PART II: WAR
14
May 1915
Matthew was weary and growing more nervous as the train rumbled across the lush green of the English countryside. He shifted his position on the seat, trying to relieve the familiar aches in his frame. He had been travelling for two long days and he was eager to be off the train and headed home, hopefully towards a warm, dry bed. He craned his neck and looked as far ahead as he could out the window, smiling as the fields and houses on the outskirts of Downton village finally came into view. He was almost there—almost to the station, and Mary.
The prospect of seeing her again filled him with nervous anticipation. He wasn't sure why, as there was nothing for him to be nervous about, but there was a slight trembling in his frame. Although they'd exchanged letters almost weekly since they'd last parted, his marriage to her still felt like something out of a dream that might not have actually happened. He supposed that was it: all his hopes of the dream being a reality were hinged on the first moment he saw her again. What would she think of him, having left her so soon after their wedding?
There were long stretches in between when he'd never thought of her, he'd been so consumed with just surviving and ensuring that as many of the men under his command did as well. But in the quieter moments, when everything slowed down and he was relieved of the endless retracing of his steps, when he could almost relax his guard, his thoughts went to Mary. The dream, the memory of her, had an unreal quality in the squalor of the dugouts. She was a fantasy from another world, clean and warm and exquisite, and he had to work to remember what Downton looked like, so different from the world he now knew.
Sometimes it seemed as though the misery of the trenches were endless. There was only mud and the infinite variations on discomfort, surrounded by a mind-numbing boredom that was interrupted only by regular installments of sheer terror. The heat and cold and chest-shuddering bombardment of the constant shelling were enough to drive out all thoughts other than a desperate drive for shelter. He was barely able to force down the overwhelming instinct to run and hide—where could he go?—and instead look after his men. Hour after hour, he carried out his duties as an officer. There was no other way to get through each day. Focus on his men, focus on keeping his head down, retrace, inspect, retrace, inspect, hope that shell whistling by overhead doesn't hit you—
The train shuddered and Matthew forced himself to refocus on the pastoral view out the window, welcoming the nerves fluttering in his stomach. He wanted to feel alive. Mary! He must ask her for a photograph to take back to the front. He always kept her latest letter in the left breast pocket of his tunic; he'd keep her photograph there as well, he decided.
The train's wheels screeched as it slowed and he glanced out again, seeing the station pulling up outside. He picked up his bag and hauled himself out of the cabin with stubborn energy, holding onto the rail to steady himself as the train came to a shuddering halt. Was Mary outside? He'd written to her of his expected leave in his last letter, but had it reached her yet? He'd sent it only five days earlier.
He moved quickly down the narrow corridor, came to the end of the carriage, and climbed down the steps. Steam was billowing out from under the train and he glanced to his left, towards the centre of the station, straining to make out a familiar face in the small crowd on the platform, and one in particular.
"Matthew!"
He twisted around at the sound, the familiar voice from his dreams—
—and saw her. Her hand was raised towards him, the look on her face uncertain until the moment their eyes met, and then her eyes widened. His heart leapt into his throat and he forced himself away from the unreality of the moment: she looked such a picture, so precise and beautiful and shrouded in mist, in the warm late-afternoon light.
She'd begun to move towards him, hurrying across the platform at nearly an unseemly run. He could only stare. He barely had time to drop his bag and raise his arms before she was in them and he dragged in a breath and pulled her close against the whole length of his body. She held him tightly and he felt and heard a sob of joy come from her. He wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Mary. She was in his arms, solid and real and as desperate to hold him as he was to hold her. He clasped her tightly for a long moment and then loosened his hold just enough to meet her upturned mouth with his own. It was just a chaste press of lips—they were still in public, even if he could feel the clouds of steam billowing around them—but even so, tingling warmth spread from the contact throughout the whole of his body. She slipped her lips across his, pressing another kiss, warm and soft again, and then pulled back. They marvelled at one another for a moment and he committed her sharp brown eyes to memory again. He blinked back the sting in his eyes and smiled at her and ran a thumb across her cheek. Her smile was radiant.
"Matthew."
His own smile widened. "Mary."
"It's good to see you," she said, and he watched her regain her dignified bearing. It made him smile. He straightened and released her, although they stood so close that their clothing continued to brush. He raised an eyebrow and pretended an amused detachment.
"It's quite nice to see you too, darling."
"Lieutenant Crawley, sir," Branson said with a respectful grin, and Matthew turned to look at the chauffeur with a smile. "Glad you're home."
"Glad to be home!" Matthew ignored protocol and reached out to shake the man's hand.
Branson looked initially taken aback by this display of familiarity but quickly gave Matthew his hand and a brief nod. He smiled and released Matthew's hand and jerked his head back towards the roadway.
"Car's just there. I'll get your bag."
Branson's glance was strangely distant and Matthew frowned. He looked back at where he'd dropped his bag and smiled when he realised that it was farther away than he'd expected. He must have made more of a move towards Mary than he'd thought.
He gave Branson a grateful nod and followed Mary to the car. Shortly after they'd settled themselves in the back, Branson climbed into the front seat and they pulled out onto the road.
Matthew raised his eyebrow at Mary. "So where are we headed?"
"The house, of course," she replied. "As you'll only be here for three days, Papa and I agreed that it wouldn't make much sense to open a cottage."
Matthew nodded with a smirk. "Of course."
Mary glanced at him. "You're not upset?"
He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Darling, if you'd announced that we'd be living together in a tent on the front lawn of the churchyard, I'd still be perfectly happy." At Mary's look, he chuckled and amended, "Well, perhaps if there were a hot bath drawn, I'd be happier."
