Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912
Matthew sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea that had grown cold. He continued to drink the now chilled chamomile, hoping it might calm him enough to sleep. Though it was understandable that he was perpetually unnerved these days, given recent events, that did not make his inability to shut his mind down any less tolerable. He idly played with the end of his loose tie, flicking the silk between his fingers again and again. His eyes were clouded and stared blankly at the table, his free hand lifting the cold tea to his lips once more.
The last two weeks sometimes felt as if they had passed in minutes. Matthew was so determined to remember every moment spent with his father that they were beginning to bleed together into one long conversation. Dr. Crawley had gamely tried to join them for dinner as usual, even inquiring as to the goings on at the hospital and other ridiculously irrelevant topics. They had maintained the ruse for a week after Isobel had revealed his condition, but then the wheezing had worsened and Dr. Boyd ordered him to stay home and after several long arguments with Isobel and Matthew, he had relented. He had left instructions at the hospital for certain patients, scheduling follow up appointments for two weeks ahead. It was not lost upon any of Isobel, Matthew or Mary why Dr. Crawley had chosen a two-week leave of absence.
This evening, after another dinner that was full of effort and enthusiasm but short on optimism, Matthew had the annoying task of walking Mary back to Lady Philomena's house. The old battle axe had returned from London with her household and any hope Matthew had of Mary spending the night had evaporated. For once his wish to keep her in his bed was entirely innocent. He needed to feel her with him, her presence alone surely the best sleeping tonic he could hope for. Sadly, though Mary's whereabouts were often ignored, the servants were sure to notice when she wasn't in her bedroom in the morning. Though Lady Philomena already thought the worst of Mary as it was, the woman still had no reason to withhold any details from Lord Merton, and if it was discovered that Mary had slept elsewhere, it would raise an alarm. So he escorted her home reluctantly, seeing her off a block away from her home, and watching from the distance until she was safely inside.
Matthew often imagined confronting Lord Merton, declaring that Mary was his wife and spiriting her away as though they were living some dream or sappy romantic play. She would have none of it though. He had promised her not to fight her on this, and though he did raise it from time to time, he always relented. Having Mary as his wife on any terms was better than not having her at all.
But it was at times like these, on nights like these, that he missed her terribly. His mother attended to his father, spending long hours with him talking in private, being the support that he needed. Matthew felt as though it wasn't his place to intrude on them, and so he would retreat into a corner and deal with his own grief as best he could. During the day, when he could distract himself at the office, engage his parents in a pleasant conversation or spend time with Mary, he kept himself sufficiently busy to avoid dwelling on the harsh truth facing him. But at night, with Mary gone and his parents upstairs, Matthew sat alone, unable to sleep, accompanied only by a cold cup of tea and the spectre of his father's looming death.
It was therefore with surprise and shock that Matthew flinched as the kitchen door opened slowly. He thought he may have woken Mrs. Bird by accident, but instead, another woman stepped into the room.
"Oh, hello dear," Isobel said quietly. She appeared as shocked as he was at finding another person awake at this strange lonesome hour of the night. She turned on another light reluctantly, then quickly went to the counter and busied herself with reheating the kettle for tea.
"Mother," Matthew replied, his voice a mix of sad resignation and bitter irritation.
How many times had his mother come down to the kitchen in the dark of the night, seeking some respite from his father's condition, or perhaps something to soothe his symptoms and allow him to sleep? What if Matthew had just been awake for even one of these forays? What if he had seen her earlier, discovered what his parents were hiding from him and Mary? What if he could have done something?
What if he had at least tried to do something?
"Is that for Papa?" he asked shakily, gesturing to the tea cup as Isobel waited for the water to boil.
"No," Isobel said as she brushed imaginary crumbs off the counter. Mrs. Bird would have been very offended by the gesture made in her kitchen.
"It's for me," she continued quietly, her voice almost breaking. Isobel's shoulders slumped as she turned her back to him, fiddling with the pantry counter. He saw her start to shake and he moved quickly from his seat. Matthew put a tentative arm on her shoulder and she turned towards him stoically.
"Mother," he said, his eyes kind and his smile showing her an understanding that neither of them wanted to voice. They embraced each other tenderly, and Matthew felt for the first time in his life that his mother was fragile, frail even. He thought he could feel the bones of her back, and along her arms as she pulled away from him. Her eyes were tired, her face drawn, and Matthew realized sadly that neither was due entirely to lack of sleep.
The tea kettle whistled, and he stepped back.
There was silence between them that Matthew did not know how to fill. She poured the boiling water and brought her cup and a tin of shortbread to the kitchen table and sat down. Matthew followed, sitting down next to her and cradling his cold and empty cup.
"Did you know," Isobel said as she cleared her throat. "That at the same time that I truly got to know your father, your grandfather pushed me towards another doctor, a man closer to my own age. He wanted to see me settled. He was probably afraid that I was getting to be too much of a handful and would soon scare off every eligible bachelor in the city. Well, finally, with great hesitation, I accepted this determined man's third proposal. I can barely remember the man's name now, let alone his face."
