It felt, Matthew realized suddenly, almost like a miracle, how pleasant he felt. Sleeping well was the start, once he had moved into the gamekeeper's cottage, it had been a genuine treat to sleep through the night without waking every time someone on the street went by. He would never have believed that Downton Village had such a vibrant night life until every hoof clatter or street argument woke him.

It was also a treat to eat a meal without someone or everyone staring at his every move, or having to eat in stony silence rather than address the ugliness of the last few years. He stirred the stew he was making and sampled it. Cooking for himself had never been a chore, and the kitchen in the cottage was more than adequate. He suspected old Mr. Mott had been something of a connoisseur of food. There were any number of cooking tools that he wouldn't have expected to find in a gamekeeper's cottage and the garden behind the house was full of exotic herbal plantings.

His ears pricked up at the sound of a car approaching, but for a wonder, it didn't make him jump. I've been here for eight days, he reminded himself, and I haven't gone into the village or to the Abbey, so either Mother or Mary has sent someone to check on me, despite my intentionally walking over to the Bates home and saying hello to Anna yesterday. He looked out the window and wasn't surprised to see Tom the ex-chauffeur getting out of the car, and unloading a box of supplies.

Matthew opened the cottage door just as Tom was getting ready to knock. "Hello, Mr. Branson. Let me guess, Lady Mary was concerned that I might not," and he peered into the box Tom held, "be eating enough meat pies? Or was it my mother?" He smiled, to put the younger man at ease. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sybil's widowed husband held an awkward place in the family and he had no intention of making it worse. He barely remembered the fellow beyond the incident where Sybil had tricked him into taking her to a political rally but the chap seemed reasonably bright and more importantly, seemed to know when to keep his mouth shut.

The Irishman smiled brightly. "It was both, actually, although they each wanted to be very clear that they were sure you were fine and were more than capable of taking care of yourself but since I was planning to check the rabbit warrens today and would be by…" As Tom spoke, the rain that had threatening all morning began pouring down.

"Then come inside," Matthew said as he pulled Tom into the cottage, "and join me for lunch. You can take back tales of how well I seem and spend the afternoon with me as I walked out to the rabbit warrens yesterday and can assure you that the estate is well stocked."

"I accept your offer," Tom agreed, grinning with amusement. "I was fairly certain the warrens were doing well anyway and this cottage smells delightful. What are we having?"

"Lamb stew and fresh dill bread, although I must admit that I did not bake the bread myself. Apparently, Mr. Mott had a lovely arrangement with one of the village women to bring him bread and milk every few days in exchange for a few pence for delivery, so I am quite well supplied." He was certain Tom had been directed to check on the food situation so it pleased him to thwart the concerns of Mary and his mother.

Tom chuckled. "They worry. For what it's worth, I pointed out that you managed to keep yourself fed in the wilds of Africa but was told to keep my mouth shut, that England is very different." He set the box down. "There's meat pies, some rashers of bacon, eggs, butter, and a vast assortment of biscuits. Those are from Mrs. Crawley. Lady Mary had Mrs. Patmore fill the box with 'what a man likes to eat'."

Matthew began emptying the box into the larder. "That explains the slab of roast venison, but…" He held up a bottle of beer and spotted several more, including a bottle of whisky. "I had no idea Mrs. Patmore had such an idea of what men liked."

Tom grinned. "The whisky is from Lord Grantham, a house warming gift he called it, and I stopped at the pub because while Lady Mary said you were finding noise to be troublesome and might not enjoy the pub itself, most men enjoy a pint or two on occasion." Tom pointed to the windows where the rain was coming down with abandon. "Perhaps, with lamb stew ready and a box full of everything that men like to eat, and some spirits as well, we could spend the afternoon getting to know each other since… It occurs to me that we spoke maybe twice before you went missing and a lot has happened since."

It was an honest and open offer, Matthew thought. Tom was right, he didn't know the man well at all, but Mary oddly seemed to appreciate the Irish fellow in a way that surprised him. The whole family did, really, and since the man and Sybil's daughter lived at Downton Abbey as family, it made good sense to get a better feel for the man. "Why not? Perhaps we could even play cards."

0o0o0o0

Tom didn't feel bad in the slightest about getting Matthew drunk. It wasn't his plan, at least on the surface. He really had intended to just get to know the man a little better. That Matthew was the sort who relaxed on a convivial way when drinking was a bit of a surprise, but Tom allowed that it wasn't fair to expect any sort of behavior. The spy had always been pleasant and friendly but always was careful to not drink beyond a certain point.

