As always, thanks to miscreant rose and Cls2011 for countless read-throughs. I adore you two.
Thanks to the many faithful readers who message me about this story and continue to tell me how much it speaks to them. You always make my heart swell with those words. I do hope you find this installment worth the wait.
I don't own Downton Abbey or the Crawleys. But I do take credit for Dr. Meadows. :) And with that, I do hope you enjoy.
Sleet lashed against windows, keeping them indoors and he huddled near the fire's warmth. Dumas was failing to hold his attention, and he set the book aside in frustration, his thoughts continually wandering up the steps and to the nursery where the creak of a rocking chair could be heard over the crackling breath of winter. God—the glass was now nearly iced-over, the layers of beaded crystals creating the illusion of being enclosed in an Icelandic cocoon.
If only they could simply relax by the roaring hearth, bundled in quilts, bedecked in warm slippers and soothed by tepid tea. He and Mary had actually learned to sit somewhat easily together over the past few weeks, discussing household items, correspondence with the family, and the spectacle of a flock of lost sheep roaming about town that caused quite a disruption but a few days ago. They laughed over Christopher's newly-discovered smile, marveled at the rate of his growth, and speculated on when the child might actually sprout more hair to help cover his soft, downy dome.
Simple disagreements had become manageable, as well, each of them taking opposing sides over the possibility of increasing their interactions with neighbors. He believed it would be good for them to expand their list of acquaintances and to open their home to short visits and friendly calls.
Mary did not.
She much preferred that they keep to themselves, and he knew she still felt the burden of a perceived scarlet letter, one she sensed to be ever-present even if invisible to the human eye, one that weighted her step and forced her to work at squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw. She could not dismiss the need to hide from scrutiny, fiercely sheltering their son from the threat of hostile words and knowing glances, even though they enjoyed the freedom of relative anonymity here among strangers.
"It only takes one person to ruin everything," she had reminded him last night, sipping her wine slowly without meeting his eyes.
That one person had been him, he thought silently yet again, hating that it was always the woman who bore the brunt of a two-sided act. How viciously hypocritical and unjust was the world in which they lived.
His child's muffled cry cut into his musings, making his stomach drop down to his shoes.
Christopher was restless and had kept Mary awake most of the night, tugging on his ear relentlessly and prompting her to send for Dr. Meadows at the first hint of dawn. The physician's arrival had been delayed by the birth of twin daughters to a Mr. and Mrs. Lampton, both babies quite plump and healthy, the older man had reported with a smile, though their mother was quite spent from the process and their father somewhat overwrought by the fact that he now had five daughters under one roof. Matthew had smiled at the story, shaking his head at the mere thought of living with six females.
But he silently envied Mr. Lampton, even if he would not allow himself to entertain the painful notion for long. The fact that the man had been able to father five children…
He cleared his throat, staring down at his useless legs and groin in disgust.
How often had he lain awake, gazing at Mary as she slept, wanting to gather her in his arms and make love to her properly? The remembered texture of her breasts in his mouth did nothing but torment him to the point of pain, and he had worked himself into a sweat many a night imagining how it would feel to be buried inside her yet again, to love her thoroughly and completely, to attempt to make up for the damage he had done when she had bared herself to him in every way imaginable and he had walked away.
He marveled again at his wife's strength and fortitude, finding everything she managed on a daily basis to be extraordinary. Why women were considered to be the weaker and more delicate sex, he could not fathom. Mary's backbone had been forged from iron, her outsides sculpted from the finest marble bearing the texture of silk and fine linen, her splintered soul still stubbornly hewn together, all bound intricately with fibers of spun silver.
God, he loved his wife. If only he could show her physically.
Was it possible to become aroused when that part of one's anatomy ceased to function? He couldn't help but wonder, feeling what could only be called overpowering lust two days ago as he watched her bend over to retrieve a fallen earring. He could have sworn he was bursting through his trousers, but of course there was no physical evidence to substantiate remembered sensations.
He squeezed the handles of his wheelchair, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. Damn the war. Damn his useless legs. Damn this bloody chair.