"What?" Matthew snapped rather loudly, a frown immediately dominating his face. "Mother, of all the things to say!"
Isobel nervously chuckled a little at his harsh reaction.
"I'm sorry, Matthew," she said cautiously. "Perhaps I'm not being very clear about what I mean to explain to you." Her hands trembled as she held her tea mug.
"This lesson must be one of the unspoken Commandments then," Matthew grumbled. "As it would need to be that serious to discuss your…former suitor…with all that is going on at the moment. I always just assumed that Papa was your first offer. I never imagined…"
"Just because you can't imagine something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Isobel said quietly.
"Anyway, I was quite besotted with your father, practically from the beginning. I felt I needed to do my duty and accept a man who, on the outside, seemed better suited for me. But I knew almost immediately it was a mistake. And so, a mere nine days after accepting his proposal, I threw him over."
Matthew creased his brow in astonishment.
Isobel sipped her tea and took one of the shortbread cookies, although she didn't eat it.
"My parents and my elder brother were angry with me, they called me the nine day queen like Lady Jane Grey," Isobel said with bittersweet emotion. "But, I did not give in. I was determined to remove the obstacles that kept me apart from the only man I did love. I would not settle for second best, I've always preferred to fight," she said bravely as she looked at her son.
Matthew could only nod at this statement, but it encouraged his mother enough to continue.
"Besides the fact he was older than me," Isobel continued, "Your father was also oblivious to my feelings for him so I had my work cut out for me. As you know he can be rather narrow-minded," Isobel said affectionately.
She offered him the shortbread cookie and Matthew took it automatically, eating it without any hesitation.
"I know you are grappling with how we could conceal your father's condition from you," Isobel continued. "And, well, it wasn't easy. We've fought about it regularly in the last few months. However, your father asked me to do this, and he has never asked for anything of me, nothing quite so important anyway. All he has ever wanted to do was give," Isobel wiped at her moist eyes with her free hand.
"And so I complied," she said softly. "For my love for him is as steady and true as the day I met him, as it is right now. Even though he was making me choose between my husband and my own son, I had no choice, truly, you see."
Matthew took a deep breath, looking away quickly before finding her eyes again.
"I know that you had your reasons, both of you," he said slowly.
"Still I am sorry for it," Isobel nodded. "I would do it again, but that does not mean I do not regret the pain we've caused you."
"I'm glad that you fought for Papa," Matthew said quickly, begging her with eyes to stop. He did not need apologies now. "And I'm glad that you're still fighting for him. I'm just shocked. I…" he faltered but tried again. "I don't want to imagine life without Papa. I can't."
"Well," Isobel said staunchly, "You're going to have to. We both are."
"I'd rather not think of it as death," Matthew said grudgingly, going over the explanation he had crafted in his mind over and over the past few weeks. "But, rather as though he is Odysseus, off on a noble quest into the unknown. He is still out there somewhere. I may not be able to see him, but I won't lose his presence."
Isobel smiled, her eyes moistening. "You do realize the peril of imagining your father going off on a trip as oppose to the reality," she said kindly.
"I know," Matthew nodded. "But, sometimes the fantasy is necessary."
Isobel nodded patiently. "Very well. He would be well cast in that role. And that would make me Penelope, his faithful wife waiting patiently until we can be reunited."
Matthew sighed, looking down at his tea cup, going over the thoughts in this mind before lifting his eyes once again.
"Did Papa mention anything about going to Downton to you?" Matthew asked.
"No," Isobel said, her eyebrows rising at the mention of that place. "He only used gallows humour to allude to the fact that he is now free of that obligation. I had to scold him when he used the term – over my dead body."
Matthew huffed at his father's macabre and Isobel nodded in agreement.
"He could never leave Manchester," Isobel said fondly. "He is far too stubborn, and I'm afraid I share that similar vice."
"Well," Matthew smirked. "You're going to have to. We both are."
Isobel frowned. "How so?"
"I've had to promise Papa," Matthew said hesitantly. "To go and take up my position as heir. Not with some plan to become Earl someday, but rather as a first step towards a greater goal – to restore Mary to her former place and fix all that was done to her."
Isobel's eyes widened. "A noble goal, exactly the type of mission your father would entrust to you," she nodded in understanding. "But, forgive me, Matthew, even if you were to somehow disprove the lie that was spread about your wife, the truth of what actually happened to her is equally troublesome."
"I'm working on that," Matthew said, pursing his lips. "The first step is to get to Downton Abbey, which will already be a daunting challenge. I've raised the idea with Mary before and she vehemently forbid it. Papa is right. I have to do this. But I have no idea how I will convince Mary to come with me."
"So you're trying to convince me, first," Isobel said with a small smile. "This is turning into a vicious cycle."
"Will you promise to go once I am summoned?" Matthew asked nervously.
"Not yet," Isobel said sadly. "My mind is here, with my husband for now. I have no time or energy to think beyond tomorrow. I will keep it in mind, however, when the time comes. Now, what of Mary? How is she handling all of this?"