She laughed. "Oh, good! I thought you might say that. I asked Carson to make sure one would be ready for you when you arrived."
Matthew sighed and pressed his lips to her cheek, careful not to knock her hat with the brim of his own. "Heaven. Thank you."
Mary smiled, then straightened and gave a slight forward tilt of her head. Matthew followed her gesture and caught Branson's eyes in the rear-view mirror, just before the chauffeur quickly drew them back to the road. It was clear that he'd been smiling.
Matthew smiled—he felt like he hadn't stopped doing that since the moment he'd seen his wife—and then he smiled again at the thought of Mary, his wife, and he looked out at the countryside passing by. Mary slipped her hand under his and rested it on his thigh. He clasped her hand gently, then settled back and relaxed against the seat beside her. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Matthew watched the familiar tree-lined path open up before them, and then the curve of the road as it approached the house, and then Downton Abbey came into view, rising over the green lawns with stately grandeur. It was still imposing, but there now came with it a knowledge of its interior, and of the lives of the family—his family—that lived within it. It was familiar and such a relief to see still standing just as he remembered it. It was almost as if he could pretend that there weren't a war on, for the great house looked the same as the day he'd left. He gave a sigh and then saw with a smile that the household had come out and lined up to greet him. He felt humbled and honoured by the gesture, and eager to be past all the formalities.
Branson pulled the car up and hopped out, quickly coming round to open the door. Mary stepped out first and Matthew followed her. He straightened and took in all the familiar faces, noting the ones that were missing. Of course: Thomas was in the medical corps now and Edith had been living at Locksleigh House since she'd married Sir Anthony.
Robert stepped forward and gave Matthew a warm handshake and clapped him on the back.
"Matthew, my boy, so good to see you!"
Robert was in uniform: the only visible sign that all was not as it had been at Downton before the war. He wore it well, and Matthew straightened in appreciation. He returned the greeting and then smiled at his mother, who stepped forward to see him next. He held her close a moment and then she gave a brief nod and stepped back. They would have time later to catch up properly. He greeted Cora—she looked well, if a little tired—and Sybil, who smiled warmly at him.
"Mama and Edith will see you at dinner this evening," Robert said, leading them inside.
"And Edward?" Matthew asked, glancing around. He hadn't seen any of the servants carrying a baby.
"Oh, he's having his nap now," Cora said, coming around them with a proud smile as they stepped into the great hall. "You'll see him before dinner; I'll have Norris bring him down to meet you." She gave him a wide smile, clearly pleased that he had asked after the child that had supplanted him as heir.
Mary moved past them, leading the way to the stairs. "I'll show you our rooms," she said, her tone a little brusque. He glanced at her, but she had already begun to ascend the steps.
Carson came to a stop in the great hall, gesturing for William to go past him. "William will bring up your bag, Lieutenant Crawley," the butler said. His expression was severe as always but his eyes were warm. Matthew nodded his thanks to both him and the young footman.
"I asked Bates to see to you first this evening," Robert said, smiling up at Matthew when he paused on the landing, causing Mary and William to pause as well. "First night home and all that."
"Thank you," Matthew said, a little taken aback. "But I assure you, that isn't necessary."
"Molesley sends his deepest regrets: his father took a bad turn last night," his mother explained.
Matthew frowned. "His father is ill?"
"Not a serious complaint," she said. "At least, nothing he won't recover from. But he's quite unable to make do by himself at the moment and Molesley is his nearest relation."
Matthew put out a hand. "Of course—tell him he must take as much time as he needs. I'll only be here for three days. I can manage." He cut himself off just before adding the words "without him", but it was clear that everyone present had understood the implication and not all of them approved. Matthew cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll just— head up." He gave Robert another grateful smile and ascended the stairs.
Bates was waiting outside the dressing room, a small smile on his face. "Welcome home, sir."
Matthew smiled back. "Thank you. Glad to be here, even if it's just for a few days."
"Quite right," Bates replied, and held out a hand. "I've drawn you a bath, at Lady Mary's request. It's this way."
Matthew nodded and glanced at Mary, who stood waiting beside William. "I'll just be in the other room," she said, her eyes flickering to the next door. "Carson will have rung the dressing gong by now, so I need to get to it."
"Right, of course." Matthew glanced at Bates. "Will there be enough time—?"
Bates smiled. "Don't worry about that, Lieutenant Crawley. The family wouldn't dream of starting dinner without you."
"Oh, but I wouldn't want to make anyone wait."
Mary rolled her eyes and strode away with a smile. Bates tilted his head, beckoning Matthew to enter first. "You'll find I'm quite competent at my job, sir," he said.
"I hadn't meant to offend," Matthew said quickly, obeying the valet's gesture.
Bates chuckled. "You haven't, sir." He pointed in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll see that your kit is ready the moment you step out."
"Thank you," Matthew said. "Did my mother have it sent over?"
"Molesley oversaw it personally and brought it directly here from Savile Row only last week." Bates said, taking the bag from William, who immediately left the room. "Will you be needing any help with—?" He gestured at Matthew's clothing.
"Oh. No, thank you, Bates."
"Just ring if you need me," the valet said, moving towards the door.
"Actually—" Matthew said with a grimace.
Bates paused and turned. "Sir?"
"My...underthings. They're...they really ought to be—" Matthew resisted the sudden urge to scratch himself and frowned.
"Burned?" Bates asked. "Of course, sir. We had your clothes brought over from Crawley House. I've also taken the liberty of leaving a small basin with a vinegar solution in it beside the tub, should you want it."
