Previously:
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
"Do you…do you remember our letters?" she whispered, her eyes searching his, a shock of something she could not describe pulsed through her at how dark and needy his eyes appeared to her now.
Matthew closed his eyes and kissed her softly, hugging her tight to him, his lips moving to her ear.
"Did it excite you to read what I wanted to do to you, Mary?" he growled.
She nodded silently, her hands moving down his back.
Her touch enflamed him, and his legs buckled slightly. He was quickly losing control, the bed becoming an afterthought. He could only think of taking her. Against the wall, over her vanity, on the floor, it didn't matter. He didn't realize how much he missed her, how much he missed this, until now.
"Mary, I love you," he swallowed, trying to cling to his resolve. He backed towards the bed. He had to be gentle with her, considerate and kind. It was what she deserved from her husband.
Mary moved with him. His arms were tense, wrapped around her, the heat of their bodies warming her. She felt him hard against her thigh, breathing raggedly against her cheek. His body seemed coiled, wound tight, almost as though he was ready to…pounce.
Everything is permitted.
"Fuck me, Matthew," she sneered, biting his ear lobe.
She heard his angry roar just before they both fell to the mattress.
London Evening Standard Building, London, England, December 1916
"Sir Richard, a Mr. Morris is holding on the telephone for you," the secretary announced.
Richard nodded and waited for her to leave and close his office door. He picked up the telephone, turning towards the large window as he did.
"Mr. Morris," he said.
"The good Captain is back home," came the short reply.
"You're sure?" Richard asked, frowning as he looked outside.
"He was on the afternoon train to York today. He'll be back at Downton Abbey within another hour, I expect."
"How long was he granted leave?" Richard asked.
"Until January. He should be home through New Year's."
Richard hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window as snow fell over London.
"Happy Christmas, Lady Mary," Richard said quietly.
Chapter 14:
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
Mary blinked several times, the dark shapes and shadows of the bedroom coming into focus. The faint light of the glowing embers in the hearth revealed her husband lying beside her. For the first time in months, she was not sleeping alone.
She lifted her head from her pillow, making sure he was asleep before she slid over towards him. She looked at him for several moments, his head turned to the side, his firm chest rising and falling with his slow breaths, his one arm reaching towards her, the other resting on his stomach.
Matthew was gorgeous, she thought as she smiled at him, the blankets across his waist, leaving his chest bare to her gaze. His blond hair was wild and loose, and she blushed realizing it was her clutching fingers that had left him in such a state. He looked so peaceful, so relaxed in repose. This could have been any night, or early morning, the two of them in bed together after several boisterous rounds of lovemaking, awaiting the coming day as husband and wife.
Mary swallowed, closing her eyes briefly as the bitterness of reality crept forward from the back of her skull, almost a dark spectre washing away her temporary bliss. This was no normal night. It was the first night of Matthew's leave, and though they had savoured every second of it, it was now gone and behind them, barely a dozen nights left before she would have to say goodbye to him again.
She was of course grateful that Matthew was still alive, that he was home, that he would be able to stay with them through the holidays. The thought of spending George's first Christmas without Matthew had bothered her for months and now she would not have to live that sad scenario.
She would not allow the idea of letting him go again enter her mind in his presence. There was no time for that, and it would do them no good besides. They were granted two weeks, and she would make those two weeks memorable.
She leaned over him and kissed his chest, the warmth of his skin and his familiar scent delighting her. He was here, in their bed with her, where he belonged. She moved to his collarbone, then his shoulder and neck, swiping her tongue across him, sleep the furthest thing from her mind now.
"Mary," he mumbled thickly, his arm curling across her back, his fingers reaching down and squeezing her bare bottom as she fit herself against him. She continued to kiss him, her hand linking with his across his stomach, her lips finding his chest once more.
"Mmm, darling," he whispered. She was unsure if he was awake or not, but he was obviously enjoying her ministrations, and so she continued. She kissed him lower, moving the blanket down his body, her own arousal sparking within her. She released his hand and ran her fingers along his ribs, determined to wake him up fully.
She stopped suddenly.
The light of the fire bloomed across a jagged scar on his right side, just below his chest. It was the length of her thumb, and she would not have noticed it if she had not run her fingers across it. Mary frowned, tilting her head to look upon it further. She sighed and her eyes narrowed sadly as she realized what it was.
"Bayonet," Matthew said.
Mary turned and looked up at his blue eyes, open and aware now as he looked down on her.
"Oh, my darling," Mary shook her head. She leaned down and kissed his scar several times, feeling him exhale and relax a little.
"Can you…will you tell me about it, please?" she asked, looking at the scar and not at his eyes.
Matthew frowned slightly, then softened his expression, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Are you sure that you want to know?" he countered quietly.
"I am sure," Mary said determinedly, rubbing his scar back and forth.
Amiens, France, February 1916
There was always a ringing in the ears first. When Matthew first heard it, he thought he'd gone deaf. The ringing blocked out the rest of the noise around him – the crack of rifle shots, the whistle of artillery fire blazing overhead, the shouts of the soldiers around him. The echo and high pitched wail was caused by the loud noises of explosions nearby. Though Matthew was lucky enough to avoid being hit or knocked over by the falling bombs, his ears were not spared.