"She has done a remarkable job of distracting me from her own pain. Her only concern is how I'm handling it. I know she must be shattered inside. She and Papa are very close. I'm hoping that I'm helping her somehow, but I doubt it's as much as she's helping me," Matthew shook his head.
"Sometimes, it's best to keep busy during these moments," Isobel said, her voice tinged with fondness. "Mary has come a long way. I remember when it seemed as though she wasn't entirely committed to you."
"It wasn't like that," Matthew said defensively. "She was trying to be selfless. She thought it better to let me go, rather than disappoint me later."
"I'm surprised that you didn't give up," Isobel said gently. "She certainly gave you reason to."
"She was too late," Matthew smirked, looking down at the table as memories flooded his mind. "I already decided that I loved her enough to spend the rest of my life with her. Much to her surprise, there was nothing she could do to ruin everything."
Alexandra Park, Manchester, England, August 1911
"You brought strawberries," Matthew laughed, reaching into the bag and plucking a rather ripe fruit.
Mary smiled. "Well, I know how much you love them."
"Perhaps I should not indulge in them so often in your presence," he smiled. "You'll think that I have a fetish of some kind."
"Don't assume I would think less of you even if you did," she replied, raising her eyebrow to him. She smirked as his eyes widened. Her stomach rolled slightly, her resolve teetering on edge. It was so easy to talk to Matthew. It had been easy from the beginning. She could laugh with him, flirt with him, forget herself with him. Was she mad to put so much faith in him? Had their time together over the past months been so enthralling that she was now on the verge of making a monumental mistake?
Matthew brought the strawberry to her mouth and she took a bite, looking away from him as she wiped some of the juice from her lips.
"I can get that for you, you know," Matthew teased.
"Matthew!" Mary scolded him. "We're in a public park!"
"Exactly, darling," Matthew smiled. "No one who knows you would ever come here. It's for the common man after all. Your Godfather and his family or associates would never venture within five kilometres of this place."
"Well, in that case," Mary smiled, feeling dangerously bold and brave. "You can kiss me."
She laughed at his bewitched expression, before her pulse jumped as he gave her a smouldering look and leaned towards her.
"Would you think less of me if I told you that I love kissing you more than I love strawberries?" he whispered before caressing her mouth tenderly with his, drawing back before either of them made the kiss more heated.
"You speak rather often of love, Matthew," Mary said playfully. "Do you truly feel it so profoundly or is this merely a well practiced routine of yours? Am I as special as you pretend, or am I merely one of many women that you have ensnared in your clutches?"
"If there were any others, Mary, which there are not," Matthew said smoothly. "I would challenge you to tell me where I would find the time to see them. Since your arrival I have spent practically every free moment with you."
Mary blushed and looked away, trying with only partial success to stop a pleased smile from crossing her lips.
"Perhaps I'm just keeping your interest for now?" she ventured, resuming her calm exterior. "You're only biding your time with me until the next new nurse's assistant is hired?"
"You forget that Cassandra did hire a new assistant recently," Matthew answered. "And contrary to what you may believe, I'm afraid that Daniel is not attractive enough to displace you."
Mary laughed freely.
Matthew smiled at her. "Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead."
"Oscar Wilde," Mary smirked. She thought for a moment, and then looked at him mischievously.
"At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet."
"Plato," Matthew smiled. "Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service."
"Now you're being silly," Mary said. "Shakespeare."
"I love you more than words can wield the matter. A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable. Beyond all manner of so much, I love you." His eyes seemed to cloud as he spoke, his face losing its jovial expression.
"Matthew," Mary said nervously.
"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest," he said, moving closer to her.
"Stop it, please," Mary whispered, her eyes widening in panic.
"One-half of me is yours, the other half yours, mine own, I would say, but if mine, then yours, and so all yours," Matthew said softly, caressing her cheek.
A tear ran down Mary's cheek. "You don't know what you're saying, Matthew," she cried.
"I know what I feel," Matthew answered, holding her wide eyes firmly in his gaze. "And I know with certainty that I shall love you for the rest of my life. This declaration may be foolish, and brazen, and completely the opposite of everything I would normally do, but I love you, Mary. Ignore it if you wish, deny it if you must, but it shall not change or waver. I love you, Mary Crawley."
"You don't know me, Matthew. You don't know…you don't know what loving me means," Mary said quietly.
Matthew looked at her for a long moment.
"Try me," he smirked. "Unleash your most horrid, most terrible, most shameful reason for why I should not love you. If you are right, then my love for you was not love at all. However, Mary, if you are wrong, then I shall love you all the more, and perhaps you will be swayed that this is far from a passing fancy."
Mary watched him silently. Her heart beat madly in her chest, filling her with sensations that she had tried to bury when Cousin James had sent her to her room all those months ago. Her mind shouted at her to run away from this man. He would hurt her. Or, worse, she would surely hurt him.
