Previously:
Downton Village Hospital, Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, July 1916
"He's gorgeous," Isobel beamed at the baby. She passed the child to Mary, holding him steady while Mary arranged her arms to cradle him against her chest. "Well done, Mary. So very well done."
Mary looked up at Isobel and thanked her with her eyes. She then looked down at the miracle in her arms. Clarkson and the other nurse quietly left the room.
Anna had brought the linen blankets and towels that Mary had purchased months ago to swaddle the baby. At the time, Mary had huffed that the future Earl of Grantham would be treated properly as his station required, and would not be swaddled in some common blankets from the hospital. When Matthew had pointed out that the child could be a girl, Mary said it didn't matter – no child of hers, boy or girl, would have anything but the best cloth touch his or her newborn skin. She was glad for Anna remembering everything this morning. The embroidered blankets were soft in Mary arms, and the sleeping baby looked peaceful and content wrapped in them.
"His hair is closer to yours in colour than Matthew's," Isobel chuckled. "Don't worry. It will lighten as he gets older I suspect. He's bound to be a blond at some point in his life."
"Hello," Mary cooed, holding the baby close to her breast. She gazed at him in wonder, thinking that she could spend hours just sitting with him like this, watching him sleep.
"Did you and Matthew discuss a name?" Isobel asked softly.
"We did," Mary nodded. "George. George Matthew Crawley."
"George," Isobel repeated. "That's a lovely name, Mary."
"I think so," Mary nodded. She grinned at her son. "Matthew didn't want to use his name, but I think it's fitting, and it sounds right."
"It does," Isobel agreed, patting Mary's shoulder. "I'll go call Downton and let your Granny know the news. I'll send Anna in shortly. I expect that your family will be here soon."
Isobel took in the heart warming sight once more before leaving the room.
"Hello, George," she whispered. "I can't wait for you to meet your Papa."
Chapter 11:
Downton Abbey, England, August 1916
"And remember this? This is the desk where your Grandpapa writes his letters and reviews the books for the Estate," Robert said merrily, looking down at the swaddled babe in his arms. George was sleeping but that did not deter the Earl of Grantham from speaking to his future heir. Or making cooing noises. Or gaping at George with wide eyes and an open mouth.
Mary rolled her eyes at the sight as she lay back on the sofa. She glanced across at her Mama seated on the settee and Cora grinned back at her.
"He's already spent more time with George in his first month of life than he did with any of us in our first year," Mary teased.
"That's not fair," Cora said lightly.
"And yet entirely true, I expect," Sybil smiled, looking knowingly at Edith sitting in the chair next to them.
"Look, George! It's your Grandmamma Isobel!" Robert exclaimed, turning towards the door.
Isobel grinned and walked up to the sleeping baby. She sighed and smiled at him, nodding to Robert before joining the other ladies by the fireplace.
"How are you feeling, my dear?" Isobel asked Mary as she sat down on the chair across from Edith. It was strange to see Mary reclining on a sofa in the middle of the day, and yet no one seemed bothered by it.
"Better, thank you," Mary nodded. "It's night and day from those first two weeks. I thought I'd never get out of bed. Even still, Mama is clinging to her ridiculous notion that I still shouldn't ride."
"Mary, you gave birth a month ago. You're still recovering, whether you choose to believe it or not. I think you can wait until after the Christening to take Diamond out again. Have your walks not been enough for you to get some fresh air?" Cora said.
"Yes, but it's not the same," Mary grumbled.
"We'll go with you today," Sybil grinned. "Won't we, Edith?"
Edith opened her mouth to object, then paused and smiled at her sister. "Yes, of course we will."
"I'll take the young Master back if you please, my Lord," Nanny bowed her head respectfully. "He should nap upstairs so his schedule doesn't get thrown off."
"All right," Robert said reluctantly. He beamed at the young boy before handing him over to Nanny. Nanny had the good sense to bring George to Mary, who kissed the sleeping boy's forehead before he was taken back upstairs.
"Rosamund will be here on Saturday morning," Robert smiled, coming over to stand next to the mantle. "That will give her a week with everyone before the Christening. Now, you're sure that you don't want me to call the Archbishop?"
"No, Papa, it's all right," Mary smiled, looking up from her reclined position. "I appreciate that the Archbishop married us, but Travis christened the three of us girls so I'm sure he can handle a fourth Crawley."
"It's such a pity that Matthew won't be here," Sybil said. "We'll have to make sure the photographer takes a lot of pictures. The reception should be quite nice if the weather holds."
"I don't know why we need a garden party for after George's Christening," Mary said to Cora. "Can't we just have a simple luncheon?"
"He'll be the Earl of Grantham one day," Robert said proudly. "He deserves an event to announce his arrival into the world."
"Everyone could use some cheer these days," Cora said kindly. "I've received quite a response already. On top of that, the main events of the Season are over now so most people are in the country and looking for something to do."
"Fine, but don't expect me to be overly jubilant," Mary said, sitting up and rising from the sofa. "I'll be polite, but I can't be cheerful while my husband isn't here."
Sybil and Edith rose as well and followed Mary out the door to the Great Hall.