Matthew didn't quite smile, but he was immensely grateful for the valet's knowledge and efficiency. "My soldier-servant did his best to wash and delouse everything, but it might still be best to run a—well, we use cigarettes, but I suppose you might have something more civilised available at Downton—" Matthew chuckled nervously, "—along the inner seams of all my shirts and trousers."
"There's already a poker heating in the grate downstairs," Bates assured him.
"Good man."
Bates smiled. "I'll be along directly to gather your things, but if you'd be so kind as to leave them in the hamper?"
Matthew gave the valet a quick nod. The two men regarded one another for a moment and then Bates stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Matthew unbuckled his Sam Browne and shrugged out of his tunic, his glance moving between the two other doors in the room. He was torn: he both wanted to see Mary and he wanted to relax into a warm bath. After a moment, he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Mary was probably not alone in her room—or was it their room? He wondered idly if that was her old bedroom or if it had been done up especially for them now that they were married. He'd wondered what her bedroom looked like, what it would tell him about her. He smiled to himself as he walked into the bathroom and the warm, moist air met his skin.
A short while later, he slid into the hot water with a long sigh and sank down, resting his head on the edge of the tub. It felt glorious; a luxury that was almost decadent. The house around him was blessedly still. He hummed and smiled.
His eyes flew open at a soft sound and he looked up to see Mary bending over him, her face upside-down and smiling at him.
"Have you washed your back yet?" she asked.
"No." He smiled.
She tsked and reached to the side for something. "You're going to make Bates look bad."
He frowned. "What? Why?"
"You've been napping in here for at least the past fifteen minutes."
He sat up, realising that the edge of the water was cooler than he remembered it being. "Oh!"
He twisted to look at her and saw that she was wearing a bathrobe, although her hair was pinned up in an attractive fashion. He wanted to thread his fingers up into it, but she had moved away from him. When she turned back, he saw that she had a bar of soap in her hand. He obliged her and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and closing his eyes with a sigh as she began to run her hands over his skin.
Her hand paused on his left side. "What's this?"
"Nothing," he shrugged.
"Matthew, there's a pink line running halfway round your torso."
"It was just some shrapnel," he said. "I'm fine."
"When did this happen?"
He sighed. He really didn't want to talk about it. "A few months ago. It's nothing, really."
"Why didn't you mention it in your letters?"
He stared at the taps and shrugged again. "What would have been the point? It wasn't serious. I didn't want to spend my relief time recounting all my injuries. I didn't want you to worry needlessly."
"…'all your injuries'?" she asked.
He frowned at his slip of the tongue. "Mary, I'm fine."
She sighed in annoyance, stroked her finger along the scar one last time, and returned to washing his back. He closed his eyes.
"How have you been?" he asked.
"Oh, as usual, you know," she said. "Unless you haven't been reading any of my letters."
He chuckled. "I think I have them nearly memorised by now."
A small moan escaped his lips when he felt her kiss the back of his neck.
"I love you," she whispered.
He drew in a breath and opened his eyes, his chest suddenly feeling tight. He twisted to meet her mouth with his own. The bar of soap in her hand slipped over his shoulder and came to rest against his chest, where she held it while she steadied herself during the kiss. He took the bar from her and continued to soap himself when she pulled back.
"You've missed me," he said, grinning up at her.
She raised an eyebrow, then met his eyes and slipped her hand down into the water before he'd quite realised what she was doing. She found her target and he hissed in surprise and lost his grip on the bar of soap. It shot into the water with a small plop as he grabbed the edges of the tub to hold himself upright. His heart was suddenly pounding. He groaned as he felt her hand move. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Mary—" he managed.
She laughed and pulled away, releasing the sleeve of her bathrobe, and he opened his eyes.
"It appears to be mutual, darling," she said, her eyes still laughing.
"Not fair," he murmured, dragging in a breath to calm himself.
"But ever so much fun," she said. She straightened up with a wide smile. He was pleased to note the high colour on her cheeks, and the flush on her skin. He would have liked nothing more in that moment than to drag her down into the tub with him, but he suspected that she would not take kindly to that. Well, something to look forward to later. He smiled to himself. Later.
"I'll send Bates in," she said, wiping her arm on his waiting towel. "He says your mess kit is pressed and ready."
He hunted for the bar of soap, found it, and ran it quickly under his armpits. "I'll be out in a moment," he muttered, affecting an annoyed tone even as he couldn't help grinning. "As soon as I manage to lose the effects of your attentions."
Mary chuckled as she reached the door. "I doubt he'd be scandalised; he was the one who sent me in here."
Matthew shook his head as she stepped out. Then he made a mental note to commend Bates before his leave ended.
The valet was waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom, the first of his clothing laid out neatly on the bed. The scarlet jacket hung on the door of the wardrobe and he stared at it in some surprise. He'd never worn anything so vivid.
For having never worked with the man before, Bates was surprisingly easy to interact with. He never pressed in and fussed over Matthew, instead just conveying a quiet sense of competence and dignity as each piece that Matthew required next was made available. There was none of Molesley's nervous eagerness to please; if anything, Matthew felt as though he ought to please Bates and yet Matthew was never made to feel less than perfectly appropriate in all that he chose to do—mostly on his own, he was relieved to find.
It was a rather quietly eye-opening experience and Matthew had a new understanding of why Robert was content to have a valet with a permanent disability. Bates's limp had raised Matthew's eyebrows when he'd first met him, and he had the vague sense that the valet's first year in the household hadn't been entirely without incident, but watching the man moving about the room now, it was clear that his limp and his cane presented no significant difficulty to completing his duties. Or at least, he gave the air of rising above it with ease.