Her eyes narrowed and she breathing slowed to normal. Fine. She had put her faith in him for months and he had done nothing to disappoint her. He had accepted all of her veiled answers and half-truths and not pried for more. Yes, Lady Philomena was a family friend. Yes, Lord Merton had generously arranged for her to work at the hospital. Yes, it was thanks to her family that she was in Manchester, broadening her horizons and learning a proper vocation. She owed him this. She owed him the truth, so he could save himself, escape before he said anything more that he would end up regretting.
But what if he was right? What if he did love her? What if he could love her?
"Very well, Matthew," Mary said quietly. "But you must listen to my entire story without interruption and you must swear that you shall never repeat any of what I am about to tell you, regardless of which one of us is ultimately proven right."
Matthew raised his hand immediately and looked at her with a confident stare.
"I swear it, Mary. It will be our secret, although you must swear that if I am right, I shall be permitted to tease you mercilessly about my triumph for as long as I wish," Matthew smiled.
Mary took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wanted to remember that image. His smiling face. His confident, almost lustful stare that she surprisingly welcomed without fear. She needed to memorize this Matthew, the one who trusted her, believed in her, loved her despite not knowing what he was getting himself into.
She opened her eyes finally and took his hand in hers.
"It all began years ago when my Father and his cousin James decided they knew what was best for me…"
She looked from his eyes to their joined hands as she told her story, waiting for the moment when he would recoil and remove his hand, waiting for the time that he would finally break and stand up, backing away from her in horror, waiting for which sordid detail would ultimately destroy the image he had of her.
Matthew listened intently, his face betraying his emotions as he absorbed her tale. He could not stop his eyes from widening, his mouth from gaping, or his brow creasing. He kept his hand tight to hers the entire time.
As Mary finished her harrowing story, she tried to hold her head up high and face his verdict. In many ways, this was almost worse than the actual day in February that her world changed forever. Back then, she was shocked by what had befallen her, but not truly surprised by the reactions of her family. To them, she was a disappointment before Cousin James and Patrick had executed their scheme. This time, she was willingly bringing her shame upon herself, and letting down the one man who believed in her more than anyone else ever had.
"Mary," Matthew said quietly, staring down at their hands. He raised his head slowly and met her gaze.
Mary swallowed.
"I have a confession to make," Matthew said unblinkingly.
Law Office of Jennings and Norman, Manchester, England, August 1911
"Matthew, I'm sending one of the girls out for sandwiches. What do you fancy?"
Matthew did not look up from his papers, trying to keep his train of thought as he wrote out his notes.
"Pastrami on rye would be perfect," Matthew replied.
"Got it."
Moments later, Matthew was forced to look up as his colleague sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk, smirking at him expectantly.
"All right, then," Matthew rolled his eyes, laying down his pen. "Go on."
"I don't know what you mean," came the smiling reply.
"Yes you do," Matthew laughed. "You've just come back from London and you want to spill all the horrible gossip that you gathered during the Season."
"What if I want to regale you with tales of my own exploits during the Season, eh?"
"That would be a rather brief conversation," Matthew teased back.
A deep laugh filled the room. "All right, Crawley. I may have heard about a right scandal while I was at Wimbledon watching Tony Wilding put the boots to Barrett."
Matthew was about to say he wasn't interested but it was too late.
"The talk was about this girl or that and who would be the belle of the ball. You know, the usual talk. But there was this one story about a lass who had her debut last year. Seems that she was juggling a few different blokes for months, not actually committing to any of them, playing them for fools."
"So she was evaluating her options then?" Matthew asked.
"Sounds like she was, yeah."
"So doing nothing different than all the men who swoop in looking to claim a prize?" Matthew smirked.
"Here we go! Matthew Crawley, champion of the downtrodden has arrived! All quiet now!" came the reply, accompanied by a rap of knuckles on the table.
"From what I heard, she was evaluating a fair number of options, actually."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, rumour was that she wasn't content with a few toffs and noblemen. She tried out a foreigner too, but not for his prospects as a husband."
Matthew frowned. He expected a crass tale, but that did not make the suggestion any more palatable.
"This lady had the nerve to invite a Turk, or all men, to her bed, right under her father's roof, and put him through his paces."
"What is a Turk doing in London?" Matthew asked.
"He was some diplomat, visiting for some secret government business. It didn't happen in London. Was on one of those fancy country estates. You know, plenty of secret corridors and hidden rooms to make it easy to facilitate a late night romp."
"I hardly think that a debutante would risk her reputation for a brief moment of pleasure," Matthew retorted, blushing slightly. "And I do truly hope that I do not need to explain to you how easily she would be found out by her eventual husband."
"Matthew, Matthew, how can you be so naïve? A little blood and some theatrics and the poor soul would be none the wiser. Anyway, she got caught, practically in the throes from what I hear. And that was the end of her. Family kicked her out, shipped her off to America, never to be seen again."
"That sounds rather harsh," Matthew said. "Of course her prospects would essentially be ruined among that group of people, but to banish her entirely? Surely she's worth more than just her virtue?"