"It's kind of her to be so loyal to Matthew," Cora said to Isobel. "But she really should be enjoying these first few weeks with George. It only gets harder from here."
"Truthfully, she's been with him far more than I expected, I must say," Isobel nodded. "And she's very good. She helped Nanny soothe him the other day and the sight of it almost made me cry."
"It's so wonderful to have a baby in the house," Robert agreed. "I find I can easily forget all the unfortunate business going on in the world whenever I look at him."
Albert, France, July 1916
Matthew read her letter again, savouring each word, each phrase. He could hear her voice, as though he was in the hospital room with her, listening to her tell him about how tired she'd been, how much she ached, how she was terrified she may have broken a bone in his mother's fingers from squeezing so tightly. Then all of her discomfort disappeared, she wrote. The sharp cry of their son was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard, she told him, and it made her forget about everything else but the miracle that they'd created together. He was wrapped in the embroidered linens that Matthew had rolled his eyes at when she bought them in London, and the dear chap had fallen asleep against her breast, sated and peaceful.
Matthew wiped tears from his eyes. George. George Matthew Crawley. He knew Mary would choose the child's middle name, despite his protests. He thought it was rather old fashioned, to force a son to take his father's name. She always looked at him pointedly and asked him if he was ashamed to be called Matthew Reginald, and of course he blushed each time and shook his head no. Carrying his father's name was an honour, and now his son would have the same privilege. If Matthew could set the same example for George as Dr. Crawley had set for him, then he would have done his duty, for certain, he thought.
Matthew sighed and looked out from his tent. Less than a week ago he survived the failed attack on La Boisselle. Now he was a father to a newborn he'd never met. He returned to camp exhausted and aching from another day of battle, to be greeted by his wife's letter. He ignored his dinner and read it straight away.
He smiled at the thought of Mary, thankful that at least his mother had been with her to help her through the delivery. Her letter was clear on how much she missed him, how she regretted that he wouldn't be back for the Christening next month and how she assured him that she would tell George all about him so the boy would know him when he was next at Downton Abbey, whenever that was. Matthew glanced back at her letter. The damn War had cost him being present for his son's birth, but that was no matter, really. George was healthy, and living in a home full of love, far away from this hell that Matthew found himself in. His wife and child were safe, and that was a gift worth a few more months of separation.
"Captain, sir," his batman called from the entrance. "Major Lewis has your orders, sir."
Matthew folded Mary's letter carefully and stowed it in his coat pocket. He put his helmet back on and walked briskly to Alex's tent.
"Major! Captain Crawley reporting, sir!" Matthew saluted, coming inside.
"At ease, Captain," Alex nodded. "Come take a look at this."
Matthew removed his helmet and approached the table. He looked down at the large map, frowning slightly at all the pins and tacks that were missing since the last time he looked at it, their absence another reminder of what a mess the first day had been.
"We'll pursue the advance in a week," Alex said firmly. "Ammunition and supplies are slow in coming, which may push the attack a few days. I'm assigning you and your men to Bazentin Ridge. So long as we can hold Mametz, the Fourth Army will advance on these lines here. There's a forest – le Petit Wood – with a trench running through it and the village beyond. Provide cover for the 21st Division. The 7th Division will take this system of trenches on your right. The battalions will move into place during the night to give us more of an advantage. God willing, you'll be in the village by noon."
Matthew looked at the map carefully. "What do we have for artillery?" he asked.
"Not as much as the first day, but we're focusing the bombardment in a smaller area, so let's hope we don't repeat the same mistakes," Alex shook his head. "The infantry and bombing parties will attack first. Provide cover support and come in behind them. The shelling will begin at first light, we're marking it for 3:20."
"Yes, Major," Matthew nodded.
Alex smirked as he took a seat at his desk. He motioned for Matthew to take a nearby chair.
"Tea, Matthew?" he asked. "My batman is running orders along the line."
"Thank you," Matthew nodded. He took the offered seat and Alex poured him a cup. He raised it to Alex in salute and took a sip.
"Still warm," Matthew smiled.
"We do what we can," Alex nodded.
"Mary had the baby," Matthew grinned.
"Congratulations," Alex smiled, reaching over and shaking Matthew's hand. "A boy?"
"Yes. George. George Matthew Crawley," Matthew nodded happily.
"Future Earl of Grantham," Alex smirked. "A pity about the middle name."
"I agree," Matthew chuckled. "But my wife is rather stubborn about such things."
Alex laughed. He reached into his desk and retrieved two binders. He passed one to Matthew. Matthew looked at it curiously, then opened it, laughing as he discovered it contained paper and a pen.
"I'll write a brief note to Lady Mary giving her my best wishes," Alex declared, taking out his own pen. "I need to reply to Lady Edith's last letter as well. Go on and write your letter now and I'll have them all posted tonight."
"I should go speak to my men first," Matthew hesitated. "I can write to Mary later."
"Matthew," Alex frowned. "I expect that any day now either the newspapers or Parliament itself will report that on the first day of this attack, we suffered the highest number of casualties in the history of the British Empire. Write to Lady Mary so she knows that you're alive, and that you're elated at the news of your son being born. Your men don't need their orders right away. You can spare an hour."