That was something, Matthew was sure as he shrugged on the mess jacket and made himself comfortable in it, that had taken Bates a great deal of effort. Matthew could only hope that he would acquit himself half as well should he ever find himself in the same position.
Turning his mind away from that prospect, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, tugging the new black waistcoat and endeavouring not to be blinded by the bright sea of scarlet that surrounded him. Bates swept off his shoulders and made some minor adjustments, then stepped back. Matthew frowned.
"The shoulders seem a bit…tight," he said.
"And the waistcoat looser than it ought to be," Bates confirmed. "Molesley was working off your old measurements."
Matthew frowned. He hadn't realised that he'd changed that much. He looked up at the sound of a soft knock on the door.
"Will that be all, sir?" Bates asked, quickly gathering up the discarded bath sheet.
"Yes, thank you, Bates. First-rate job."
Bates smiled. "Thank you, sir. It's good to have to you home."
Matthew shot him one last smile before turning to greet Mary, who was emerging from the connecting door to the bedroom. Matthew heard Bates slip out behind him, closing the door to the gallery with a soft click.
But Mary wasn't looking at Matthew's face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was opened in small 'oh' of surprise. He felt two inches taller as he saw the appreciative glint in her eye. Perhaps this mess jacket didn't make him look a clown after all. He smiled as she approached him with an approving nod.
"It ought to be taken in a bit here," she motioned to his waist, "but the overall effect is quite…" She met his eyes. "…breathtaking."
He laughed and shook his head.
"What?" she asked, smiling, her brown eyes trailing over him again.
He closed the distance between them and put his hands on her waist. The dark fabric of her gown was setting her eyes and hair in a lovely light.
"I've never been called that before. 'A dull boy', yes; 'breathtaking', no." He grinned and leaned in to kiss her. She put her arms round his neck and obliged him and it seemed as though he were on the verge of crying and flying all at once.
After a warm moment, she pulled back. "You'll make me untidy," she murmured, but she was smiling.
"Good." He leaned in again and as they kissed, she moved her hands to stroke his face. He gave a small moan.
They heard the distant sound of the dinner gong and broke apart.
"Goodness, you're quite vocal this evening," she said, drawing back and smoothing her dress and hair. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her lips…so enticing. But he forced himself to straighten and released her.
"You object?" he asked, giving her his best rakish grin.
She chuckled and then her features resumed an aristocratic mien. "Not in the slightest. Come, now. Mama is anxious to show Edward off to you."
Something of the light went out of her eyes and the set of her mouth changed ever so slightly. Matthew followed her as she crossed to the door.
"What is he like?" he asked.
"Edward?" Mary affected a bored tone. "Oh, he's rather like all babies are at his age, I suppose. Alternately needy and unbearably cute. I don't know." She swept out into the gallery. "I haven't much experience with them."
Matthew put his hand on her arm and she paused and looked at him.
"Has it been as bad as all that?" he asked.
Her eyes grew cold and she put on a smile. "No, of course not. Bad? Whatever gave you that idea?" She turned away and continued down the hall. "He's perfectly adorable. You'll love him."
"Mary—"
"Really, Matthew," she said, and gave him a warm smile over her shoulder. He was about to say something more, but Anna was approaching them.
"Lieutenant Crawley, my lady." Anna bobbed and they nodded to her. "Her Ladyship says you're to go down to the drawing room before dinner."
"Thank you, Anna," Mary said, and rolled her eyes at Matthew as Anna went past. "What did I tell you?"
Matthew smirked at her. "Behave."
"What would be the fun in that?" she asked, descending the stairs. They crossed the great hall and went into the drawing room, where Cora stood with Sybil and a female servant that Matthew had never seen before: Norris, he assumed. Norris was holding an infant—
—who looked strikingly like Mary. Matthew blinked in surprise and then smiled at the boy.
"So, this is Edward," he said, drawing closer and glancing at Cora, who nodded proudly, giving him an encouraging smile. He looked down at Edward. "Viscount Downton," Matthew mused with a grin. "Such a big name for such a cute little chap." He reached out to touch a soft cheek, and Edward finally turned to look at him—the baby had been waving his hands at a rattle that Sybil was holding out for him—and Edward's eyes widened and lit up.
"Da!" he cried, and he threw out his arms in Matthew's direction and started straining for him.
Matthew's eyes widened.
"Oh! Oh, goodness. He's mistaken you for Robert. He's the only one Edward's ever seen in regimentals, you see," Cora explained hurriedly. "Oh—" She reached out to steady Edward's straining form, as Norris tried to regain her hold on him in the midst of his squirming.
Edward put up a surprisingly loud squall at being restrained from reaching Matthew, and Matthew found himself reaching out to take him. Norris gave him up with a tiny sigh of relief. Edward was light, so light, and small, and soft, and his dark brown eyes were wide. He smiled and smacked Matthew's chest in an uncoordinated way, then squealed and wiped drool on the mess jacket that Bates had so carefully prepared.
"Oh my goodness. Edward—" Cora said, but Matthew just smiled down at him and Edward— Edward smiled back. Matthew chuckled.
"You know what's truly important, don't you little chap?" he murmured, jostling the boy gently in his arms. They continued to get to know one another for several more seconds, until Matthew realised that, except for himself and Edward, there was dead silence in the room. He looked around, dreading that he'd committed some breach of protocol by taking the boy. The eyes of the three women in front of him moved from him to something behind him and he turned. His mother, Cousin Violet, and Robert were standing just inside the door, all with odd—but different—expressions on their faces. They didn't look appalled, he thought. Just…surprised. He turned further and met Mary's eyes for confirmation, but the look on her face was the least comforting. He frowned and then looked to Robert. "I was just saying hello," he said, and glanced back down at Edward. The baby, at least, was looking at him happily. He turned back to Cora. "I hadn't meant any offence. He just seemed to want to come to me." He started to hand Edward back to Norris, but Edward squirmed unhappily and flailed at his jacket again.