"Maybe to someone with no scruples," he huffed. "But come on, Matthew. That type of reputation doesn't just disappear. They called her the Yorkshire Slut for Christ's sake! How could any man ever trust someone who would do something like that? Or, how could anyone show their face in public with her? Be seen with her? May as well marry a prostitute!"
"This isn't the Middle Ages," Matthew rolled his eyes. "I agree that it would be very difficult to look past such an incident, but I would hope that any person is more than just the measure of one mistake."
"You show me the man who could take jokes about his wife spreading her legs for some Turk and I'll show you a right bloody fool."
"In the end it's just gossip, you know. It's just what someone heard about her from someone else. We lawyers call that hearsay, and it's entirely inadmissible," Matthew smiled.
"Inadmissible in a court of law. In the court of those stuck up toffs, she's already been declared guilty and sentenced."
"Well that's rather convenient for them. Let me guess, you never even learned her name, did you?" Matthew asked.
"No. I think it's known but the rumour's been passed around so many times that all I ever heard was that she was the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter."
Alexandra Park, Manchester, England, August 1911
"Perfect," Mary laughed bitterly. "Even the lawyers know now."
"Well, we can't resist gossip. Some of us make our living off of it," Matthew said wryly.
"How disappointed you must be," Mary said as she removed her hand from his grasp. "Well, you've met the Yorkshire Slut for yourself now. I won't hold you to your foolish declarations of love, Matthew. I do not doubt the honesty of your words, but surely you see now that it was all based on a lie. And so, I release you of your obligation and I shall no longer be a burden to you. I do ask that you keep your promise though, so that I can try my best to build a semblance of a life here. If you wish that I stay away from your parents, I'm sure that can be arranged."
"I will honour my promise to you, Mary," Matthew nodded.
She looked away from him, the tears threatening to spill. She hated being proven right. She could never blame Matthew for his rebuke. Even losing him now, though heartbreaking, was still softened somewhat by the blissful months they'd spent together. She didn't deserve even that much happiness, and so she should feel lucky that she at least stole those moments from him.
She gasped as she felt his hand on hers, warm and soothing, his thumb rubbing over knuckles.
"Matthew?" she breathed, staring wide eyed at his face.
He smiled.
"I believe that I've won our bet, my Lady," Matthew grinned. "And as your punishment, you shall not be rid of me so easily."
"What? But…" Mary blurted out.
"I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth – whether it existed or not – for I have the same idea of all our passions as of love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty," he said softly.
"Keats," Mary whispered.
"Who did I flirt with at the hospital, Mary? Who did I spontaneously join for tea? Who did I lead into the creek? Who did I cause an unfortunate rash to? Who did I take to the theatre? Who did I shop for? Who has dined with my parents? Who have I kissed again and again, and who do I dream about, long after we have parted?" Matthew smiled.
Mary's mouth fell open and she closed it quickly, her free hand moving to cover her impropriety.
"Tell me, please," Matthew asked nervously. "Have you thought of any man, any other man at all, since the day we met, and all the months since?"
Mary blinked. "No," she shook her head.
Matthew smiled anew.
"I'm not giving up and I'm not disappointed in you," he declared.
"Matthew, you can't possibly think that…" Mary interjected.
"Mary," Matthew retorted. "Would you ever consider… well, could you try and perhaps…see a life for yourself with me, if I asked you?"
"Oh, Matthew, you don't mean that," Mary said although she didn't try to remove her hand again. "You're just taking pity on me. You're a wonderful man, but terribly naïve I'm afraid. You know now I carry more baggage than the porters at King's Cross. And what about Mr. Pamuk? Won't you conjure him every time we argue?"
"No," Matthew said immediately. "I have no interest in him. And I give you my solemn vow that I would never use him against you."
Mary was stunned. Her mind raced, reaching for another argument, another reason to give him to run away from her. She had nothing left. She had told him her darkest secret, the very reason why she was in Manchester, the basis upon which she had been driven from her home, had her life taken away from her. He had listened attentively, absorbed it all, and somehow cast it aside.
She was beginning to wonder who was the bigger lost cause – her, or him?
"Then you've forgiven me?" She dared, chastising herself at the same time for the growing flicker of hope stirring with her.
"No," Matthew said seriously. "You've misunderstood me. I haven't forgiven you."
Mary drew in a sharp breath of air. Of course not. She was a fool.
"Well then," she said resignedly.
Matthew squeezed her hand, drawing her attention.
"I haven't forgiven you," he continued warmly. "Because I don't believe you need my forgiveness. Mary, these past months with you have been indescribable. I never knew it was possible to love someone the way that I love you. Whatever happened to you before, whatever life you've lived until now isn't important to me. What matters is that now it's time we lived our lives together."
"You're mad!" Mary almost shouted, but she was powerless to stop the small smile creeping across her face.
"Marriage is a long business, Matthew, especially being married to me. You know that I'll ask a great deal of you, a great deal that I have no right to ask, and that you have no need to give. Are you sure about what you're saying?" Mary said.