"Yes, sir," Matthew smirked, picking up his pen.
"And don't worry about propriety," Alex said as he began writing his note. "After the first few letters that you exchanged with your wife, I ordered that your correspondence only be reviewed in London. The both of you were making the censors over here faint."
Matthew's mouth dropped open in shock. Alex continued writing, not looking at him. Matthew swallowed and focused on his letter to Mary.
Village Church, Downton Village, England, August 1916
"Perhaps one with the Grandfather holding the baby? And the Great Grandmother with him?" the photographer suggested.
Mary nodded and passed George to her father. He grinned as he took the sleeping baby in his arms. Violet smiled at the infant, caressing his stomach soothingly.
"I received a letter from Matthew this morning," Isobel said cheerfully as the ladies stood off to the side. "He doesn't say much beyond asking more questions about you and the baby, but I am of course glad to hear from him."
"I'm pleased that he wrote to you. I was going to tell you that I received mine yesterday," Mary nodded. "Please tell him what I did – that we're both doing well. I hate to think of him worrying about us when his mind should be on the task at hand."
"I don't think you can stop him from worrying about you and George, dear," Cora said sympathetically.
"I'm so grateful that Cousin Matthew has survived," Sybil said. "To hear what Churchill described about the Somme was shocking."
"Politicians tend to exaggerate when it suits them," Edith warned. "Though it does sound as though it was ghastly."
"It still is," Mary said coldly. "There's no such thing as a quick victory. They'll be at it for months yet, I suspect. All the more reason for Matthew to spend all of his energy trying to stay alive."
"What have you told him?" Sybil asked.
"I keep telling him that we're perfectly fine and have the best care in Yorkshire," Mary said, smiling at Isobel knowingly. "I've also been updating him on the Estate, to give him some distraction."
"I stopped telling him how much I worry about him months ago," Isobel added. "As you say, it doesn't help to keep reminding him of how at risk they all are over there."
"It's been so good to receive so many letters from him since George was born," Mary nodded. "Knowing what Matthew is facing, I'm so anxious until his next letter arrives. He keeps reminding me that any delay in hearing from him could be due to any number of harmless reasons, but I've never been more vigilant about the mail coming each day."
Robert and Violet finished with their photographs with George and walked over to the family.
"Will that be all, Lady Mary?" the photographer asked. "I believe we've gotten everyone – the entire family, you with your sisters, with your mother-in-law, the grandparents, the two great grandmothers, Reverend Travis…am I missing anyone?"
"Yes," Mary declared, taking George from her father and walking back towards the Village Church.
"With my son and I, only," Mary ordered, turning George towards the camera.
"Very well," the photographer nodded, adjusting the camera.
George smacked his lips and Mary smiled at him, touching his cheek with her gloved fingers.
"Hello, darling," she whispered. "Can you open your eyes for me, please? We're going to send this picture to your Papa and I want you to look at the camera."
The photographer took a photo of Mary smiling at George, then prepared the camera for another shot.
Mary continued to whisper to her son, and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking several times. Mary grinned, then turned to the photographer.
"You had best hurry," Mary said. "He's about to fall back asleep."
"All right then, looking here, Lady Mary, Master George," the photographer called.
Mary smiled as she looked at the camera, imagining Matthew looking back at her and the baby – his family. She said a silent prayer for his safety as the photographer took the picture.
Bazentin Ridge, France, July 1916
The night was pitch black, visibility was a yard, maybe less, though the precise distance did not matter. Whether visibility was one yard or one mile, all there was to see was dark gloom and shades of black and grey, a countryside violated by War.
Matthew breathed quietly through his nose, checking his targeting scope from time to time, glancing up at the dark sky for any sign of approaching light. His unit had set out around midnight, synchronising their watches in the light of their own trench before heading out into no man's land. The advantage of moving in the dark was of course that while one could not see much in front of him, neither could the enemy.
Artillery bombardment was to begin at 3:20 a.m., though trying to tell the precise time in the dark was difficult. As Matthew monitored the enemy line in the distance, he heard rustling in the distance to his right as the infantry moved ahead as quietly as they dared. The 21st Division would take the German trench that ran in front of the forest, while the 7th Division was further to their right wing. The stretch of no man's land was vast, and the battalions advanced slowly, pushing as close to the line of barbed wire as they dared. Once the artillery fire lifted, they would have a short window in the first light of day to pour forward.
Matthew continued his watch, knowing that dawn was drawing near and soon the field would be alight. Lit by flares. Lit by artillery shells. Lit by death.
It was incredible how these large scale manoeuvres still turned on small details, he thought. Large guns and artillery batteries were positioned back behind the British lines, ready to fire, thousands of troops crouched in the forest, bayonets mounted on their rifles, preparing to charge. All of it hinged on the ability of wire cutters to clear a path through, otherwise the bombardment would be wasted and the men cut down where they stood.
"Light, Captain," Wakefield whispered.