"Da!"
At the sound, the tension in the room broke and Robert moved swiftly across to them with a wide smile, his face warmer than Matthew had ever seen it before, his eyes focused only on his son. He took Edward from Matthew with practised ease.
"Of course you haven't caused offence, Matthew," Robert said, amidst an excited stream of Edward's babbling. Cora wiped at Edward's chin with his bib, which Matthew was amused to note had the Grantham crest embroidered upon it. Robert was looking down at his son proudly. "Has he, my boy? Of course not." Robert looked up at Matthew, then glanced briefly at Cora. "We just weren't sure…whether you'd take to him."
"How could I not?" Matthew asked, tickling Edward's bare calf and smiling at the boy's answering squirm and giggle. "With such a handsome young man as this?"
"He does look an awful lot like Mary, don't you think?" Edith asked, having just come in. "We've all been saying it."
"Incessantly," Mary said dryly, from across the room. Edward squirmed and started to fuss, and Norris quickly swooped in to take him from his father.
Robert straightened his clothing and Matthew smiled at his slight look of relief. Robert nodded at Matthew's jacket.
"At least it dries clear," Robert said. "We can thank God for small mercies."
Matthew glanced down at the spot of drool and chuckled.
Carson appeared and bowed. "Dinner is served, my lord."
Everyone started to move out of the room, and Matthew glanced back at Cora and Norris, who were calming Edward and conferring about something. Mary came up alongside Matthew with a small smile as they followed the others from the room.
"Well, that went off better than anyone expected," Cousin Violet said, striding out of the drawing room ahead of them.
"I didn't expect an awkward scene," his mother replied.
"You needn't be so smug," Cousin Violet sniffed. "It would have been entirely understandable."
"Why? I told you he didn't want the title."
"Which makes no sense."
"No, I don't suppose it would, to you," his mother said.
"Oh, do spare us your preaching," Cousin Violet said, turning to shoot Isobel a sharp glance as the two women entered the dining room. "Causing indigestion is Rev. Travis's bailiwick, not yours."
Matthew chuckled, surprised by how glad he was to hear their bickering. It felt familiar and comforting. He shook his head and shared a grinning glance with Mary.
They were seated across from one another at dinner; with a pang, he supposed his days of being seated beside her were past, now that no one was trying to match them any longer. Although, he mused as he pulled his napkin onto his lap, there was probably no small amount of wisdom in separating them this evening. He certainly wasn't feeling inclined to behave with all propriety towards her. He smiled down at his place setting, then watched her settle herself, admiring her poise.
When she met his eyes, she suppressed a smile, regained her bearing, and then clearly mouthed Behave at him, as the rest of the family took their seats around them and dinner conversation commenced. He sat back with a satisfied smile. Touché.
Thankfully, questions about his time at the front were minimal. Conversation moved around them, ranging from Major Clarkson's and his mother's efforts to handle the new wave of soldiers at the hospital, to why Sir Anthony was away again and when he was expected back—Edith was being curiously cagey about her new husband, Matthew thought—to the Dowager Countess's assessment of the summer's early flowers and whether there would be a flower show in two months' time. Apparently, it was a source of some debate, as several of the local gardeners and under gardeners were gone to war and no one seemed certain as to whether a flower show was quite the thing during wartime. The debate raged between whether canceling it would 'let the Huns win' or 'honour the men in service'.
Matthew stayed out of it, as he had no opinion. It was absurd to debate such a point, but Downton was a world away from the front and Matthew let the conversation wash over him, reinforcing the sense that he was here and not there. He focused on enjoying the truly excellent meal, another reminder of life in this place. Cora described Edward's latest accomplishments and Robert was unabashed in his delight. He and his wife seemed so happy, as if a weight that Matthew had never noticed before had been lifted off their shoulders, and he was pleased to see it. They seemed to more easily laugh together. After Robert had shared a particularly amusing story about one of Edward's recent exploits, Matthew glanced across to share the joke with Mary and was surprised to see that she was sipping her wine and focusing on her meal. He frowned, and then Robert drew him back into conversation and the moment passed.
"Edith has an announcement," Cora said sometime later, during a lull in the dessert conversation. She was clearly attempting to suppress a smile and failing. Everyone glanced up at her and then looked at Edith, who smiled and smoothed her napkin.
"Anthony wanted to be here for this," she said, "but he wrote to say that he's been kept unexpectedly, and since this is really overdue—"
"Unexpectedly? Again?" Mary's voice was sharp in her disbelief.
Edith raised her chin. "Yes. That's right." She glanced away from Mary, her eyes drifting excitedly round the table. "But never mind that." Edith drew in a deep breath and smiled. Matthew raised his eyebrows at the confidence in her tone. Marriage seemed to be suiting her; he'd never seen her so calm after one of Mary's barbs before. He shot Mary a quelling glance and her eyes flashed at him before she looked away.
"I'm pregnant!" Edith said.
The family erupted into exclamations of surprise and delight, Matthew joining in wholeheartedly. It made everything he was doing feel worthwhile, to know that life was going on, the next generation was coming, and that no matter what became of him, he was part of making sure there would be a world for them to come into. He sat up straighter and smiled as he watched Edith glow and receive her family's well-wishes. He heard a half-hearted sound from the across the table and he frowned, his eyes flickering to Mary's. What was she doing this evening? Where was the warm, generous woman he knew?