Dr. Meadow's diagnosis was a welcome distraction, and Christopher had been administered the first dosage of hydrogen peroxide drops to fight off the beginnings of an ear infection. The treatment seemed to soothe him for a short while as Mrs. Jacobs saw to feeding the good doctor in the kitchen. But the peace had been short-lived as the child soon spiked a slight fever, making his mother nearly frantic.
"Cool cloths, yes?" Matthew had reminded her, hating to see her so distressed, fighting back his own worry to settle hers. "Isn't that what mother always instructs for fever relief?"
"Yes," she had nodded absently, attempting to sooth her clearly distressed son as he clung inconsolably to her. "Of course. Do you agree Dr. Meadows?"
The man had congenially followed Mary back to the nursery as Mrs. Jacobs eyed them both steadily, shaking her head as she gazed in Matthew's direction.
"At least Dr. Meadows has had something to eat," she stated firmly with a nod in his direction. "I'll get her a bowl of soup and take it up to the nursery to see if I can shove some down her throat. She's no good at taking care of herself, you know."
"Yes," he sighed, his voice laded with concern. "I know."
He knew it all too well.
She had lost weight as the temperature had grown colder, and he was unsure how much of that was due to the demands on her body from nursing and how much could be laid at the feet of undue stress. He feared the latter to be the primary culprit.
Damn it. She had no extra weight to lose.
"You need to eat more," he had told her repeatedly, only to receive a nod or a sigh of exasperation, depending on her mood and the time of day.
"I will later," she would always assure him, both of them perfectly aware of the fact that she was lying.
The rocking continued, and he mentally journeyed up the stairs to her side, feeling the give of creaking wood under his instep, the remembered pressure on the knees of climbing steps at his home in Manchester, his left leg twitching and tingling at the thought.
Oh God—what had just happened?
His breath caught as he stared at his knee, grabbing it experimentally, feeling nothing, shaking his head as if it had all been imagined. But it hadn't been, had it? Surely it was a reflex of some sort, a spasm or simply the will to feel sensation overpowering the reality of his life.
Clarkson had told him he would never walk again, and he had accepted that, he had been given no choice in the matter. But this—surely not.
Heavy footfalls caught his attention, and he jerked up to see Dr. Meadows descending yet again.
"Your lad should recover fairly quickly," he smiled reassuringly. "The infection has been caught early, and he's a fine, healthy boy. I believe he may have finally worn himself out and should sleep for a while. It's the best thing for him, you know, and for your wife."
"I'm certain," Matthew returned, feeling one knot in his chest loosen even as his eyes kept returning to his legs. "Thank you, Dr. Meadows. Won't you sit down and have some tea? I can't stomach the thought of sending you out in an ice storm."
He felt almost guilty for focusing on his body's phantom sensations while his child continued to fight off a fever.
"I can't say that I'm particularly fond of the notion, either," the older man grinned, his tall body easing comfortably into a chair, bushy brows raising in an unspoken thanks. "And I never turn down a good cup of tea."
"I heard that," Mrs. Jacobs called out from the kitchen, making the doctor laugh warmly and shake his head.
"Stay as long as you like," Matthew commented. "We have a spare room if conditions continue to worsen, and I'm certain Mary will have no objections to having you as a guest while Christopher is under the weather."
"I'm sure she wouldn't," Dr. Meadow's returned, removing his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned about her, Mr. Levinson."
He smarted at the false name, knowing it was used as a protective covering, but despising the deception all the same.
"So am I, Dr. Meadows," Matthew stated softly. "She's wearing herself out trying to do too much, and I seem to be powerless to stop her."
The older man chuckled slightly as he leaned back in his chair.
"I understand that feeling. My goodness, between my late wife and my sister, well, let's just say I'm accustomed to living with strong-minded women."
Matthew smiled in camaraderie.
"Must be rather akin to living with my wife and my mother."
"Ah," Dr. Meadows mused. "Your mother. She wouldn't happen to be the lovely woman who stayed here for several weeks after Christopher's birth, now would she?"
Matthew swallowed hard, feeling as if he were standing on the cusp of an expertly laid trap.
"Yes," he admitted, fearing another lie even more that the truth. "Why do you ask?"
"I tried to convince her to stay here and assist me," Dr. Meadows shot back with a smile. "She is a nurse of outstanding skill and boundless compassion. That combination is not found as readily in the medical profession as you might believe, unfortunately."