"Ignore it," Matthew snapped back. The German sentries would sometimes light cigarettes as they patrolled, and the flash of matches was sometimes visible to the sniper scopes. Taking down a sentry here and there was not worth the shot. The enemy was to have no hint of the force advancing upon them.
Matthew peered through his scope, the darkness lifting slightly, revealing shadows and shapes where before there was but a black shroud. He aimed left and right, peering along the jagged line of barbed wire and the trench beyond. The British soldiers lay in wait, huddled together in shell craters or prone flat on the battered ground.
"Soon," Matthew said. "Very soon."
"Yes, Captain," Wakefield whispered.
Minutes passed, the only sound Matthew's slow breathing. The air was still. The troops scattered across the ground below could have all been dead, so motionless did they lie, waiting for the start.
And the sky exploded.
Downton Abbey, England, September 1916
"What other option do we have?" Robert asked, shaking his head.
"If there were options, we wouldn't be having this conversation, Papa," Mary sighed, looking over the papers spread out before her. Her fingers moved to her neck, fiddling with her pearl necklace as she reviewed the numbers again.
"I feel it's wrong, unfair in a way, to ask this of them," Robert frowned.
"It's either that or we lose almost a third of the crop," Mary said. "I don't particularly like it any more than you do, but we can hardly afford the shortage, and frankly neither can the country."
"What will you pay them?" Sybil asked.
"Less than a man would be paid, if that's what you're asking," Mary retorted. "Don't look at me like that, darling. The government sets the wages, not me."
"Does the government allow them to do less work commensurate with their lesser pay then?" Sybil grumbled.
"Where do they come from?" Edith asked.
"From everywhere," Mary said. "Most will be from the county. Some have probably already been doing their fair share of farming since the men were called up. We'll need to do a tour in the coming week, talk to the tenants and find out who needs help and how much."
"Can I do that? Please, Mary?" Sybil asked.
Robert frowned at her.
"She won't actually be ploughing a field, Papa," Mary rolled her eyes. "And all of us will need to go, if only to show everyone that we're doing our part."
"Fine," Robert said tightly.
Sybil grinned widely.
"I'll call London and make the arrangements," Robert said, shaking his head again. "Who will coordinate them all when they arrive?"
"You can handle that, can't you, Edith?" Mary said lightly, looking down at the table.
"Me?" Edith exclaimed.
"Yes, you," Mary said pointedly, glancing over at her sister. "You're the one interested in tractors and farming and all the rest of it, aren't you? Or was that all merely an act to impress Sir Anthony?"
Edith raised her chin indignantly. "Don't be silly. I can do it."
"Good. Once we finish our tour, we'll have a list of farms that need workers. You can meet the girls at the station and give them their assignments," Mary said.
"Girls," Robert muttered. "Threshing, ploughing, driving tractors…God help us all."
Sybil and Edith laughed together.
"What's so funny?" Cora smiled as she came into the library.
"Your daughters find my annoyance at having to employ women and girls to farm our lands amusing for some reason," Robert shrugged.
"I'm sure they are simply admiring how gallant you are, Robert," Cora smirked, taking a seat next to Sybil.
"You're a modern day Sir Walter Scott, Papa," Edith chuckled, sharing a smile with her sisters.
"I just spoke with Lady Foster," Cora announced. "She says there's been a wonderful response for the fundraising ball next month. We expect to sell all the tickets by next week."
"That's a lucky stroke," Robert nodded. "I've been called to London for meetings so it appears all of us will be in the city that week."
"Will you be bringing George with you?" Sybil asked Mary.
"No," Mary shook her head. "I don't think it's wise to travel with him just yet. I've told Mama that I shouldn't bother going, but she's being rather obtuse about the whole thing."
"You're the hostess of the party," Cora scolded her lightly. "You have to be there."
"Your Mama's right," Robert agreed. "We do need to put a new face on these things, attract a broader crowd. The last one we had was essentially a dinner with all of our friends."
"Well, that does sound rather boring," Mary smiled. "I suppose I'll have to do it, if only to ensure that we actually raise money for the soldiers."
"You love hosting, admit it," Edith said.
"It's a welcome distraction, or it can be, anyway," Mary replied carefully.
"Is there any chance that Cousin Matthew will be back in time?" Sybil asked.
Robert and Cora shared a sad look.
"No," Mary said shortly, looking back at her papers. "His next leave is probably still a few months away yet."
Bazentin Ridge, France, July 1916
Among many errors made on the first day of the Somme Offensive, one of the more glaring was trying to bombard a long stretch of enemy occupied land for an extended period of time. The delay between the bombing and the advance of the soldiers allowed the Germans time to regroup and reorganize, and the great distances between where the shells landed left several machine gun emplacements still functioning.
There would be no such errors this time.
The artillery shells fell like a hurricane a few hundred yards ahead of them, and Matthew hunkered down lower as he watched the carnage and felt the ground shake. The British focused their batteries on a small area and pounded it relentlessly for a short burst of five minutes. Matthew glanced at his wristwatch as he monitored the assault, each minute seeming to take forever to pass, each moment seeming as though the ground itself would swallow them all up.
"One minute!" Matthew yelled over the roar of the bombs.