Matthew in contrast had seemed determined to enjoy having a rainy day of card playing and drinking. Tom had a feeling the man hadn't really relaxed since arriving back in England. "Tom," he said brightly as he dealt another hand, "do you mind if I ask you some questions about things that have happened while I was away?" He smiled pleasantly but Tom did sense a serious edge entering his voice.

"I don't mind," Tom agreed, "but I will state at the start, I might not be the person to ask. You and I had all of what, one conversation before you went missing? I was just the chauffeur."

Matthew leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Yes. And that might be better, all things considered. I know you've read the stories I've written for Sir Richard's paper. You know I've hardly worked in a respectable job. Do you know something I learned as a prisoner? It's that people who they're above you, that think you can have no impact upon them, often speak their minds like you're not there. Have you ever found that to be the case?"

Tom had to nod. "I have. Lord Grantham in particular is probably lucky that his chauffeur is discreet."

"And you live there…" Matthew's voice trailed off as he seemed to consider his next words. "This question isn't about the past, and you may not have an answer for me… Is Mary planning to confront my mother soon?"

Tom drank a swallow of beer and considered his answer. "Yes. She's holding back because she's concerned about you." He gestured to the rain spattered windows in the cottage. "I assure you, when I return to the Abbey this evening, I will be pulled into a room by her and interrogated intensely on your level of happiness and stress. And on how much you ate and whether you looked ill or too thin." Mary will be pleased on most accounts, he realized. Matthew looked better, there was no other way to describe it. A few days of quiet, not being on display, seemed to have done wonders. Some of that was the noise problem, a kind euphemism that so many people used for the men who had come back from the way with nerves that were far too easily jarred by loud noises. Tom had no doubt at all that Isobel hadn't been happy with Matthew's decision but didn't protest more about it simply because it was obvious that Matthew needed some relief. The calm fellow who didn't flinch when the threatening skies rumbled or when the wind banged a tree branch against the window was much different than the chap who had twitched every time a fork hit a plate too hard at his welcome home dinner. "It might not be my place to say, but you seem less worried. If nothing else, having your home here seems to suit you."

"It does suit me," Matthew agreed genially. "Though I must admit, part of what suits me is being alone with my own thoughts without having to worry if anyone is upset or guilty or feeling awkward that I have reappeared in their life like… like a rather inconvenient specter." He waited a long moment. "You can be honest, it's a bit more relaxed with my not popping in daily, isn't it?"

How to answer that, Tom wondered. "Yes. I think… that everyone has been waiting to see what you will do. And if you'll be well, or if you'll go mad from the circumstances." He had fewer concerns than most in that regard. From what he had seen, Matthew had taken numerous harsh blows with a certain strength Tom wouldn't have expected.

Matthew smiled slightly as he picked up his own drink. "I won't deny that I considered the sweet bliss of insanity for a brief moment, but there's numerous downsides to that plan." His eyes darkened slightly despite his light tone. "I don't find the idea of being locked up against my will especially enticing. But I am beginning to see the appeal in staying in the same place for longer than a few hours." He gestured to the bookshelf that already held a few books. "I've found myself saying something similar to this quite a bit recently so bear with me… but this is the first time in over six years where I have owned more things than I can carry, and I can go to sleep at night without finding it all stolen. This last seven days is the first seven days I've slept in the same bed for seven days in years. It's… good to be able to think about that without also having to worry about everyone's feelings on the matter. Which is quite selfish of me, I know but frankly, when I weigh that with the reality that everyone who is concerned didn't notice I was gone to begin with, I think I'm allowed a little bit of selfishness."

There was a bitter undercurrent there, but Tom knew better than to chide him for it. It wasn't unreasonable. "I admit, I admire your forgiveness towards the family." He hesitated but pressed on, his own curiosity getting the better of him. "The similarities are eerie, you know. It's like you had a twin brother…"

For an instant, Tom was certain Matthew's eyes flashed with genuine worry. Then the slightly older man leaned back in his chair and took a long drink. "That," Matthew said carefully, "would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"It would." The idea more than warmed in his head, Tom felt suddenly on fire with his thoughts. He was careful to maintain the casual approach he'd already taken. "I can't speak to mannerisms but physically the two of you are identical. Mary has the picture you'd had taken when the war started and she compared it to pictures she had of the spy… There was no way to tell the two of you apart."

Matthew nodded and sighed, his expression suddenly stricken. "I've been told that, yes."