"I am sure," Matthew said. There was his damn smile again!
"I wish I had your courage. The truth is that I don't know if I can marry anyone, Matthew. I...I need time to think about this," Mary pleaded. She could not think properly. He still loved her…somehow. She should be leaping at his offer and to hell with her family, with James and Patrick, with Society and gossip and all of it. But, if her story had reached Manchester, then the situation was more dire than she thought. How could she in good conscience take advantage of Matthew knowing this?
"Take all the time you wish, my darling," Matthew said, and she could not help but share his smile, or squeeze his hand in silent thanks.
"I'm happy to be your suitor for now; until you are convinced I may be something else," he said firmly.
Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, October 1911
"Support the liberal government in their policy of social reform!" cried the man passing out leaflets. He stood with a small pack of other men. They seemed passive enough until Matthew refused the paper that was being thrust at him.
"No, thank you," Matthew said politely. "You've already got my support," he added, trying to appease the man. Matthew simply desired admittance to the hospital, not a lengthy political debate.
"I hope you're not here to see Dr. Samuelson," the man said bitterly. "He's been turning away decent hard working blokes as patients. Had the gall to tell my brother he was a panel patient, not worth his time; stuck up arse thought a factory worker hurt on the job was looking for a free handout."
"Excuse me," Matthew said walking around the agitated man.
Matthew quickly entered the hospital and reached his father's office. He stopped short at the open doorway, puzzled by the scene before him, and even more by the raised angry voices of his father and his guest.
"Richard, you can't honestly believe that your pocket book is as important as the life of another human being," Dr. Crawley huffed. "We're doctors! We need to help whomever needs it!"
"This socialist mania has gone too far, Reggie," Dr, Samuelson shot back. He shrugged his shoulders lazily, as though the gesture itself would prove his point.
Matthew had met Dr. Samuelson once or twice before. Dr, Samuelson had at one time been a sort of protégé of his father. However, where his father embraced changes in medicine, this man seemed unable to do so and hid behind the past traditions and lifestyle he was accustomed to. Matthew had rarely seen him down in the wards. He seemed to prefer to stay in his office floors above and see his chosen patients by appointment only.
"Where I come from in Wisbech," Dr. Samuelson continued. "There have already been riots about this Insurance Act. Common people are turning on doctors! Can you believe that nerve? The rabble is vilifying us? They have no right to tell me how to run my own practice, and yet they shout and shout, while I must remain silent? What kind of country are we living in?"
"Yes, I'm a private doctor!" he said, his voice rising. "I pick my patients, I won't accept just anyone! This Act is humiliating to my reputation! It is not fair. Why should I take on any patient who comes through the door, file all of this paperwork so the government can settle the bills weeks or months later? It's not the England I know, Reggie!"
"Then you leave me no choice," Dr. Crawley said sternly. "We cannot have doctors practising by different rules in this hospital, let alone against the law, should it come to pass, which it will. I must, therefore, ask for your resignation."
"Just like the government you so venerate, you are unfair and unjust!" Richard shouted back.
"Perhaps I am in some cases. But, you forget that it was upon my recommendation that you were brought here. And I now find that I must advise the Board that my recommendation no longer stands. Good day, Dr. Samuelson," Dr. Crawley finished.
Dr. Crawley turned his head and saw Matthew for the first time. His stern demeanour vanished as he smiled and motioned for him to come forward.
"Maybe I should have been more like you," Dr. Samuelson said spitefully. "I wouldn't have a problem with this system if I saved all the popinjays for myself as you seem to. All the premier patients flock to you."
"This is not a patient," Dr. Crawley said with a laugh. "If you had ever been paying attention, you would know that this fine young man is rather my son."
The odious man opened his mouth to speak again, but instead huffed under his breath as he marched out of the office instead, his face red and his hands constricted tightly into fists.
"As you can deduce," Dr. Crawley said affectionately as he slapped his son on the back. "I've got a bit of a mess on my hands, and I'm sorry I won't be able to step away for lunch."
"Anything I can help with?" Matthew asked sincerely. "Perhaps some legal support about the nature of the Constitution and the bill that passed through Parliament? I could draft a memo to the board and give a presentation to the other doctors and staff so they could understand that…"
"Matthew," Dr. Crawley interrupted. "The only real problem here is my disappointment. I used to know him, Dr. Samuelson, ages ago now, but people change. I suppose this is just what happens to good men when they leave Manchester."
Matthew chuckled.
"Now, Mary should be arriving shortly," Dr. Crawley said cheerfully with a little tease in his voice. "Perhaps you can convince her to break bread with you."
"Oh," Matthew said, looking away. "She isn't really talking to me at the moment, I'm afraid."
Dr. Crawley scratched his beard at this strange detail. This was a surprise.
"Don't tell your mother," he said sheepishly as he reached inside his desk for his stash of cigars and matches.
"Come outside with me my boy and tell me all about it," he said with sympathy.
Matthew willingly followed outside to the back of the hospital. He was hoping to seek his father's counsel over lunch. This brief moment would have to do.