It would sometimes take hours after the charge for the ringing to stop. Sometimes Matthew thought the ringing never did stop; it just became so familiar that it was part of his everyday senses now. There were some noises that got through the ringing though, whether he wanted them to or not.
Some men liked to yell. The moment the whistle sounded to order the charge, some men would scream as loud as they could as they poured out of the trench and raced across the uneven ground. Perhaps they were imitating gladiators yelling out in challenge to their enemies. Perhaps they were terrified and were screaming in fear. Perhaps they were mad and thought if they screamed loud enough they would make it to the objective unharmed, as though the sound could shield them somehow.
Matthew heard screaming all around him as he ran. Sometimes, a particular scream would stop, replaced by the sickening snip of bullets hitting flesh and the thud of a body falling. Sometimes the screams would be his own.
Matthew fired his rifle at the target and missed. His opponent turned and saw him. Matthew kept advancing. His opponent charged forward, rifle facing out, bayonet tied to the barrel.
Matthew did not have time to reload. They were within each other's guard in seconds. His opponent swung his rifle at Matthew's chest. Matthew lifted his own rifle and parried. Both of them wielded their makeshift swords clumsily. His opponent stabbed back and Matthew deflected it away from his stomach. The rifle swung down and sliced into his jacket. Matthew yelled out as he felt the prick of the bayonet along his side. His opponent tried to move the rifle further but it was caught in the fabric of Matthew's jacket and the thick tunic underneath. His opponent was left exposed. Matthew roared.
Matthew lunged forward with all of his strength, burying his bayonet in the centre of his opponent's chest, right where they taught you.
His opponent's eyes went wide. His pupils dilated. His mouth hung open, a strangled groan escaping his lips before he fell back. Matthew's blood covered bayonet slid out of him. Blood splattered the front of both of their jackets. Matthew screamed and kept running.
Matthew did not notice his own wound until he reached the objective.
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
"Was that your first?" Mary asked, looking down at his scar.
"No," Matthew said quietly. "I got caught on some barbed wire before. Luckily the boot prevented me from slicing my foot right off."
"I didn't mean your first injury," Mary said, leaning down and kissing his scar again.
"I know," Matthew mumbled. "He wasn't my first kill either."
Mary swallowed. She turned and looked at his face, trying to be brave, trying to show no pity, trying to let him see that it didn't affect her.
He blinked.
She turned back and kissed his stomach, moving slowly across him, her hands sliding across his chest. She reached the other side of him and paused again.
"And this one?" she asked, kissing a small discoloured line.
"A rather rubbish stitching job," Matthew said. "Although I can't fault the medic, given that it was in the trenches."
La Boiselle, France, July 1916
"Argh," Matthew cringed, gritting his teeth. He would kill the medic leaning over him if there wasn't a shortage of them.
"Sorry, Captain," the medic muttered, continuing his work. "This isn't exactly the environment I'm used to."
"Just…" Matthew snarled as the medic pulled the thread through another stitch. "Just finish it."
"You're lucky, Captain," the medic chuckled as he worked. "If you needed surgery, you would be waiting around for hours."
Matthew glanced around the field hospital, men collapsed down on beds that consisted of stretchers lying across pieces of wood lashed together. He had heard about how surgery sometimes went in these places. Split second decisions could result in amputations or whatever treatment got the men back out to make room for the next to come through.
"Yes," Matthew muttered. "I am rather lucky."
"More than you know," the medic huffed. "The bullet grazed you, from what I can tell. No organs, bones or arteries hit. Can't say we usually see anyone this fortunate who's been shot."
Matthew grunted as the needle slipped once more.
"Sorry," the medic said gruffly. "Is there anything you can think of to distract yourself? Talking obviously isn't helping any. Focus on something else and you'll forget I'm even here. What about…family? Got a girl back home?"
Matthew leaned his head back against the wall of the trench. He closed his eyes and thought of Mary. She was standing in front of the Church, George in her arms, wrapped in white. It gutted Matthew that he had missed the birth of his son, but to miss the baptism as well was heartbreaking. He knew he would miss both obviously; it wouldn't make sense to hold off until he got back home. That did not make it any easier though. He wanted to stand with Mary and hold his son, declare his name and pose for photos. He felt as though he was missing his son's life already, that moments and memories were being created back at Downton Abbey without him.
"All done," the medic declared, sitting back. "Be careful with it for a few days, if you can. If they come undone, come back right away. Don't want it getting infected."
Matthew opened his eyes and pulled his shirt back down. He nodded and rose from his chair.
"I was right," the medic smiled. "You've got a girl, don't you, Captain?"
Matthew smiled. "I do," he said, then turned and disappeared into the night.
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
Mary kissed his scar, then his stomach, moving up his chest and finally coming to his lips. She framed his face with her hands and kissed him softly, pulling back and looking into his anxious eyes.
"Thank you for telling me," she nodded solemnly. "I want you to know that you can. Anything, Matthew. Truly."
Matthew nodded. He moved his hands along her back, then hugged her close, his hand stroking the nape of her neck as he breathed against her shoulder.
"What about this one?" she asked, lifting up slightly. She ran her hand across a row of several thin marks on his shoulder.
Matthew turned his head and frowned as he looked at the marks in question. After thinking for several moments, he smirked and looked back up at her.
"Actually, you made those, Mary," he quirked his eyebrows playfully. "Just tonight...with your nails."
