper winked at him. "Do you think that officer will cut the mustard?"

That made Matthew stop and he answered the grizzled non-com. "We were all green once, you know. Carry on."

Matthew slogged alone the line, with William in tow, telling the men that the Colonel was pleased at the outcome. Generally the men smiled, even though in a few minutes they'd be carrying dead bodies to the rear through the narrow and crowded trenches. All the same, he needed to tell his men they'd done a good job. That he needed them - wanted to tell them - that without them, he was nothing.

That made him recall the day before he had to leave the village to go up to Coventry with the General. Lavinia was very sad as it was a day sooner, but she did not want him to go; not lose one minute of their time together. Still, he knew, better Coventry than the Front.

He'd found Lady Mary in the garden, speaking to Lavinia, who left suddenly, and he could see her eyes wet with tears. She went to the house before he could say a thing, leaving him facing the woman who he once thought he'd marry.

He told Mary about the change of plans and the pleasant expression on her face looked strained. There was something about the muscles about her eyes which told him she'd not come to talk about dinner that evening at Downton.

"Still, you want me then?" he asked. "For dinner."

She smiled with a hint of yearning in her voice. "I want you. Very much."

"Oh." Thinking back to that moment, he should have said something else. But she smiled her forced smile, her face paler than when he first saw her today, and she left.

He went in to the house where he and Lavinia had lunch. Molesley had served them a lovely turbot, with boiled potatoes and sprouts, after a light salad.

Lavinia paused when they were almost through eating. "I'm sorry that Mary couldn't stay, Matthew."

"Oh?" He had been wool gathering, thinking about the General, going back to work, Lavinia, and Mary somehow all at once.

"Yes," she smiled. "I do so want us to be friends. I mean…" her lip quivered. "If anything happened… to you…" she dropped her fork and dabbed at her face with her linen napkin.

Matthew touched her arm. "Lavinia, I'll be fine." He didn't feel that way, but he said it all the same.

"But if it did," she sniffled. "I'd want, no need, to be near these people. I mean they are your family."

"They would take care… help out…" he stuttered. "I mean…" He stopped speaking and looked away for a moment. "Don't you worry about that! Come on." He dried her tears with his handkerchief and rubbed her back, followed by a kiss.

By the time lunch was over, Lavinia felt better, and she read to him from a marvelous book about adventures in the American West. That made him think of Lord and Lady Grantham. Her Ladyship was an American, which made Mary half American. Was that why he still found her both fascinating and infuriating? No, he thought, infuriating was not the proper word. His feeling towards Mary was one of regret, sweet regret. If he'd not lost his temper, and if she'd not responded back then – when they broke up. But he felt so pressured to perform his duties to the manor, almost like being brought in for stud. It was all so damn scripted and it annoyed him to no end. So that was that.

Was that how Cora felt when she married Robert Crawley, his Lordship? They certainly seemed to get on very well and they had produced three daughters. Surely they must have fallen in love at some point.

Looking at Lavinia as she read about wild Indians chasing a stagecoach, he smiled and laughed along with her at all the right parts, he wondered if he did love Lavinia Swire? Or was there someone else he needed?

Standing in their line, watching his men manhandle the dead enemy, his face was one of stoic patience, but he replayed that sentence of Mary in the garden. "I want you. Very much," she said so Matthew pondered. That's what he heard her say, but what did she really mean?