Mary did not meet his eyes, although he could see that she was aware of his gaze. Instead, she gave Edith a wide smile—which did not reach her eyes—and suddenly stood, lifting her glass.
"A toast," she said, smiling again, and this time her face did soften. "To Edith. May your child be healthy and beautiful, and may you enjoy motherhood immensely."
The table was quiet for a moment and Edith looked surprised. Then Matthew raised his glass. "To Edith."
It was echoed round the table and Edith glowed happily.
"Thank you." Her eyes flickered to Mary, who was retaking her seat. "Truly."
Mary nodded and looked down at the table. A moment later, after Cora had finished exclaiming her joy with her usual effusiveness and the conversation had turned to when Edith's child was expected, Mary looked up and met his eyes. She gave him a Well? look and he smiled and nodded, feeling discomfited. I love you, he mouthed, and her eyebrows shot up. She blinked rapidly and looked away, taking a sip of wine. He frowned, his concern and confusion growing.
He heard Robert rise beside him and realised that the dinner was at an end. He stood, watched the women exit the room, and then settled down for the usual after-dinner ritual. Despite the pleasant burn of the port and the calming draws on their cigars, he couldn't quite keep his mind on Robert's conversation, which largely consisted of reassuring him that his mother would always have Crawley House, that he and Mary were welcome to stay at Downton for as long as they wished, and that Edward was such a blessing in his old age.
Matthew chuckled. "You're not that old, Robert."
The earl sighed. "Sometimes I feel it." He paused. "I've decided to inquire about resuming my old commission."
Matthew frowned. "I hadn't realised that you wanted to be in active service again."
"A man needs his self-respect," Robert said.
Matthew shifted. "I'd have thought, with an heir so young and the spare on the Western Front, you'd want to ensure the safety of the line."
Robert chuckled. "You've a point. But I'm sure if the line were ever to be in real danger, they'd pull me back quick enough."
Matthew frowned, not comforted by his father-in-law's flippancy. "They might not get the chance," he said.
Robert grew serious and nodded. "You're right, of course." He looked at his cigar for a moment. "Cora doesn't like it at all, the idea of me signing up for war again."
"Understandable," Matthew said.
"Quite." Robert frowned, then straightened. "Still, that's a bridge we can cross when we come to it." He smiled at Matthew. "Speaking of which, that reminds me: in advance of returning to service, I plan to name you as Trustee until Edward reaches his majority. Then if anything happened to me, you'd be pulled immediately."
Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Me? Surely there's someone more suitable. I've had only two years to learn the job and I've barely scratched the surface."
Robert shrugged. "I'd always assumed Shrimpie would step in if anything happened to me, and he would if he had to, of course, but he's quite busy with the Foreign Office right now and hasn't the time to take on a second estate. Besides, Yorkshire is hardly convenient for him. I can't imagine he'd thank me for loading him up."
"And you think that I would?" Matthew laughed.
Robert raised an eyebrow. "I know you've never really wanted the responsibility, but I thought this place had grown on you."
"Oh, it has," Matthew said quickly. "I'm just not sure I'm the best man for the job."
Robert leaned forward. "You are. And you wouldn't be alone. I'm sure Shrimpie would advise you if you asked him to. And you'd have Murray and Jarvis, of course."
Matthew swallowed. "Well then," he said with a nod.
"Murray's office would fill you in on all the particulars, but in general you'd be running the place in my stead. Without the title, of course," Robert said.
Matthew nodded again. "And Cora would be Edward's only legal guardian, I trust?"
Robert frowned. "No; you'd fulfill my role in that position as well."
"That doesn't seem quite right," Matthew said. "I could never usurp her authority as his mother."
"And I hope you would never need to," Robert said. "But as a man—and a lawyer—you must see the benefit in having a second voice in his upbringing."
Matthew frowned at his glass of port. Cora would be perfectly capable of making decisions on behalf of her son, but the law did favour the male line. He glanced up at Robert and gave a curt nod. He did not want to contemplate the possibility of Edward losing both his parents and the boy's care falling to himself and Mary. How would she respond to that, after this evening's performance?
Matthew sighed and smiled sadly. She would rise to the challenge, of course. She would handle it with grace and poise and—he was sure—eventually warmth. But he was not blind to how much Edward's presence at Downton must sting her, with the constant reminder of her being passed over as heiress. She'd not spoken of it explicitly in her letters, but he could read it in her choice of words, in the coolness and precision with which she wrote of her brother. It was such a strange thought, that so young a child should be her brother. It seemed more fitting that he should be her son, with his eerily similar dark eyes and pale skin.
"Matthew? Are you quite all right?"
Matthew opened his eyes, not having realised that he'd closed them. "Oh yes. I was just thinking."
Robert looked at him for a long moment. "About Mary?" he finally asked.
Matthew raised his eyebrows, then nodded and set down his cigar. He didn't feel much like finishing it this evening.
"She's not been the same, not since Edward's birth," Robert said quietly. "Cora and I are quite at a loss."
"No, I don't expect she would be," Matthew said. "It's just the final nail in the coffin for her."
Robert frowned and looked away, setting down his own cigar with a grimace. He sat forward slightly. "Matthew, I hope you know that I have taken no pleasure in what I've done to you and Cousin Isobel. You've truly become a son to me, and not just by law. For all that I'm proud of Edward—and, I'll admit, relieved by his existence—I never wanted to displace you."
Matthew smiled. "Thank you, Robert. I know. And I have greatly enjoyed being able to learn from you and come to you for advice." He glanced away for a moment. "I can't say that you've come to stand in my father's place..."
"I would never presume to."