"One minute!" Wakefield called back, gesturing up the line to the other snipers.
Matthew looked through his scope, tracking the enemy line in the distance. There was no movement, as the Germans were likely huddled below, riding out the storm of fire, waiting for their chance to strike back.
Matthew moved his sight to the barbed wire line, making out soldiers frantically cutting through at several points as the infantry massed behind them.
"Hurry up! Hurry up!" Matthew snarled through gritted teeth.
In an instant they were through, one wave blowing through a breach on the left, then another in the centre. The soldiers piled in the gaps, sprinting for the enemy trench ahead, grenadiers moving to the front.
"I'm starting on the left," Matthew said.
"Left side of the trench, yes, Captain," Wakefield replied, focusing his scope.
A helmet peered over the edge of the trench and Matthew fired, moving along the line when he saw others jump up. The infantry was upon them, led by bombing groups that threw grenades into the dugouts, then pushed ahead as the main force came in behind.
The dreaded staccato of machine gun fire rang out on the left, and the advance stalled as soldiers in the front were cut down and soldiers behind dove for cover. Matthew and his men switched their focus to that side of the trench, hoping to minimize the casualties before the charge broke down completely. He fired a full clip in seconds, picking off enemy gunners who were swept up in the wave of soldiers pushing forward. Men climbed over the bodies of their comrades to reach the Germans as quickly as they could, lest they be caught out under the barrels of the machine guns.
They carried on, dawn giving way to daylight, and the once silent field now awash with gunfire, artillery shells flying in both directions, whistles, shouts and screams. They did not know how the other phases of the attack were going along the rest of the German trenches, but here, before the forest, they were driving the enemy back.
"Prepare to press forward," Matthew ordered, shooting at a soldier retreating away.
"Prepare to press forward," Wakefield confirmed.
Matthew spent his clip. He glanced at the field below, seeing haphazard and disorganized defences as the Germans fell back.
"Go! Go! Go!" Matthew yelled.
The North Riding Volunteers charged from their concealed position on the left flank. They ran through the gaps in the barbed wire, following the uneven and churned up ground just covered by the infantry. They fired into the distance at retreating soldiers and readied their bayonets for close combat.
Matthew dove into the German trench and raised his rifle, holding his bayonet forward like a spear. He led his men through, his eyes darting here and there, looking for any sign of opposition as they picked through fallen bodies and debris.
He turned into a dugout and raised his rifle, his men following in behind him. A dozen Germans sat on the ground, their hands on their heads.
"Tie them up," Matthew ordered, keeping his rifle trained on them as his men secured the prisoners. They left them to be picked up by the next unit and moved on. Rounding a corner, Matthew nodded as he came up to soldiers from the 21st Division.
"Captain," the man saluted.
"Status?" Matthew asked.
"Secure here, sir," the soldier replied. "Our orders are to proceed through the forest to the second line. Two regiments have gone over already."
"Then let's get going," Matthew said.
"Sir, yes, sir," the soldier said, leading the way to a battered ladder further down the line.
Matthew climbed out of the trench and ran towards the forest, the screeching of artillery shells ringing in his ears as the British and Germans traded salvos. As they neared the forest trench, there was commotion all around them, British infantry fighting to gain ground, and Germans pushing back. The trench was breached in some areas. In others, the invaders were being repelled as they tried to go over.
"Spread out!" Matthew ordered. "Cover that left side!"
His unit fanned out around the advancing infantry, taking up positions among the trees and picking off the defenders as they rose up from the lip of the trench. The area was crowded, and clear shots were rare. Matthew finally gave the order to charge. Taking a deep breath, he piled into the forest trench after the others.
His pulse raced as he crept through the muddy ground, his eyes wide. There were shouts and whistles and gun shots, and each time he saw someone appear ahead of him his chest seized slightly before he realized it was an ally. They skirmished in crowds, stabbing forward with their bayonets and trampling the enemy underfoot as they moved forward, ignoring nicks and scratches and cuts to their uniforms, paralyzing fear kept just at bay until it was clear the trench was secured and the enemy subdued.
Matthew allowed his men to rest for a moment, taking water and wiping sweaty brows, giving scant seconds to stretch aching limbs and tight backs.
"Beyond the forest is our last objective," Matthew said clearly and firmly, the tired faces of his men staring back at him. "Take the village and we're done. Take the village and we're safe. Take the village with everything you've got."
The men nodded and gasped and gripped their rifles, each of them mustering what little strength they had left for the final push.
"Go!" Matthew screamed and they clawed their way out of the trench and into the forest, battalions of their countrymen ahead of them. The tree line ended ahead of them, and the open field was clear, the village lay in the distance.
Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, October 1916
"Good night my Prince," Mary smiled, kissing George's forehead. She sighed contentedly and passed him back to Nanny, who spirited him away to the nursery to put him into his crib.
"He's finally asleep," Mary shook her head, turning back to her vanity mirror. Anna finished braiding her hair, smiling as she tied the ribbon.
"Master George is quite lively, Milady," Anna nodded.
"He takes after his Papa in that," Mary laughed. "I always slept on command when I was an infant, if you believe what Mama says."