"Mary's cross with me because she says I've been pressuring her too much," Matthew admitted.
Dr. Crawley puffed on his cigar, closing his eyes briefly.
"Go on," he encouraged.
"It seems I can't spend time with her without bringing up the subject of our future. I don't mean to give her an ultimatum, but the fact of the matter is, I'm rather eager to get on with it," Matthew explained.
"Have you formally proposed?" Dr. Crawley asked. "Your mother never mentioned any of this to me."
"No," Matthew said. "I haven't spoken to anyone else about it. I told Mary I would give her time to think about the idea of us building a life together, but she hasn't given me any indication as to when she'll have an answer."
"It would seem difficult for her to answer a question that has not been properly asked," Dr. Crawley smiled.
"I think that she knows my feelings on the subject," Matthew rolled his eyes.
"Perhaps she needs a proper proposal to give you a proper answer. Anything else is just dealing in hypotheticals, and women tend not to enjoy doing that," Dr. Crawley replied.
"You are behaving just like your mother! Oh, the dogged determination," he said wistfully. "And just like her, you need to pause a moment before you continue to bombard Mary with your feelings."
"Papa!" Matthew exclaimed in embarrassment. He knew just how long and how unwavering his Mother had been in pursuit after all. She was never shy about bragging or showing her continual love for her husband.
"I'm sorry my boy," Dr. Crawley said as he blew rings of smoke playfully. "There is no prescription I can offer you. Just know that eventually, there is no escaping a love match. Trust me." He patted his son on the shoulder again. "A person just has to feel worthy of love first. So, give Mary the time she asked for."
"Just be patient?" Matthew said with disappointment, he had expected a more grand solution after all.
"Yes. Be confident, supportive and unwavering. But do not act as though her future ought to depend on you. Using such leverage against her is not a wise strategy. Mary likes her independence, you know," Dr. Crawley said.
"But she must know that I am not pitying her," Matthew said defensively.
"Must she?" Dr. Crawley asked with a smirk.
"Well, surely she knows that I do not. She knows that I know that she would absolutely detest me basing our relationship on pity or sympathy. And since she knows that I know that she knows that I know that, then surely she must know it would never be the case," Matthew declared as though it were obvious.
Dr. Crawley looked at Matthew with a raised eyebrow.
"Perhaps a little less lawyering and a little more humility, Matthew. When I realized that your mother loved me, I was rendered speechless. And I was scared. I wasn't flattered or even interested at first. To me she was a silly girl with a crush, and I wouldn't humour what I knew would be a big mistake for her. I couldn't conceive of the notion being genuine, and yet she was steady and consistent. I was rather slow-witted in the game of love but when I made my mind up, I acted decisively. And I proposed earnestly. She loved me, and I loved her, and the rest was just details," Dr. Crawley boasted as he finished his cigar. "But, it did take time."
"Very well," Matthew sighed in agreement. "I'll give her time."
"And?" Dr. Crawley prompted.
"And…what?" Matthew asked.
"Give her time, and ask her properly, for God's sake!" Dr. Crawley said in amusement at his cluelessness. "You certainly do take after me," he concluded.
"Yes, Papa," Matthew smiled.
"Well," Dr. Crawley said as he dropped his cigar and smashed it under his shoe. "I'll see you later at home."
Matthew said goodbye to his father and proceeded back around the building towards the front of the hospital. He frowned as he noticed that the leaflet men were becoming peskier to the pedestrians on the street. They were throwing the papers at people that would not take them. He watched the way people were crossing the street to avoid them. How did they expect to drum up support for their cause by being rude and belligerent?
Matthew blinked as he saw Mary approaching. She had such an elegant stride as she walked down the boulevard. He enjoyed seeing her in her work clothing as she was plainly dressed and devoid of jewellery. Seeing her like this, as opposed to the more formal gowns and outfits that she wore outside of work, gave him confidence that there were things he could give her that she did not already have. He had only dared to buy her a few gifts during their courtship, small trinkets mainly, but they represented a hint of what he could offer her, what he could show her to prove himself worthy.
Suddenly, Mary was the only person still on the sidewalk, seemingly unafraid of the caddish fellows that were causing a stir. Matthew wondered if they had been a regular fixture on the block since Dr. Samuelson's policy had become known. Frowning to himself, he moved towards them.
One of the protesters whistled a catcall at Mary as she passed by. She stopped in her tracks and glared at them. They jeered and laughed as she moved through the crowd to get into the hospital.
At the same time as Mary entered the crowd, Dr. Samuelson exited the hospital. The crowd of protesters rushed towards him, sweeping up Mary in the process.
"Let me through!" Mary yelled as she tried to get out of the developing mob. They were yelling and cursing Dr. Samuelson, quickly surrounding the stunned man and blocking his path.
Matthew entered the fray and was jostled back and forth as he fought his way to Mary.
"Mary!" he called as he neared her.
"Matthew!" she looked at him in surprise.