"Dr. Meadows, I am at a juncture in my life when I would believe almost anything," Matthew returned. "And thank you. I'll make certain to pass along the compliment to my mother."
A slow nod greeted his observation as weathered green eyes stared back at him intently.
"So your name is Crawley, then, not Levinson?"
Matthew gazed back at the man, feeling suddenly chilled as he attempted to unfurl his thoughts from around his tongue.
"Is that why you asked about my mother? To back me into a corner so you could fish out family secrets?"
It was all he could conjure, and he knew how defensive the words sounded the instant they left his mouth.
"Not at all," the doctor voiced, raising his palms in a gesture of peace. "And please take no offense. My observations about your mother were genuine and kindly meant, as is my interest in your family, Mr. Crawley."
His pulse tempered somewhat, even as he face remained heated.
"I assumed your wife was unmarried and in a difficult predicament from the moment I took over her care," Dr. Meadows explained. "Of course, I would never contradict the story given to me by her or her lovely mother, but it seemed obvious to me that your wife was sent here to shield her own reputation as well as that of her family. I gather they must have more than adequate means to set her up in such accommodations."
His mind struggled to catch up with his insides as he exhaled with force. God, Mary should have never been left in such a position, and there was only one person to blame for her impossible circumstances.
His leg twitched yet again. He was certain that had not been imagined.
"Please bear in mind that whether or not the two of you were wed when your son was conceived carries no weight in my perception of her or you, for that matter," Dr. Meadow's continued. "I understand that war rearranges priorities and casts black and white into shades of gray in the blink of an eye. I myself am the son of an unwed mother, raised by distant relations the first several years of my life until my mother eventually married and came to claim me as her own. I'll never forget the day she arrived at the door, all smiles and tears, so nervous she could barely speak."
He was frozen to his chair, Mary's face swimming before him as she had cradled their baby close to her chest, introducing Matthew to the wonder she had borne in solitude, waiting with baited breath for a reaction he now knew she had feared to her depths. She could have remained hidden, could have denied him this existence he now cherished. But she had chosen to share Christopher.
Thank God.
"She was terrified that I would reject her," Dr. Meadows breathed. "I was just overjoyed that there was someone in this world who wanted me to call her mother. I had never had that, you understand."
"There is no one in this world more important to a child than his mother," Matthew voiced, clutching his legs firmly.
"That is true," the physician agreed. "But never underestimate the importance of a father, Mr. Crawley."
The sleet's relentless pinging on the windows failed to cut through the soft roar in his head.
"My father gave me his name," Dr. Meadows smiled. "Even though he was under no obligation to do so and not a drop of his blood ran in my veins. He loved my mother, you see, and because of that, he loved me, as well. He changed my life, Mr. Crawley, an educated man with a speech impediment who kept to himself most of the time. But he gave me a name, and he gave me a home. He saw to my education, and I wept as bitterly at his passing as I did at my mother's."
Matthew's heart tightened at the thoughts of what could have happened had Mary chosen to relocate to America. Would she have married someone else, someone who would have overlooked her past quicker than he, someone who would have gladly given Christopher his name and raised him as his own, effectively denying him the right to ever know his son?
His insides clenched at the notion.
"Never underestimate your importance in your son's life," the older man insisted, pressing his elbows to his knees. "Regardless of your physical limitations. Regardless of how difficult your current circumstances may seem. Always remember that you are the only father he has."
"I will," Matthew voiced, his tone ragged as if pocked with pebbles. "He and his mother are everything to me."
Shutters rattled with the wind's renewed fury, and Matthew wheeled forward, prodding the fire until dying flames found renewed vigor, their brightness licking dry wood until it popped in acceptance of its consumption.
"I have come to admire your wife very much indeed. Choosing to give birth to and keep her child, regardless of what it must have cost her...that takes a special kind of woman, especially when there are so many who are too keen to pass judgment."
"Mary is an extraordinary woman," Matthew managed, his throat constricting uncomfortably. "More extraordinary than you know."
"I don't doubt it," the older man stated. "And I'm gratified to see that you recognize that and love her for it. I often wondered about Christopher's father, whether he was an outright cad or a man of character and worth who would do right by the mother of his child."