"I'm so glad you decided to bring him in the end," Anna nodded. "He's been great fun all week."
"It was far easier travelling with him than I expected," Mary agreed. "He slept the entire train ride here, and he's settled into the nursery perfectly well."
"It seems tonight went well," Anna said, walking over to the bed and retrieving Mary's robe. "It was rather well attended, in any event."
"It's the most money we've raised yet," Mary said lightly, rising from her chair and going over to the full length mirror. She looked at her reflection, smiling to herself. Her figure had returned in the months following George's birth. Her breasts were still larger than before her pregnancy, the curve of her hips still slightly more rounded, but she could see the angles and lines of her body that she recognized from the early days of her marriage, and she drew a strange pride from that.
"You'll draw compliments then for hosting the event," Anna said. "Her Ladyship seemed quite happy."
"She's just grateful she can pass on the job to someone else," Mary rolled her eyes. "It's rather draining, I must say. All of the constant smiling, the false laughing at jokes that aren't funny, complimenting the women on rather ghastly fashion choices and flirting with the men who are too old or too cowardly to have gone off to War themselves. Sybil thinks that what we do doesn't qualify as work, but on nights like tonight, I disagree."
"But it's all worth it if you raised money to support the soldiers, Milady," Anna said, holding up the robe for Mary to put her arms through.
"Nothing is worth anything until Mr. Crawley comes back, Anna," Mary said vehemently, tying the sash around her waist. "I've grown quite sick of patriotism and rallying behind the government and hating countries I've never been to. I just want my husband home, that's all."
Anna nodded in understanding.
"That's it. Thank you, Anna. Good night," Mary said emptily.
"Good night, Milady," Anna curtsied and left the room.
Mary walked slowly over to the bed and sat down. Her shoulders slumped, her hands fell listlessly to her sides. She looked sadly over at her nightstand, neither the book nor Matthew's letters interesting her at the moment.
"Matthew," she whispered, looking vacantly at the wall. Finally she roused herself to get off the bed and kneel before it, retrieving Matthew's picture and placing it on the blanket in front of her. She clasped her hands together in prayer and cleared her throat.
"Dear Lord…"
Bazentin Ridge, France, July 1916
They ran, trudging ahead with heaving grunts and fierce groans. Matthew raised his hand and stopped them as they approached the village. He motioned for them to follow along one end of the empty street.
There was gunfire and shouting to their right. The Germans had fallen back to the village from the two captured trench lines. If they were merely holding up temporarily to cover the retreat back through the forests beyond, then there would only be a token force gathered here. If they were getting stuck in to hold the village at all costs, then it would be a brawl.
Matthew signalled for his men to move out among the buildings. They moved swiftly in the direction of the skirmishing, careful not to be caught out running into the thick of the defenders. The village was small, even smaller than Downton, Matthew thought briefly. He imagined French schoolchildren playing in the streets and even the odd bicycle rolling along on a sunny afternoon. Now it was all deserted, either the buildings long abandoned when the Germans swept in, or the villagers were cowering in their basements, waiting for the fight to end. If any civilians remained, would they be grateful for their liberation, or bitter about trading one group of captors for another?
"Brown roof," Wakefield hissed.
Matthew crouched low on to one knee, using the house they had come up against as cover.
"Three waves," he ordered.
"Three waves," Wakefield repeated, signalling to the others.
Matthew aimed for a group of Germans sitting with their backs flush against a house with a brown roof in the distance. He picked out one and fired, his shot joined by four others from his men.
The Germans scrambled from their cover as their fellows slumped to the ground. The second wave of sniper fire took out a few more. Matthew reloaded. Several Germans on the other side of the house came running through, trying to get away from the compromised position and to figure out where the enemy were shooting from.
The third group of snipers opened fire and took down the last escapees. Matthew picked out a fresh target and fired, all movement across the square in front of them stopping within moments.
They pulled back and circled around the square the long way, making sure they did not expose themselves to anyone who saw the first shots. The gunfire became less frequent as they moved, and when they came around to the house with the brown roof, they encountered no resistance.
"Left!" Wakefield growled, jumping back against the wall of the house.
Matthew peered out, then raised his hand to his men.
"Friendly!" he called.
Rows of soldiers came walking cautiously down the street, rifles raised, keeping a fair gap between the ranks. Matthew came out into the street with his men and they met in the square. They were from the 7th Division, the battalions that were to move on the right flank and meet up at the village if they were successful in getting through. Seeing them here had Matthew daring to believe the operation had been a success.
"Captain," a soldier saluted him. "Final objective secured, sir. We've captured the village. Gathering prisoners down that street now."
"Good job," Matthew nodded. "Rest up. Post sentries and expect a counter attack. I'm going to send a group to reconnoitre the route to High Wood. We'll hold here and await orders."
"Sir, yes, sir," The soldier saluted and went to relay the message on.
"Water, Captain," Wakefield said, offering him a canteen. "I'll go grab volunteers from the lads to go on ahead, sir."