Mary blushed deeply.
"I suppose I got a bit carried away," she said softly, unable to look at him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said mischievously. "If you feel the urge to do it again, please do."
Mary swallowed, then dared look up at his playful eyes. She raised her chin, a thin smirk coming to her lips as she looked at him defiantly.
"Feel free to let yourself get…carried away…again as well, Matthew," she challenged.
Matthew blinked and gasped slightly. "I…I will, darling."
"Now, where were we?" she smiled before kissing him softly. She moved down his body once again, taking him in her hand as she kissed a trail down his front.
Loxley House, Yorkshire, England, December 1916
Matthew smiled at Mary as he led her about the dance floor. His right hand strayed down her spine to rest slightly lower than was proper, while his left balanced her gloved hand out to the side as they waltzed together. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her gown, the thin straps across her shoulders revealing so much skin to his eyes that he had difficulty keeping focused on her face.
"You wore the gloves that I bought for you," he remarked quietly as they moved together.
"Well, they do compliment my dress so well," Mary smiled back at him.
"Aren't you…erm…cold?" Matthew asked, blushing slightly. "Your shoulders aren't covered."
"This is in style this season," Mary replied easily. "Do you not like it? Shall I fetch a shawl?"
"No!" Matthew blurted out, drawing another smile from his wife. "No. I'm simply checking on your comfort."
"My comfort will be greatly increased once we are back in our own home," Mary muttered glancing over at Edith and Sir Anthony laughing together as they danced. "I'm quite certain we won't be missed, particularly by those two."
"Don't begrudge either of them a moment of happiness, darling," Matthew chuckled, turning her away from her sister.
"I'm not," Mary shrugged. "I just think that it's rather inappropriate for Sir Anthony to host all of us here for a holiday dinner when he hasn't expressed his intentions towards Edith officially. What did he say after dinner? Is he going to propose?"
"I believe so," Matthew said. "He wouldn't say it explicitly, and he didn't ask Robert for permission tonight. He can be rather opaque."
"A man of mystery," Mary smiled, glancing over at Sir Anthony again. "Edith could use some of that. Although I don't know if in Sir Anthony's case it's deliberate or merely a reflection of his ignorance. It couldn't be poor manners. He's too old to be rude."
"Are you saying that carrying on with a woman and not proposing to her is bad form?" Matthew teased.
Mary looked back at him. She pursed her lips and shifted her eyes to his mouth.
"Very bad form," she said quietly, nodding her head.
"And what would you say about a man who continually met with a woman in secret for years, even having the nerve to kiss her numerous times and speak of his desire for her, sometimes under her parents' very noses?" Matthew asked.
"I would call him a seducer, a lothario," Mary said, looking back up at his eyes.
"And if he redeemed himself by marrying this same woman after a time?" Matthew continued.
"I suppose that is an acceptable ending to what was a scandalous story," Mary smiled. "Though it does not change the fact that the both of them acted in an entirely brazen fashion beforehand. Don't you agree?"
Matthew turned her once again. She could feel his hand flex against her back. She fought back the urge to step closer to him and tease him further.
"I'm not sure," Matthew said lightly, considering her question. "I think that having such a colourful history makes a relationship all the more interesting. It's exciting to know that one's spouse is bold enough to act in such an uninhibited fashion."
Mary raised her eyebrow, smiling at his suggestion.
"Sadly, I don't think that Edith will be experiencing such a level of unleashed passion with her chosen suitor," she laughed. "Putting aside the idea of Sir Anthony even knowing how to be bold, Edith would not know how to respond."
"She probably wouldn't, no," Matthew grinned. "If it ends in marriage though, I suppose she won't be too fussy about how she gets there. In any event, it seems you have something in common. You both have paramours who will be away for a fair amount of time. Perhaps you can help each other through it?"
"Your attempts to have me get along with Edith are entirely transparent and entirely misguided," Mary rolled her eyes. "We're sisters, Matthew. We're not destined to be friends, darling."
"You adore Sybil," Matthew noted.
"Yes, but she's younger and she doesn't annoy me as much as Edith always has," Mary said easily.
"I'm just saying that getting along better with Edith in the future has its merits," Matthew said.
"I doubt it," Mary said dismissively. "But don't worry about her. She always finds something to keep herself busy."
Matthew smiled as they continued to dance.
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
"Good morning," Matthew called as he came into the Morning Room. "Where is everyone?"
"Papa and Mama took Sybil to have breakfast with Granny today," Edith replied, looking over a notebook in front of her, a pencil balanced in her fingers.
"Ah, and you didn't feel like going?" Matthew asked.
"Not particularly," Edith replied distractedly. "Mary's taking her breakfast upstairs, of course?"
"Yes," Matthew nodded. "What do you have there?" he asked as he spooned scrambled eggs and sausages on to his plate.
"Just a horrid piece that I wrote which I'm trying to revise, but I'm not having any luck with it," Edith sighed.
"On what?" Matthew asked bringing his plate to the table and sitting down.
"Oh, don't concern yourself with it, Cousin Matthew," Edith said, smiling at him sadly. "It's not worth your time."
"Edith," Matthew frowned. "I'm sure it can't be that bad."