His ribs were practically pressing into one another, or so it felt, and he willed himself to sit up tall and look the other man eye to eye.
"Are such descriptions mutually-exclusive, do you think? A Cad and a man of principles? Or can they co-exist in one body?"
Dr. Meadow's brows raised in a gesture of respect.
"Jekyll and Hyde, so to speak?" he questioned with a begrudging nod. "I daresay we are all very capable of demonstrating characteristics of both at different junctures in our lives, circumstance, emotions, and basic human stupidity being what they are. No human being is ever one-sided."
He shifted slightly in his chair, shaking his head ruefully.
"At times, honor can blind us to our own hypocrisy."
"Yes," the doctor agreed. "Yes, it can. All too easily. Thankfully humility has a way of restoring our vision, wouldn't you say?"
He stared at his legs yet again, longing to feel anything, even a jolt of pain just to assure him he wasn't losing his mind.
"Yes, Dr. Meadows. Humility can be a harsh but necessary tutor."
"That it can," the older man sighed. "Now, tell me about your legs, Mr. Crawley."
Matthew glanced up as quickly as his breath had caught.
"What do you mean?"
Fingers ransacked a head full of bushy white hair as the man laughed softly.
"I mean you've been staring at them periodically throughout our conversation as if you're afraid they might catch fire," Dr. Meadows replied. "So tell me—have you felt something?"
His insides felt gelatinous, quivering into and around each other as if they were incapable of retaining shape.
"I…I thought I had," he breathed, unable to look at the other man directly. "A few minutes ago. But it's impossible. I know."
The doctor stood and walked to his side.
"How do you know it's impossible?" Dr. Meadows asked simply, stretching his arm towards the limbs in question, asking permission with his brow. "Have you consulted God recently?"
He nearly bit his tongue in the literal sense.
"Because I was told as much by another physician," Matthew shot back, defensive for no reason, and irritated three strides past frustration. "He told me that I would never be able to walk or to father children again, and believe me, there is no possible way that I misunderstood his meaning."
The words still burned his tongue, just as their meaning scorched his mind and spirit, leaving him charred and empty in places meant to be filled.
"Physicians can be mistaken, Mr. Crawley," the doctor stated flatly. "I should know. I am, often enough."
His vision darkened, even as images became acutely bright, pressing themselves into the shadows of perception and reality as he felt the foundations of his life tremor yet again.
"So what are you saying, exactly?" Matthew tossed back. "That it is possible that I felt some sensations?"
He fought the temptation to plug his ears, afraid of either response the doctor might offer.
"I believe it is possible," Dr. Meadows stated softly. "Although what it might mean is debatable at this stage."
He couldn't feel his feet, yet they seemed to burn through the soles of his shoes, half-tempting him to throw all reason to the wind and attempt to stand on his own.
"Go on," he murmured, tasting each vowel and constant as it left his mouth.
"Well," the doctor hummed. "It could me no more than a reflexive movement of muscle to one stimulus or another, something you may experience on occasion but with no regularity."
How his heart managed to sink when he had been purposely shoving it down bothered him more than it should have.
"However, it could be that your paralysis is a temporary response to swelling around your spinal cord," the doctor continued. "And that as your body continues to heal and the swelling abate, both sensation and use may be regained either in part or in full, depending upon how much of the swelling recedes, of course."
The room began to spin around him as his throat was drained of moisture instantaneously.
"You mean I could walk again?"
The wind moaned, forlorn and hollow, as if in protest of the mere possibility.
"Yes. I mean you could walk again, as well as perhaps regain functionality in other areas."
"Christ," he muttered, rubbing his jaw, beginning to feel nearly detached from his body. What this could mean for him, for his marriage, for his family.
No. He couldn't run ahead of himself before he possessed the ability to stand.
"I could examine you if you like to see if I can offer you anything more concrete that what I have," the older man offered. "There will still be a good amount of hyphothesizing involved, you understand, but examinations performed on a regular basis might reveal a progression that could lead to a more substantial prognosis."
"Of course," he breathed, staring into nothing and everything, terrified to hope yet unable to curtail the stirrings of that most damning of emotions. "When would you like to begin?"