In that instant, Tom saw under the façade Matthew Crawley was presenting to the world. Despite his many reassurances, Matthew was deeply hurt by the idea that no one had noticed he was gone, that an imposter had taken his place. Even if the fellow had the luck of an identical appearance, Tom himself found the correct Matthew Crawley to be different from the man he had known. More thoughtful, more serious, more prone to cynical thoughts, some of that was due to the experience he had gone through, but as Tom considered it, it more closely matched the serious seeming young fellow who occasionally attended dinners at the abbey. Not the kind, often witty fellow who had embraced him as a brother. This version of Matthew was warming up to him, he could tell, it was possible that they could be warm friends, but his gut told him that it would take longer… and that it would have always taken longer. Because Matthew was different from the man who had impersonated him for so long.

Tom was glad to be able to offer some small solace. "Sybil wondered. About you, about when we returned from Ireland, that you seemed different to her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but…" The memory struck him like a blow.

Sybil was curled up next to him. It was one of his favorite places to be, lying in bed with his wife, holding her under the covers, letting her almost nest up him as he cradled her and the growing baby. But she was fidgeting, which worried him. "Sybil dearest, what's wrong?"

Her eyes fluttered and opened. "You'll think I'm silly."

"I'd never do that, not if it's something that worries you. What is it?" He found himself curious indeed.

"I can't even put it to words, not really. But… Matthew is different." She pulled herself up on one arm to look at him. "Not in a bad way. But that pleasant fellow who adores Mary and indulges her and Papa with their grand plans for the estate… That's not the man who agreed with me that the peerage was doomed to collapse under its own dead weight and silly views about earning money."

"Sybil, people change." He tried to put it into words that were gentle but also honest. "Yes, I know you remember Matthew, when he first came to Downton, being more of a firebrand about the future. But there has been a long, terrible war since then…"

"You always blame the war," Sybil muttered.

"It's not just the war," Tom countered. "It's being older and understanding the reality of his position. He will be the Earl. He can't run away from it, and if he shirks his duty, it won't just be the peerage that looks down on him. He has to make the best of it, so why not make the estate run well, if he has to run it or else?"

"It's not just that," Sybil protested. "It's like he's a changeling or a doppelganger. He looks exactly the same as he should but something is different and I can't put my finger on it. It's like those silly stories I read as a child where a girl would find out she really had an identical twin and would switch places… Only that was for fun and I don't understand what could be going on here."

Tom pulled her close. "I don't think you're being silly," he said softly. "I think the time for the baby to come is close and you are seeing shadows that aren't there because you're worried about the baby and that makes you worry about the family. Don't worry so much, dearest."

"She thought you were replaced by a doppelganger… and I talked her out of it." Tom looked away from Matthew's suddenly piercing blue eyes. "I suppose that might not be what you wanted to hear."

Matthew seemed to shake it off. He smiled, a genuine smile. "Frankly, Tom, that's exactly what I needed to hear. Someone noticed despite it all." He held up his bottle of beer and clicked it with Tom's. "Let's toast her. To Sybil, the cleverest of the Crawley girls, the one person who looked past my imposter's good looks and well schooled mannerism to wonder if it was all a lie." He gave Tom a friendly look. "Come now, you have to toast your wife."

Tom returned the clink of bottles and drank, but found himself wondering what Matthew meant by well schooled mannerisms. Then he remembered Mary's suspicions, suspicions he shared despite his efforts to shy her away from the topic. Mary thought Isobel had helped the spy, at the very least had ignored things that should have been red flags. Tom had wondered as well, but could never see any sense in it, beyond saving the life of a crippled man who was likely to die in the war prisoners hospital. That was what made no sense, once the war ended, if it was Isobel simply having pity for an injured man who looked like her son, there was no reason to maintain the farce. It only hurt people, people he knew Isobel Crawley cared about.

Unless, he considered as Matthew dealt him another hand of cards, that crippled man who so eerily resembled Matthew was more to Isobel than just a crippled enemy soldier. Changelings were fairy tales, but identical twins happened. No one doubted that Isobel was a kind woman, that she would do something to save a man's life even if he was the enemy. But not at Matthew's expense. That was the thing that made everyone wonder, not just him. Isobel was nothing but a devoted mother. She had to have helped the spy, it was obvious that Matthew felt betrayed, but Tom couldn't see any scenario where Isobel would betray her own son to save a stranger's life.

That led to an obvious conclusion, Tom realized. He took a long drink to numb himself from the truth he was considering. The man Isobel Crawley had helped had to be her son. He couldn't begin to think how such a thing could happen but it must have, and it explained so much, including the odd tense behavior between Matthew and Isobel, and the thing that infuriated Mary so, that Matthew was protecting his mother from something despite the pain she had caused him.

"What is it?" Matthew asked suddenly. "Your cards can't be that bad, and we're only betting for biscuits. I assure you, Mother will make more if I ask." He chuckled darkly.

"No," Tom assured. "I suppose I was just thinking how I was glad I didn't have your troubles."