"Well, I just got to thinking about something Mary said a while ago. We hired some Land Girls to help out in the county as you know, and their wages are quite low actually, they're not paid as much as a man would be paid for the same work," Edith explained.
"I've heard," Matthew nodded, buttering his toast. "Sadly it's not uncommon for women to be paid less than men. In fact, it's rather the norm actually."
"I'm aware," Edith shrugged. "It's just that I suppose I never felt it was so unfair as I do now."
"Sybil is usually the one up in arms about such things," Matthew smirked.
"She is," Edith agreed. "But when I met the girls at the train station when they arrived, and I took them out to the farms they'd be working, that's all I kept thinking of – that they were doing exactly what a man would, but weren't being paid the same, for the simple reason that they're women."
"And what do you propose that we do about it?" Matthew asked.
"I don't know, really," Edith shook her head. "I wrote a letter to send to the Times. But my thoughts seem to be all over the place, and who really wants to hear from an Earl's daughter anyway on the subject of equality between the sexes?"
"You'd be surprised, actually," Matthew said. "Well, this problem won't be going away anytime soon. I dare say you have all the time you require to craft the perfect missive and send it off."
"But what if they don't care about my opinion?" Edith asked. "What if it doesn't get published and just gets ignored? Whatever was the point of all this then?"
Matthew smiled as he ate his eggs. He swallowed and put his fork down. He rubbed his hands together, then looked over at Edith.
"Edith, you know, when I was working in Manchester, before, before all of this, there was a monthly assignment for the all of the junior lawyers. We had to research a timely topic of law, write about it, and submit it to one of the partners. Those deemed worthy would be published in the firm newsletter that we sent out to clients each month. All of the rest of the contributions would be thrown in the bin," Matthew said.
Edith nodded, putting her pencil down as she listened.
"Well, as a junior lawyer, you want to make as strong an impression as possible. So, each week, I would peruse the newspapers and go to the library and find a topic on something important – a new proposed city by-law or the latest decision of the Court of Appeal on some issue or another. I would gather all the information that I could and write an opinion on whatever I thought was most interesting, and the last Thursday of each month, I would go to the partner's office with all the other junior lawyers and submit my piece."
"And?" Edith asked.
"And the first month, I wasn't published," Matthew said. "Nor was I published the second, or the third, of even the fourth. What was worse was I never received any feedback. No corrections or comments. No advice on how to improve my writing. No indication as to whether what I was doing made sense or whether it was utter rubbish."
Edith nodded slowly.
"So I kept writing. I told myself that the partner was probably busy and that he would get back to me when he could. I had files to deal with and clients to see and this was all simply an extra assignment so it wasn't terribly important. Each day when I passed the same partner in the hall or had a meeting in the boardroom and he was there, I would wait and see if he finally found time to speak to me. And he never did. I don't know if it was ever done deliberately, but it gave me the impression that he never felt my writing was worth his time," Matthew shrugged.
"So I would revise and revise and revise each opinion, and each month I would read what I had written and compare it to what ended up being published in that month's newsletter and my work measured up quite well. I asked colleagues and classmates what they thought and they all agreed that there was no qualitative reason that they could see for why I wasn't either being published or at least receiving feedback from the partner as to why not."
"And what did you do?" Edith asked.
"I kept everything that I had written, and I left copies in the firm library, filed under whatever subject of law they applied to. For months I was never published in the firm newsletter, and that same partner could never find the time to talk to me about what I'd written. But the funny thing was that other lawyers would come to me and tell me they used something that I'd written as part of their argument in Court, or that they didn't know there was a recent development in a particular area of law until they stumbled across my opinion piece on the subject that they found in the firm library. I realized that in the course of trying to impress one partner, that I had not only become a better lawyer – better at research, better at writing, better at expressing myself – I had helped other lawyers in my firm, without even trying to do so," Matthew smiled.
Edith smiled in understanding.
"Did you ever talk to that partner about it?" she asked.
Matthew shook his head. "After a while, I stopped contributing anything for the firm newsletter and just kept to leaving my opinion pieces in the firm library, when I actually had time to write anything that is, which became less and less frequent. The point is that ultimately it didn't matter whether I was published or not, or whether I even was told by that partner whether my writing was any good or not. I knew it was good, and I knew I was contributing something by writing what I did. And in the end, that was more than enough. It was a shame, though. I would have liked to have known what the partner thought of it all. But, you know, Edith, sometimes it isn't worth caring what someone else thinks if they can't be bothered to tell you themselves."
Edith chuckled quietly.
"Excuse me, Cousin Matthew," she said, rising from her chair. "I think I'll go and sit in the library, and write. Good day."
"Good day, Cousin Edith," Matthew nodded.
Downton Village Church, Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, December 1916
Matthew adjusted his collar, tugging it away from his neck. It felt tight this morning when he put it on. It felt tighter when he escorted Mary into the Church. It felt annoyingly constrictive as he sat patiently observing the service. He was thankful that he seldom had to wear his formal dress uniform. It was mainly for ceremonies and parties. At the Front, there were never any parties, and any ceremonies that were held were always quick and dressing up was not required.
He glanced over at Robert, similarly attired in his pristine military garb. The Earl enjoyed dressing up, and if Matthew were bitter, he would call what Robert was doing 'playing soldier'. But how could he blame his father-in-law when it was he, Matthew, who came up with the brilliant idea to go to War himself?