Matthew nodded. "...but it has been a privilege to be allowed into your confidences, however much you've chosen to do so." He paused. "If my words sounded bitter, I apologise. I'm not upset for myself, but it is difficult to see Mary's pain and be unable to do anything about it."
Robert sat back with a sigh. "I know exactly what you mean."
Matthew raised his eyebrows and gave Robert a tight smile. Then Matthew chuckled.
"What?" Robert asked.
"I can't be upset with you for uprooting Mother and me," Matthew said. "If the only thing I come away with is Mary as my wife, I'll have riches enough for a lifetime."
Robert's face broke into a wide smile. "It's good to have you back, Matthew, even if only for a few days. And I know it will do Mary a world of good."
Matthew smiled.
"Has she said anything in her letters to you?" Robert glanced quickly at Matthew and raised a hand. "I'm sorry; it's none of my business what goes on between you and your wife." He gave Matthew a small smile.
Matthew returned it out of politeness, but he wasn't offended. "Not as such, no. But it's not difficult to hear her unhappiness in what she doesn't say."
Robert nodded. "I saw her holding Edward and singing to him once when he was very young, when she thought no one was watching, but otherwise she's been…withdrawn."
"I told her that she should feel free to take on any sort of activity that appeals to her," Matthew said. "As she has more freedom now."
Robert nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, he slapped his thighs and made as if to stand up. "Shall we rejoin the ladies?" he asked.
Matthew smiled and nodded and drained the last of his port, then rose beside Robert.
"I suppose you'll want to take me to task for my behaviour this evening," Mary said, when Matthew emerged from his dressing room.
Matthew smiled and laid his book on the nightstand, then flipped back the sheets. It was a warm night and he expected to be kicking them off entirely soon enough. "Why ever should I want to do that?" he asked, sliding in beside her. "When there are far more entertaining things we could be doing?"
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what would those be?"
"Coy," he murmured, grinning, and kissed her.
"Impatient," she replied, when they parted a few moments later.
"You really want to wait until after I dress you down?" he asked, sliding his hand down her body and kissing her again, this time moving away from her mouth after a moment and drawing in a deep breath as he drifted along her neck.
"Not really," she sighed in pleasure. "Although I wouldn't mind if you undressed me first…"
He laughed. "I'm not that impatient, darling."
"Nor that impractical," she said, but her words were breathless and he loved the sound each time he made her breath catch.
They made steady progress and were going along quite well until the moment she paused and frowned at his torso, running a finger along the pink scar on his side again. She'd drawn away from his kiss to look at it.
"What's it been like?" she asked.
Matthew paused in his explorations and frowned down at her. Now? She wanted to talk about all of that now? He didn't. He'd been enjoying the sensation of losing himself in making love to her. But she was looking up at him and he swallowed. When he tried to find words for the hell that had, until this moment, seemed so distant, the bone-shuddering, endlessly-grey landscape returned to him with an unexpected vividness. His legs ached, he felt the sting of the biting flies on his neck, the stench of death and shit and rot in his nose and he couldn't, not here—
He looked down. "You know, the thing is…I just can't talk about it."
She gave him a sad smile.
He pressed his face against the soft, creamy skin of her belly and breathed in through his nose, then planted a slow kiss there, focusing on her, on her scent, on the silken smoothness of her against his lips, on her warmth and the press of her legs rising to either side of him.
"So beautiful..." he said with a sigh, starting to feel his mind and body respond to just her again.
"Yes," she answered with a smile in her voice and her fingers moved into his hair. When he met her eyes, he saw admiration and desire reflected in them, echoing his own.
He grinned and lowered his head to nuzzle her belly, running his hand along the underside of one of her legs, and he smiled at the sound of her sigh. Then he felt her hands move down from his hair to his upper arms and she suddenly tensed.
"Matthew—" Her eyes and her frown were focused on a different scar, this time on his arm, as her fingers ran over the bumpy edges. "What is—?"
He gave a sudden growl and rose up, stretched across the bed, and put out the light.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, but he cut off the end of her words with an insistent kiss. She resisted him at first and he forced himself to draw back. His heart was pounding. He felt a pang at his urge to force her in even the slightest way, but he was filled with a desperate desire that he could not deny. He wanted to forget and he wanted to remember. He wanted to feel her again. He could barely make out her features in the dark, but her skin was warm against his hands.
"I need you, darling," he said, his voice low. "Please."
There was a pause and then her hands came up over his shoulders.
He groaned in relief as he pressed himself down against her, covering her mouth with his own. She drew in a sharp breath when he broke away, her touch still tentative, but his hands followed the lines of her body in the dark—he could easily make out shadows and shapes now and he did not hesitate. She was still propped up against the pillows, her head too close to the headboard for his comfort, so he sat back, kneeling between her legs, and with a firm grip under her haunches, suddenly pulled her towards him.
She made a small noise of surprise, her legs lifting to either side of him as her hips tilted up. He placed his hands on either side of her to support himself, let her legs rest against the front of his shoulders, and thrust into her. She gave a moan of pleasure and he growled, spurred on by the sound. He straightened out, resting more of his weight on the backs of her legs, and felt a wild abandon at the strangeness of their position. His mind was reeling, part of him screaming out that he should stop, or slow down, or check to make sure that she was all right, but it was so deep and satisfying and tight and she was only grunting softly under the onslaught, her hands rubbing his arms. That sensation was distracting.
He broke her grip, pushed himself back far enough to get her legs out from between them, and started to straighten out over her again. Before he could begin to move, however, he grew irritated at the light fluttering of her hands running up his arms again and he had to sit back.