Matthew nodded and took the canteen. He took a long sip, the water was tepid, metallic and hard. He looked around the square, seeing houses riddled with bullet holes, some roofs clearly damaged by artillery fire or shrapnel and the ground torn up and littered with pock marks from the hundreds of soldiers who had pounded through the area over the past months.
"Victory," Matthew muttered, taking another swig from the canteen.
Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, October 1916
Mary stared at the wall of her bedroom through the darkness, the blankets gathered around her hips. She'd tossed and turned for about an hour after Anna was dismissed. Finally, she rose from bed, went into the closet and retrieved Matthew's shirt, removing her nightgown and slipping into the long sleeves. She still had not fallen asleep, but the scent of him on her skin had calmed her nerves.
Her mind wandered back to the fundraiser. Greeting the guests as they arrived with a nod and a smile. Accepting well wishes on George's birth. Extending her gloved hand or her cheek for a polite kiss. Pursing her lips into a tight smile.
Her fingers fiddled with the collar of Matthew's shirt as she thought about the flippant jokes and irreverent comments that she endured through the evening. How could anyone be happy? How could they sit listening to music and watching magic tricks and poetry readings as though it was a grand affair when the entire reason they were here was because men, even boys, were being killed in France and Belgium and the Orient and wherever else? When Sybil told her the final numbers from the donations, Mary was at first impressed by their tally. Shortly after though, she became annoyed. What exactly was considered generous? Were the token donations they'd raised sufficient? How many of the guests had merely given over a few quid to ease their conscience or brag about how they were supporting the War effort?
Her hand moved down the front of Matthew's shirt, across her bare skin. She played with the shirt button, undoing it and running it through her fingers. Mama was only too quick to tell all the guests they would be having another concert and fundraiser in December during Winter Season. Mary would be tasked to host that one as well. She would dress up and make herself pretty and stand up for the invited guests to look at her as much as they wanted. Anything to raise more money.
She swallowed and closed her eyes. There were moments during the evening when she glanced at the door, irrationally hoping that Matthew would come walking in. 'I wanted to surprise you' he would say, before taking her in his arms and kissing her in full view of everyone, propriety be damned. When one of the poor jugglers dropped a plate on to the floor, Mary chuckled lightly, turning to her left to tell Matthew a clever joke, only to find Edith sitting next to her instead. Her sister had not appreciated the joke as much as Matthew would have.
"Matthew," she sighed, her eyes closed. Her hand wandered beneath the fabric of his shirt, caressing the soft flesh of her breast as her mind conjured his handsome face. She was slowly going delusional, and she did not have the energy to fight it anymore. Each day she thought about him – wondering what he would think of the Land Girls coming to Downton to farm their crops, whether he would be pleased about a new pig being born, what his reaction would be to all of her snide barbs about Edith's continuing infatuation with Strallan. Years ago she could go days without thinking about him. Even after he'd arrived at Downton as Papa's heir, she may not see him for a day or two and she didn't pay any mind to the separation, expecting she would see him soon enough.
"Matthew," she breathed, her fingers rubbing over her nipple as she pictured his hands on her, his mouth, his tongue, his deep voice scandalously voicing all of the things he intended to do to her right before he carried through on his promises. It was impossible to not think about him these days. She didn't even need reminders in the newspaper or in conversation about the War for him to enter her thoughts. No matter what she was doing, he would filter in, as though her heart was now controlling her brain. Receiving a letter from him was sometimes a cruel punishment. She could hear his voice reading the words to her, and when she read his effusive praise, telling her what a wonderful mother she was and how thankful he was to her for giving him a son, she blushed as though he was in the room with her.
"Matthew," she moaned softly, her bare legs shifting against the soft linens, imagining it was his body against her, parting her thighs. She imagined that reading his letters the first time was like taking a dose of a drug, the euphoria instant and intense as she devoured his words. His lurid thoughts about how he imagined her naked in their bed when he fell asleep and how he would spend the entire first two days of his next leave tying her to the bedposts and ravishing her without mercy made her blood fly through her veins. By the time she finished his letter, she would take a sip of wine or sherry and bathe herself in the high of having heard from him and the relief that he was alive.
"Matthew," she said through clenched teeth, her hips rocking back and forth as she could see his face contorted in lust, his blue eyes bright and fierce and focused entirely on her as they both drove towards pleasure. He was her addiction, and she needed him constantly to keep her going. She felt less excited the second time she read one of his letters, and lesser still the third time, and the fourth, until she was left alone at night, reading six or seven of his letters in rapid succession to try and escape to the same dream where they were safe and together and happy.
"Matthew," her eyes shot open and she stilled her hands, removing them away from her skin and burying her head into her pillow. She turned away and took a deep breath, bringing her hands to her face, his scent on the cuffs of his shirt filling her.
Once again she cried herself to sleep.
Bazentin-le-Petit, France, September 1916
Matthew collapsed on to his cot, shrugging his pack and his helmet off. He resisted the urge to lie down, his arms and legs crying out for some relief. There was too much to do to go to sleep now, though his men were all trying desperately to do exactly that. There was word that they'd finally managed to drive the Germans from Delville Wood and taken the village of Guillemont, but Matthew was almost indifferent to this news. Between attacks and counter attacks, the few yards gained one day were lost the next, and they had been at it for months now fighting over a few miles of land that could not possibly be worth the tens of thousands of lives lost. But neither side looked to be withdrawing and so the battle would continue until there was some other objective to fight over.