Mary squeezed his hand and he turned to look at her. Her eyes were serious and she nodded towards the altar, lightly reminding him to focus on the service. Matthew nodded and looked forward once more. His eyes tended to glass over when his mind wandered. No one ever noticed. No one, except Mary, of course.
Reverend Travis finished the prayers and a quiet 'Amen' was uttered by the congregation. The front pew, filled with family members dressed in black, began weeping. Some cried silently, the tears falling down their cheeks, resembling statues more than people. Others wailed, burying their faces in the hands or their handkerchiefs, their shoulders shaking as their grief poured forth.
Matthew rose with the rest of the family. Mary took his arm and they slowly went into the aisle and advanced forward, Robert leading them. The closed casket stood at the front, and Matthew stared at it as it drew nearer to him.
In the next instant they were standing in a row near Reverend Travis. Robert was quietly whispering with the fallen soldier's father, offering the family's condolences. Cora was holding the hands of the soldier's widow, nodding in understanding and smiling sympathetically. There was a 'wonderful service' uttered by Edith to Reverend Travis, a 'please let us know if there's anything we can do, anything at all' by Mary to the soldier's sister. Matthew stood stoic and reserved, walking dutifully at Mary's side and nodding along with whatever she said.
"Captain Crawley," the soldier's mother sniffled, shaking Matthew's hand vigorously. "Thank you so very much for coming. We're all so grateful to see you home for Christmas."
Matthew swallowed. Mary had moved on to speak to another family member and Matthew felt trapped and cornered.
"Thank you," he nodded. "My deepest sympathies, ma'am," he struggled. He nodded again, then felt foolish for nodding so much, which only made him nod once more.
"He was only twenty, Captain Crawley," the mother moaned, swallowing back more tears. "He joined up because all of his mates were doing the same. And now…"
Matthew pursed his lips, willing the woman to move on with his eyes.
"He outlived them all, you know?" the mother stammered, glancing at the coffin wistfully. "He was lucky enough to have a few more months, at least."
"My condolences," Matthew said shortly, cursing himself for being so ineloquent in this moment. He quickly took hold of the woman's hands, feebly trying to give her something, anything that his words did not.
"Thank you, Captain Crawley, thank you," the woman blubbered. "God speed, young man. God speed."
The soldier's widow came over and ushered her mother-in-law away, smiling wanly at Matthew as they left. Matthew watched them go and sit down in the pew across the aisle. The mother began crying anew and the widow held her shoulders in support. Matthew's mouth fell open as he watched the scene. He glanced at the closed coffin once more, then turned his head to see Mary and Isobel speaking to the family members, before returning to the devastated mother and widow. He swallowed mightily and grit his teeth to stifle the urges building inside of him. The urge to cry. The urge to scream. The urge to punch the nearest wall over and over.
"Matthew, we're going," Mary whispered, taking his arm again.
Matthew spun his head back and caught her concerned expression. He calmed his breathing and patted her hand. Taking a deep breath, he escorted his wife down the aisle and out of the Church.
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
"I'm sorry about this morning," Robert said, sipping his port. "The service was scheduled long before we knew you would be returning, you understand."
Matthew nodded, looking down at the table. "Of course," he said in a monotone. "It's not my first funeral, Robert."
Silence hung between them at Matthew's poor choice of words.
"All the same," Robert said, false cheer in his voice. "Not something you want to spend your leave doing."
"I never mind doing my duty," Matthew replied, sipping his own port quickly.
"Matthew, it doesn't require mentioning, but if you need anything, Bates can assist you," Robert said quietly.
Matthew raised his eyes and looked at the Earl curiously. "Yes, Bates is more than a capable valet. I find him indispensable."
"I didn't mean just that," Robert shook his head. "Bates and I served together in Africa, as you know. He is able to understand if you require something…stronger…than what we usually have."
Robert waved his arm towards the decanter of port.
"Anything you need," Robert continued. "Spirits; cigarettes. Bates can be discrete. If you need some time, the smoking room or one of the unused parlours can be opened easily for you."
"Thank you," Matthew nodded, looking away. "I'm quite all right."
"Of course," Robert smiled sadly, taking a sip of his drink again.
"The black dress today, Anna," Mary sighed. "We have a funeral service to attend."
"Yes, Milady," Anna nodded. She came back out of the dressing room with Mary's black dress and matching hat and gloves. She had numerous outfits of a similar colour, but this was the particular one she saved for sombre occasions.
"Did Bates have Matthew's dress uniform pressed?" Mary asked as Anna laid the items out on the bed.
"Yes, Milady," Anna nodded. "Mr. Bates is attending to Mr. Crawley now."
"Good," Mary said sadly, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
"The funeral today aside, it's been nice having Mr. Crawley back home," Anna said.
"It's been glorious, Anna," Mary nodded. "If anything, we may be having too much fun, he and I."
Anna blushed and looked over at her smiling Mistress. "Milady, please," Anna shook her head. "I'm not to know of such things."
"Why not?" Mary smirked. "You were with us on our honeymoon, Anna."
"Please don't remind me, Milady," Anna smiled. "I'm still ashamed of how I…intruded."
"I think that Mr. Crawley was more embarrassed than either of us," Mary smiled at the memory. "Anyway, it's to be expected that with such limited time here, Mr. Crawley would be rather indulgent."