"No time like the present, is there?"
Moisture left his mouth in full, and his arm began to tremble with a ferocity he hadn't felt in weeks.
"I sent Bentley home," Matthew interjected, despising the unsteadiness in his tone. "Because of the storm. I told him I could sleep in the chair tonight, that getting me up the steps wasn't worth the possibility of him getting stranded here away from his family."
"I'm not planning on attempting to carry you upstairs, Mr. Crawley," the doctor chuckled. "But we can use your study for the examination, can we not?"
Matthew stared down the small corridor in the direction of the room they had fashioned for that purpose, nodding wordlessly as he began to move his chair.
"Is there a reason you and your wife haven't made that your bedroom? It seems to me it would offer you far more independence if you weren't forced to worry over the stairs on a daily basis."
He paused, his mouth gaping open as the ice continued its arrhythmic tattoo on the house's outer surface.
"I suppose we hadn't thought of it," he replied. "And the bedroom is next to the nursery. Mary wouldn't want to be so far from Christopher at night."
"And you don't think that this small parlor would suffice as a nursery?" Dr. Meadows questioned, indicating a room just to his right.
"I thought we were discussing the possibility of me regaining the use of my legs," Matthew threw in. "But it sounds as though you are preparing me for a lifetime of immobility."
"Hardly, Mr. Crawley," the doctor returned as they entered the study. "But even if you regain the ability to walk, full healing takes time. Stairs are quite an obstacle for someone just learning to use his legs again, and the more you can do for yourself, the better your state of mind. Am I right?"
His pulse was nearly deafening, making it difficult for him to process all of what Dr. Meadows was saying.
"Yes," Matthew returned, his brow creasing as he sought to clarify what was muddled in his mind. "But I can hardly ask Mary and Mrs. Jacobs to move furniture and redecorate the house."
The physician shook his head, inhaling audibly as he rubbed his chin.
"No," Dr. Meadows replied. "You cannot. But I know several people nearby who would be happy to help a young family settle in properly. We could have it done for you within a few hours."
"Then do it."
Both men turned in surprise, and Matthew wondered how in God's name he hadn't heard her descend the stairs. Mary was pale, fatigue etched clearly across her features, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes that gave him hope.
"Whatever will help Matthew is our priority," she continued with conviction, stepping closer to them both. "And if there's a chance that…that he…"
Her voice cracked, and Matthew reached for her hand, clasping it to his chest, forging a connection they both needed.
"It's only a possibility, you understand," Dr. Meadows put forth. "But one that should be explored."
"By all means," Mary returned. "We shall do whatever is necessary."
Something shifted yet again between them, a newly forged solidarity that bolstered his spirit. God, he knew what it would cost her to open their home to relative strangers, how uncomfortable it would make her to bring others into this place she had so carefully crafted into a safe and private haven.
But she would do it. For him. His admiration for his wife swelled in his chest.
"Thank you," Matthew managed, giving her hand a squeeze. Her full gaze hit him squarely, and he recognized the scent of fragile desperation.
"No," she argued. "I should have thought of this when we first married. It would make your life so much simpler and reduce your need for Bentley's assistance."
"You can't think of everything, darling," he returned, the use of this endearment hitting them both squarely in the stomach. Her fingers trembled in his grasp, her lips moving wordlessly as her free hand toyed with a stray lock of dark hair. The need to pull her into his arms and kiss her soundly was overpowering.
"No one can think of everything," Dr. Meadows agreed, looking at Mary intently. "Go lie down, Mrs. Crawley. You need to sleep. Doctor's orders."
Her eyes rounded upon hearing her true surname, and her eyes flittered between the physician and Matthew, fixing on her husband's nodded response.
"Then I expect you to eat every bite of your dinner," the older man continued. "And it would seem I'll be joining you as the ice has no intention of letting up anytime soon, so there will be no playing with your food tonight. Is that understood?"
A ghost of a smile tugged on her lips as one brow drew upwards.
"Why do I feel like a girl of ten?" she mused.
"Because we all need some extra attention at certain points in our lives," he answered, his gaze travelling from wife to husband. "It is evident that the two of you have travelled a rather rocky path, but you have each other now, as well as your son. And if I may be so bold, Mrs. Crawley, if you don't begin to take better care of yourself, your ability to care for your son will suffer immensely. Do this for Christopher if for no one else."