"No," he growled, and captured her wrists with his hands. He pushed her arms back down, holding firmly on to them, and began to thrust into her. Her inner muscles weren't contracting around him and he wanted to feel that tight fit again, so as he pushed repeatedly into her, he bent forward and drew one of her nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the nub and then sucking insistently on it.
She responded at he'd known she would, by arching her back with a low moan—thus presenting him with an easier target—and tightening hard around him. He groaned, but continued his efforts, moving to her other nipple. Her involuntary squeezing would only last for so long, and as he felt it wane, he compressed her nipple perhaps a touch harder than he ought to have and she gave a wordless cry, her inner muscles convulsing, and fought to free her wrists.
He was breathing hard as he drew back from her breast, feeling a strange light-headedness swirling with a sudden fear that he'd gone too far. He'd trapped her—!
But the moment he released her arms, she sat up with a fierce growl, pulling herself tightly against him. He nearly toppled forward in surprise, and only managed to break his fall at the last moment with rigid arms. She kissed him, hard. He moaned into the kiss, feeling her match his ardour and focus, just as demanding of him as he was of her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he sat back, taking her with him. She was sitting on his lap now and she began to move against him.
His eyes were wide open in the dark, his mouth open as well, as he bore himself up under the passion of his wife. He held her in his arms and her hands clutched at his back. Their rough breathing and the sound of flesh moving against flesh filled his ears. He sought her mouth with his own, their hot breaths mingling, sweat rising on their skin. Her hair fell about them in a dark curtain, brushing over his head and shoulders, and he broke the kiss to draw in a breath. She nipped at his neck and he grunted in surprise. It stung.
He gave a sharp growl and bent forward, bringing her down hard on the bed, trapping her again. She made a frustrated sound, but he was unwilling to wait any longer. He straightened his arms on either side of her and thrust his hips forward forcefully, drawing out a low groan from her that made him drunk with passion. His head dropped and their foreheads touched as they moved together, their eyes locking in the darkness, and she arched up towards him. He could not stop now, did not want to stop, and as she pulled him deeper into her, he realised that neither did she. Sensation overtook him and thought left him, any last shred of restraint melting in the heat of his desperate movements and the realisation that she was matching him, bucking up towards him, pulling him hard against her body. He felt her breasts against his chest and her thighs squeezing his hips and her inner muscles squeezing him rhythmically, matching his thrusts with maddeningly perfect timing.
He moaned as his release approached and her answering cry of encouragement made him suddenly arch back as he let go. Every muscle tightened and he moved helplessly, releasing, rocking with it until he was spent, and then he half-fell, catching himself at the last moment, and rolled off her. He collapsed by her side, his heart pounding in his chest.
They lay quietly beside one another, their breathing eventually slowing. She moved towards him and curled in against his side, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She pressed a soft kiss to his chest.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
He pulled her close with a groan—his calves and shins still ached—and rested his cheek against her forehead. "No, I am. I shouldn't have taken you like that, all rough and desperate. It wasn't what I'd imagined for us."
She breathed a soft laugh against his skin. "You've spent time planning this, have you?"
"My favourite pastime." He smiled in the dark.
She laughed again. "Mine too."
He chuckled, then swallowed in regret and kissed her softly. "I'm so sorry, darling. I just needed you so badly..."
"Don't be," she answered. "I quite liked it, actually."
He raised his head and looked at her. "Truly? It didn't…bring back bad memories?"
She raised herself up with a smile. "Not in the slightest. You're your own man, Matthew. I wanted this with you."
He relaxed with a sigh as she settled back down against him. He idly ran his fingertips along the sweat-dampened skin between her shoulder blades and smiled when she hummed.
"Good," he said.
"It's sweet that you still worry," she said, "but you needn't. Your creativity when we were last together was quite energising. And what we did, when we...experimented...well, it helped a great deal."
"That's right…" he murmured, smiling as he remembered. "Your response was beyond my best hopes. By the end of that week, you even begged me to make our last time the same as our first."
"Your love drove out my fear," she smirked. He chuckled.
"I think you left a word out of that quote."
"It's well that I did," she said, and kissed him. "I wouldn't want your head to get any bigger than it already is."
He laughed and rolled her onto her back. "I don't think so. If anyone ought to be corrected, don't you think it should be you?" She shrieked and then immediately covered her mouth with her hands, wriggling desperately to get out of his grasp as he tickled her sides and laughed.
"Matthew—" she gasped, whimpered, curled away from him and tried to cover her mouth again, then giggled as he played against her neck with his tongue. "Stop! My family—"
He ran a calming hand along the side of her body and she began to relax a little. He kissed her lips softly for a long moment, feeling her body loosen entirely, and then he flopped down beside her with a sigh of contentment.
"I love you, Mary," he said, his heart pounding in his chest. It quickly quieted and he smiled. God, it felt good to be alive.
"I love you, too, Matthew," she said, rising up beside him in the dim light of the bedroom. She ran a hand through his hair. "So terribly, terribly much. I'm so glad you're home."
"Home," he echoed, still fighting a faint sense of the unreality of it. "Yes." He reached for her, ignoring the thought that he would be leaving again soon. Three days. They had three whole days. And the rest of this long night. He smiled as she pulled the sheets up around them. He encouraged her to roll until her back was to him, and then he curled himself around her with a sigh.
"Good night, darling," she whispered.
"Good night." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and relaxed into the comfort of his pillow, deeply grateful not to be sleeping on a cot tonight. It would be a long, warm night, in bed with his wife. He sighed and drifted off almost immediately.
Author's Notes
I drew on the following source while writing this chapter:
Read, I.L. 'Dick' (1994). Of Those We Loved: A Great War Narrative: Remembered and Illustrated, Barnsley: The Pentland Press, Ltd.