"And that you would accommodate him," Anna joked.
"Well I am his wife," Mary smirked at her lady's maid. "It's my duty."
Anna and Mary laughed together knowingly before each composed themselves and Mary stood up from her vanity and came over to the full length mirror. Anna reached around and undid the sash of her Mistress' robe, preparing to dress her for the sad ceremony.
Mary steadied her expression and tried to forget about their cheerful banter. She would need to be serious and compassionate when they arrived at the Church. She also was a bit concerned about how attending a funeral for a fallen soldier would affect Matthew.
Since his return, he had been particularly ravenous, even more than Mary expected. They had never been apart for this long before during their marriage, and it even rivalled some of their longer separations in the past when they thought they would never see each other again. Part of her was thrilled that her husband desired her so much, but the engrained rules of propriety that she'd been brought up on still flared in her mind from time to time.
They had become rather adventurous in the past week, and Mary was a bit shocked that she had initiated some of it. It seemed that they could read each other's thoughts, as though they could predict when the other was feeling particularly playful. Pleasant conversation in the library had become light kissing. Light kissing in the music room had become heated. Heated kisses in the parlour had become something that she expected she would never admit to anyone. In their own wing of the house, they were always free to do as they pleased, but something about flirting and teasing each other in the rest of the house had made their liaisons seem more forbidden and outrageous, despite the fact that it was not difficult at all to find an empty room at Downton Abbey.
At first Mary tried to explain away their behaviour with certain excuses. She was still a slave to changing hormones following her pregnancy, even though George was now nearly six months old. He was desperate for companionship after spending months surrounded by men and being in danger. Both of them were mindful of how little time they had and they did not want to waste a moment, essentially condensing a year's worth of lovemaking into the span of two weeks.
But Mary realized it was more than all of that. She noticed it when she saw how little Matthew had to drink at dinner and afterwards. She noticed his hands twitch from time to time. She saw him swallow nervously and his fingers flex.
There were always stories about what soldiers did to cope with the horrors they encountered each day. Drinking and smoking were usually the vices of choice. It was a wonder that Matthew had not taken up cigarettes, or spent a night in a drunken stupor to forget what he had to go back to. He had sworn to her that he hadn't taken a whore in Paris, or indulged in any of the distractions that most did. She believed it was because of his sweet nature and loyal disposition. But after this first night back, she understood fully just how he was coping.
It was her. As much as Mary perhaps did not want to believe it, Matthew was pouring all of his rage and fear and terror into a corner of his heart, and wiping it all out with memories of her. Her knickers that he carried with him at the Front, her scandalous letters speaking of unspeakable things that she wanted to do to him, and he to her. Even tender moments such as the photograph from George's baptism or their wedding. Matthew focused on her so he did not have to think about anything else. Now that he was home and with her in person, he drowned in her, using their close proximity and unfettered access to each other to heal himself.
So she gave him herself willingly and repeatedly. Every desire, every want he had she fulfilled. At first her heart broke for him, so sad that he needed to make love to her so desperately to feel as though he was himself again. But she found out it was not even that. He would touch her shoulder as they read, or take her hand when they sat at the dinner table, watch her closely as she spoke to her Mama, and accompany her everywhere, even to attend to tasks that she knew he hated. He simply needed her, as much as possible, and she gave him all he could take.
Mary was overjoyed and a bit scared when she found she craved him almost just as much. In her singular focus on making sure he was as comfortable as possible, she became quite eager, smiling at his innocent touches and devilishly happy at his not so innocent intentions. She was liberated in a way, allowed to take the lead and act in any manner she wanted, all in the name of her husband's comfort. She found that she relished the power, the sense that he relied upon her so completely. Before the War, she loved Matthew in part because he wanted her so much. Now, in the midst of this nightmare that they were living, she loved Matthew for needing her as well.
"Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong," Matthew sang softly, rocking George in his arms.
The baby stared up at him, his mouth agape. His little arms waved back and forth and his Papa cradled him above his crib, beginning the French lullaby again.
"Perhaps you should teach him English first, darling?" Mary smiled, coming into the nursery.
Matthew looked up and smiled. "How long have you been spying on us, Mrs. Crawley?"
Mary kissed him softly, then stood by his side as she watched George.
"Not long," Mary said softly, her eyes on her son. "Nanny came down and tattled on you. I came up as soon as I heard."
"She was rather difficult about giving him over," Matthew chuckled, beaming down at their son. "Thankfully I did not have to threaten her job to grab a few minutes with my dear boy."
"She's rather old fashioned," Mary smiled. "The first week she was horrified when I came in to see him more than twice a day."
George turned his head into Matthew's chest and gasped several times. He began to squirm, wriggling in his father's hold, making little pouting noises.
"What's wrong, my boy?" Matthew asked, rocking the baby a bit more. "You're all right. You're all right. Papa is here. Papa is here!"
George began to cry, shutting his eyes and groaning softly as Matthew kept rocking him back and forth.
"Mary, perhaps you should take him," Matthew said, turning towards her.
"It's all right, darling," Mary said, patting George's stomach softly. "He'll quiet down soon enough. Just keep rocking him."
George began to cry louder, his arms flailing up and down. Matthew turned him from his side and cradled him against his shoulder, patting his back and he entreated him to calm down.