She swallowed hard, nodding with downcast eyes, silently acknowledging the truth laid blatantly before her.
"You strike a low blow, Dr. Meadows," she returned with begrudging admiration.
"Only to those I care about, Mrs. Crawley," he smiled, making her chin quiver. "Now if I may, I'd very much like to examine your husband so we all can have a clearer idea of the road ahead."
She nodded yet again, her hand clasping Matthew's tightly, making him love her all the more. God, he didn't know how it was possible that his feelings for her continually expanded, be they adoration, wonder, anger or sheer lust. But they did, hitting him soundly now with the mere chance that he might be able to be a proper husband to her.
His fingers suddenly went cold, a thought he couldn't voice smacking him with force. What if she didn't want him in such a manner? What if she found the thought more terrifying than pleasurable? He couldn't blame her if she did, given her past history with sexual intimacy. He prayed silently that he had not had a hand in ruining this aspect of her life forever.
She deserved so much more.
He felt her hand slip from his, absorbed the cool feathered kiss to his cheek and brush on his shoulder, watching as she made her way back up the steps and to their bedroom.
Rest, Mary, he chanted to himself, her exhaustion still imprinted onto his skin, his gaze following her form until it was no longer visible.
She felt his eyes on her back, caressing her spine with the delicacy of spun silk. She longed to be with him yet needed to be alone, an intense tug-of-war pulling her mind and emotions in opposing directions.
Please, God, she whispered to the walls of their bedroom, the cool wood of the door pressing into her back as she leaned into it for support. Her hands still shook, her insides swirling with the force of a hurricane, and she shut her eyes to her surroundings, seeing Matthew as he had been when he had walked into that concert at Downton.
Standing. Smiling. Whole.
Oh, God.
Everything broke apart then, spilling out, rushing forward, and she nearly fell onto the bed, muffling sobs into her pillow, fisting the blankets so tightly her hands hurt. She couldn't afford to hope, hadn't the strength to love him like this, but here it was, churning within her, demolishing protective walls, making her more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life.
She loved him. She loved him so desperately and knew he now possessed the power to destroy her once and for all. If he could walk again—God, how marvelous, how perfect, how terrifyingly wonderful. What would it mean for their marriage, for the fragile relationship they had begun to craft piece by piece?
But if he couldn't…if Dr. Meadows were mistaken….
Damn. She was going to be ill.
She just made it to the toilet, losing what little she had digested in a single wretch. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, and she collapsed into the corner, fear and tension rushing down her cheeks in a small tsunami. She couldn't allow herself to hope, but neither could she stop herself, and she finally gave up the battle, crying until no tears remained, standing on wobbly legs to make her way back to her bed.
Oh, Matthew, she breathed into silence, her hands moving to her abdomen as they had so often during her pregnancy. Would there be more children, she could not help but wonder, her body going rigid as the talons of painful memories bore into her skin. The way he had glared at her, the hurt in his eyes, the rigid lines of his mouth, they continued to haunt her dreams and brand her soul with a pain she found nearly impossible to verbalize.
Yet there had been moments of excruciating beauty, and she allowed herself to remember the awe-struck reverence on his face when she stood naked before him, the tenderness of first touch, the intensity of his mouth on her flesh. It had all been so perfect until—
No. That road had been travelled enough, and she had to find a new direction for the sake of their marriage. She drew back the covers mindlessly, her limbs heavy and lumbering, all thought getting wrapped in a blessed numbness—worry for her son, speculation over Matthew's condition, the reworking of their house, a future moving in yet another direction she never anticipated. She fell into the pillows, drawing the blankets up to her chin, her body going limp upon contact.
Please, God, she whispered yet again, her feelings for her husband and son too overwhelming for anything more than this plea. The tendrils of sleep responded immediately, pulling her securely in a gentle rocking motion, a warm blackness covering her spirit in wisps of velvet, Matthew's name the last thing whispered from her lips as her body and mind finally allowed her to rest.
Your thoughts are always welcomed and most appreciated. And the next chapter is a big one. :)