"Well, Mr. La-dee-da is it? Little lady, you should know better than to associate yourself with a posh dressing Conservative like this one here!" a man said, stepping between Mary and Matthew. "Probably a patient of the good doctor over there. Thinks he's better than us! Just like all of their lot!"
"If you would please step aside," Matthew said firmly. "I'm merely escorting the lady away from here. We don't have any quarrel with you."
"Is that so?" the man laughed as the volume of the insults hurled at Dr. Samuelson increased. "Well suppose I don't want to take any orders from the likes of you?"
Instead of trying to wrestle past the man and get to Mary, Matthew instead moved deftly for the latch on the man's overalls.
"What the…" the protestor cried as suddenly his britches were falling down. In his confusion, he tripped and fell forward into some of his cohorts.
"Right this way, my Lady," Matthew said quietly as he pulled her towards him. She slid into his arms and swiftly matched his stride. They easily extricated themselves from the crowd and crossed the street to the safety of the far side.
Matthew didn't pay attention to the rest of the commotion, and ultimately Dr. Samuelson escaped amid a flurry of leaflets. Matthew was too busy staring at Mary, and she at him. Her whole face was flushed from the encounter, and her breathing was quick. Her hair was slightly falling out of its pins. Matthew carefully reached up and tucked a loose strand back behind her ear.
"How did you know to do that?" Mary asked her eyes wide. "I thought you were going to punch him in the face."
"I wanted to, truly," Matthew sighed. "But you might have been hurt or fallen in the aftermath, so the easiest way to get him out of our way was to take a more creative approach."
"You're bleeding!" Mary cried, noticing the blood on Matthew's hand. She took his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped it, lifting his hand and examining it.
"It's just a small cut, Mary," Matthew smiled. "Probably from all the leaflets that were whizzing about."
"This is much deeper than a simple paper cut!" Mary frowned, wiping his hand again and squeezing it until she was satisfied the blood had stopped flowing and clotted sufficiently. "There. But you should put a bandage on it soon."
"Very well done, Nurse Crawley," Matthew smiled.
Mary shook her head at him. "I'm just a nurse's assistant," she corrected him.
"You're my Florence Nightingale," Matthew smiled.
"You really didn't care about what would happen to you, did you?" she asked quietly. "You fought your way through that mob just to get to me?"
"Of course!" Matthew frowned. "Mary, darling, I couldn't just leave you to fend for yourself. I had to protect you."
"I don't need protection, Matthew!" Mary said coldly. "I didn't tell you my secret because I want your sympathy! I'm not weak, you know!"
"I know, Mary," Matthew nodded, holding up his hands in truce. "You're strong. You've survived more hardship in one year than I have endured in my entire life. I know that you don't need my help. I just…I just want to give it to you, without conditions. It's not that I think you need it, or that I expect you to give me anything in return. It isn't a sign of weakness to accept help, Mary. And I don't give you my attention or anything else because I think you're weak. I was just hoping that, regardless of anything else, you might want me…erm, want my help, that is."
Mary blinked several times.
"You think me strong?" she asked.
"You're an irresistible force, Mary," Matthew said quietly.
Mary took a deep breath.
"And despite all the…conditions…that I told you about before, everything that I told you that you would need to endure if we were to have a future together, you're still here?" she asked.
"Yes, Mary," Matthew nodded. "For as long as you need."
"You know that…that hypothetical question that you asked me?" she said. "You must say it properly. I won't answer unless you kneel down and everything."
Matthew frowned, and then shook himself, not daring to pass up this opportunity by asking too many questions. He looked around, then quickly turned and escorted her around the building, away from passers by and prying eyes.
Glancing about and ensuring they were in a secluded area, Matthew kneeled down on the ground and took Mary's hands in his.
"Lady Mary Crawley," he smiled at her. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
"Yes!" Mary smiled. "My heroic rescuer," she lovingly chided, "Yes, I will marry you!"
Matthew wanted to kiss her, sweep her into his arms and spin her around. However, remembering propriety, as well as her insistence on secrecy, which he did not entirely understand yet, he rose and squeezed her hands.
"May I have the pleasure of celebrating properly with you over lunch, Mary?" he asked.
"Lunch would be wonderful, Matthew," Mary smiled. "And we can celebrate privately at dinner this evening," she added.
Matthew swallowed loudly and Mary laughed, following him back out to the street and towards their favourite café.
Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912
Isobel smiled at her son. But, then she turned her gaze to the clock as it chimed the passing of midnight, it was now officially morning; another day had begun.
"Not quite how I finally managed to secure your father, and yet he is correct in a certain similarity of technique," her smile was warm and genuine. "Speaking of which, I should check on him," and her smile did not fade even after her bittersweet words.
"Goodnight, Matthew," she said fondly.
"Goodnight Mother," he said warmly.
Isobel left the kitchen and Matthew took the empty tea cups and put them on the counter to be washed. He felt the familiar pull of sleep as his mind wandered back to memories of his proposal and Mary's acceptance. Perhaps she could help him sleep even without being at his side, he thought as he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.