"Sir, Milady!" Nanny said, coming into the nursery. "Oh, Master George, what is it? What's wrong?"
Matthew gave the crying boy over to Nanny, who took him and wandered over to the change table, cooing and talking to George as the boy continued to cry.
"He's probably just tired, or needs to be changed," Mary said, taking Matthew by the hand. "Come, darling. Let Nanny do her job. We'll see him again before dinner."
Matthew stared at Nanny and his son as Mary led him reluctantly from the nursery. He finally turned and followed her down the hall towards the stairs, his stomach churning.
Crawley House, Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, December 1916
"I'm afraid he doesn't know me at all," Matthew muttered, spreading jam across his scone with a rather vicious swipe.
Isobel looked over at Mary and shared an understanding smile.
"He's a baby, Matthew," Isobel said kindly. "Babies cry for no reason at all sometimes. You can't expect he would be the picture of composure just by being in your presence."
"That's exactly what he expects," Mary teased, sipping her tea. "The father-son bond is supposed to magically cure whatever ails our boy."
Matthew shot her an annoyed glance.
"He cries with everyone at some point, darling," Mary smiled. "I think he's actually rather taken with you. The first time Edith tried to hold him, he wouldn't have it."
"You probably trained him to do that," Matthew grumbled, taking a large bite of his scone.
"Matthew!" Mary rolled her eyes.
"The fact that George tends to cry from time to time is a good sign, actually, in my view," Isobel nodded.
"How so?" Matthew frowned, taking a somewhat awkward gulp to swallow down the scone.
"Well, if he's a difficult baby who cries a lot and refuses to be soothed regardless of everyone's best efforts, then he obviously takes after his Papa," Isobel smiled.
"Mother," Matthew rolled his eyes.
"Oh, good!" Mary grinned, clapping her hands. "I've been dying to hear these stories for years!"
"I'm leaving," Matthew said pointedly.
"Stay right where you are, Matthew," Isobel ordered, looking at him sternly. "Otherwise I will be forced to bring out the photo albums."
Matthew sighed, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling.
"What shall we begin with? The tale of how you spit up all over your father or the tantrum you threw in the middle of the department store?" Isobel smiled.
Mary laughed and leaned forward in her chair.
Matthew shook his head at both of them, smiling grudgingly as his mother began her first story.
Downton Abbey, England, January 1917
"That was Mother on the telephone," Matthew smiled as he came into the bedroom. "Molesley got home in one piece."
"Good," Mary said, closing her book and putting it on the nightstand. "I was afraid we would need to send a rescue party out to dig him out of the snow."
"He was rather tipsy when he left," Matthew laughed, coming to bed. "I don't recall him being quite so cheerful at any Servants' Ball in the past."
"I think he's taken an interest in that new maid, Phyllis," Mary smiled. "Though I don't know how impressed she would have been with his performance tonight."
"Hard to say," Matthew nodded. "Some women enjoy the gregarious type, you know. They find it alluring when a man isn't so reserved and stoic."
"Truly?" Mary raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, if she's looking for an uncouth pirate, I'm afraid that Molesley may disappoint her."
"Well we don't really know him outside of service, do we?" Matthew joked. "How do you know he isn't a suave Casanova when he's off duty?"
"Molesley?" Mary laughed. "My, Casanova is probably something he has never been called before."
"Images can be deceiving, my darling," Matthew smiled, leaning over and kissing her neck. "How conservative did you find me when we first met?"
"Mmm, oh I knew there was a rebellious streak hiding within that sweet façade, Matthew," Mary grinned, closing her eyes.
"How predictable of me," Matthew chuckled, easing the strap of her nightgown down her arm.
"Don't worry, darling. You still have the rest of the family fooled. They all think you're harmless," Mary said, turning and kissing him.
"If only they knew," Matthew said seductively, moving over top of her.
"No, I think I'll keep this side of you all for myself," Mary said, looking up at him and running her hands through his hair.
"Selfish," Matthew leered, kissing her again as her hands moved down his bare back and crept below the waistband of his pyjamas.
Downton Abbey, England, December 1916
"I don't think I've ever seen so many toys," Matthew chuckled as he arranged the blankets around him.
"You knew he was going to be spoiled," Mary smirked, getting up from her vanity and coming over to the bed. "It's his first Christmas. I think Papa did more shopping in London than I did."
"I felt sorry for your Granny," Matthew smiled. "I think George is still a few years away from riding that wooden horse she bought him."
"She's content enough that it adorns his nursery," Mary laughed. "As long as it's nearby for her to brag about, the practical use of it is hardly important."
Matthew chuckled knowingly.
"What were you doing in the parlour earlier?" Mary asked, sitting down on her side of the bed. "I saw you muttering to yourself when I found you."
"It's called Kim's Game," Matthew smiled. "Alex ordered all of us to learn it and use it everyday. It's supposed to help sharpen memory and observation. That way, when we're staring through a scope, we can notice changes in the environment, things that seem out of place."
"Ah," Mary nodded. "Using a children's game as a training exercise. That sounds like something Alex would come up with."
"It's actually quite hard," Matthew shrugged. "At first it was easy when it was just a handful of items we needed to remember, but once you get above a dozen or so, it can become quite a challenge."
"So how were you playing it?" Mary asked. "I didn't see any objects on the desk when I saw you."