Matthew ran his hand through his hair. He had letters to write, letters of the worst kind. Alex had once told him to let the War Office do its job, and that it was better to relay such news by telegram, rather than use letters, as to provide more detail would only hurt morale and dishearten the men still fighting. These were all reasonable points, but Matthew still refused to abide. If a man was lost under his command, his family would hear from Matthew, no exceptions.
He closed his eyes and sighed, his head falling between his shoulders. Pennington. Underhill. Morrow. Just boys. They had been with Matthew for less than four months, but they had an affinity for spotting, and Matthew's men needed spotters, so they were assigned to his unit. He'd taken care to put them further back in the formations, where they were less likely to engage the enemy at his strongest, where they would be safe.
Matthew opened his eyes and laughed bitterly. Where in this entire God forsaken place was it safe for any of them?
He took out his binder and balanced it across his knees, the low light of the lamp would have to do. He began writing, telling of how brave each of them were, how proud he was to serve with them, and what a service they each had done to His Majesty and to Britain. By the time he signed his name and stamped each of the letters, he felt hollow inside. He had to lift his pen and pause several times to stop himself from writing what he really wanted to say.
I'm sorry sir, madam, but your son never should have been here. He never should have been given a few weeks' training, a rifle thrown into his hands and shipped over to fight against grown men with years of experience. I wish I could tell you that their deaths were worth something, but I don't know what the precise purpose is of our being in this exact spot at this exact time and how winning this piece of land will end up winning us the War. Terribly sorry, sir, madam, but I've got to get on with it. Your son's personal items will be shipped to you in due course.
Matthew left the envelopes in the bag for his soldier-servant to take to be posted. The Post. At least that was still running properly. He could not understand or begin to fathom how his letters reached Mary within mere days, but he rejoiced at the service's expediency. He fell back on to the bed, pulling the thin blanket over him, his duty done for now.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the photograph Mary had just sent. His dear boy was looking at the camera with a mix of confusion and wonder, his lips curled into a half smile. Mary beamed as she held him, her brilliant smile intended just for Matthew.
He ran his finger across her face, swallowing as he noticed the hint of skin below her throat where her jacket collar fell open. Mary had clearly lost weight in the month after George was born, and she looked more like her old self in the picture, not that Matthew minded the way she looked during her pregnancy either. He knew that Mary was not nursing George, but he blushed at the thought of her body keeping some of the curves he'd seen during his last leave.
He sighed and kissed her photograph, stowing it away once again. He was anxious to meet George for the first time, but he was desperate to see Mary. As much as he loved his son, to know that the little boy was healthy and growing was enough for now. Matthew grinned when he thought about all the lessons and moments he would share with his boy someday, even quiet times when the three of them would be curled up together reading a book or strolling through the Village. He knew his heart would burst when he finally held George in his arms, and the thought lifted his spirits.
But he needed Mary. He didn't go a night without thinking about her, saying a prayer for her when he left in the morning and again before he went to sleep. He prayed for her to be strong, and brave, and to be patient with Robert and kind with Edith and to hold their family together while he was away. He wasn't surprised when she mentioned that Cora had delegated the fundraising events to her going forward. Mary was a consummate hostess, and hopefully it would keep her busy.
He closed his eyes and smiled at the image of her wearing a lovely gown, her hair perfectly set, nodding and smiling to guests, moving about the salon freely, talking and laughing with everyone, loosening their tongues and their wallets. It seemed inconceivable that money would somehow end the War when he was slogging through mud and going months without a proper bath, but Matthew was pragmatic enough to know that money mattered. Money bought more ammunition, more supplies, faster transportation and better equipment. He liked to imagine Mary taking donations in Yorkshire and London that would eventually reach him in some form, as though she was passing aid on to him across the Continent, the two of them united in this relentless campaign.
Matthew shivered and pulled the blanket closer. He opened his heavy eyes and gazed listlessly at the wall of his tent as he pictured Mary hosting the fundraiser. Her playful eyes turned away from the crowd and reached him, her smile turning mischievous, her eyebrow beckoning him to her. They would wait for the first performances to start, perhaps sit through a song or two, or perhaps endure until intermission, then each of them would think of some excuse to slip away. There would be no time to go up to their bedroom. Maybe they would use the parlour, or the study, locking the door as their hands clutched at each other. He would use his fingers. She would use her mouth. A few frantic moments and stifled cries and they would quickly smooth over their clothes and share a playful kiss before going back to the salon the picture of propriety.
Matthew reached over into his pack and took out Mary's lacy knickers, quickly pulling them under the blanket as his face reddened. He closed his eyes, silencing the voice that wondered how many hours he would be allowed to sleep before it was time to kill once again. He breathed out, clutching the silk that had once covered his wife's most intimate parts against his body. He grit his teeth and tried to conjure her to him once more, hoping the night would remain quiet for a while longer.