"We use a modified version," Matthew smiled. "We're to write down a list of items or numbers or words on a piece of paper, study it for a minute, then turn the page over and try to recite the list from memory. You repeat the process until you get better at it."
"And what was on your list?" Mary asked.
Matthew blushed. "Oh, just some…random things," he hesitated.
"Such as?" Mary probed further.
"It was actually a list of…erm…outfits…that I've bought for you over the years," Matthew swallowed.
Mary smirked in realization. "Is that so? My, you wouldn't want that particular list to fall into the wrong hands."
"I tore it up when I was done with it," Matthew smiled. "Anyway, it perhaps isn't the best list to use. My memory is quite…vivid…when it comes to your clothing."
"Or my lack thereof?" Mary teased.
"Yes," Matthew said quietly, staring at her.
"Well, I wouldn't be doing my patriotic duty if I didn't assist you in your exercises, darling," Mary said.
"I beg your pardon?" Matthew frowned.
"Close your eyes, Matthew," she ordered.
Matthew did as he was told, still frowning. "But I haven't memorized anything yet."
"Do you remember what I'm wearing right now?" she asked.
"Yes," he gulped.
"Good," she said, pleased with herself.
Mary removed her earrings and placed them on the nightstand.
"All right, let's see if your observation skills are sharp. Open your eyes, darling," Mary smiled.
Matthew opened his eyes and looked her over, glancing up and down her seated form. He looked at the blankets collected about her waist and raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, all right," Mary rolled her eyes. She pulled the blankets away, revealing her legs curled beneath her nightgown.
"You removed your earrings," Matthew said easily.
"Very good, darling. Close your eyes again," Mary said.
Matthew closed his eyes, a content smile on his face.
Mary removed two more items, being careful to not make too much noise as she did so.
"All right, open your eyes," Mary said.
Matthew opened his eyes and looked at her again, frowning slightly as he glanced from her face down to her legs and back up again.
He blinked and swallowed.
"Erm…" he said.
"Yes?" Mary asked innocently.
Matthew leaned forward, his voice low.
"You removed your brassiere, and your knickers," he growled.
"How did you know?" Mary asked quietly.
"It's rather obvious, actually," Matthew said, reaching out and caressing her breast through her nightgown.
Mary exhaled, her head leaning forward against his shoulder.
"How did I do?" Matthew asked, kissing her cheek, pulling her closer to him.
"I suppose it will depend on what you remember after we're…after we're done," Mary groaned, her hands grasping at his back.
"As you command, darling," Matthew said, turning her on to her back.
King's Cross Station, London, England, January 1917
"Mary, we're here," Matthew said softly, patting her knee.
Mary blinked several times, then lifted her head from his shoulder. She blushed as she checked her hat and hair were still in place.
"Why did you let me fall asleep?" she asked, looking up at his smiling face as he stood up and offered her his arm.
"You looked beautiful, and I know you were up impossibly early this morning," Matthew said as she rose up from the seat.
"I can sleep at Aunt Rosamund's," Mary grumbled, taking his arm as they left their private cabin. "We only have moments left and I wanted to make the most of them."
"We did," Matthew said kindly. "Usually my ride from Downton to London is filled with trepidation and resignation. This morning I was quite happy to have a beautiful woman draped over me."
"I wasn't draped over you!" Mary hissed. "If I wanted to be all over you, Matthew, you would know it, I assure you."
"That I would," Matthew smiled. "Having you sleeping on my shoulder still had very delightful effects though."
Mary blushed. "Good," she said quietly.
He escorted her off the platform and through the station. They reached the street and he waved for a taxi. The porter and driver loaded Mary's luggage into the boot of the car.
"Are you sure you can't come?" Mary asked. "We can have breakfast."
"Don't tempt me, please," Matthew smiled, taking her in his arms. "I want to spend all day with you here, but my train leaves in less than a half hour and they'll send some rather burly and ornery lads to search me out if I'm not on it."
"I'd like to see them get through me to take you away," Mary pouted.
"They wouldn't stand a chance," Matthew chuckled, kissing her softly.
Normally Mary would be aghast at kissing in public. Normally she would offer her hand or cheek to him at most. Normally she would frown at displays of affection if she witnessed other couples groping each other in front of King's Cross.
Nothing was normal anymore.
She clutched the lapels of his coat and pulled him closer, darting her tongue into his mouth. She hummed softly as she felt him return her fervour, tasting him, savouring him. When they finally came apart, her lips were swollen, his eyes dark.
"Please take care of yourself," she whispered. "It can't be long now. It can't. You'll be back before you know it. You'll see."
Matthew could only smile and nod, unable to give words to the fantasy she was creating for them.
"Enjoy your time in London," he managed. "I love you."
"I love you," Mary replied instantly. "So very, very much."
"Give us a smile," he asked, and she did, bravely.
"Goodbye, Mary," he said, kissing her cheek quickly.
He escorted her to the waiting taxi and helped her into the backseat. He closed the door and instructed the driver to take her to Painswick House, placing several shillings into the driver's hand. The driver nodded and got into the driver's side.
Mary waved, pressing her hand against the glass. Matthew waved back, watching as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and disappeared down the busy street.
Matthew sighed, then turned and accompanied the porter back into the train station, walking as if in a trance towards the train for Dover.