Previously:
Passchendaele, Flanders, Belgium, November 1917
"Your pleasant mood wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you'll be spending Christmas here with me than back in Yorkshire, would it?" Alex asked.
"Where else would I want to be for the holidays?" Matthew asked.
Alex laughed.
"I wanted to ask you about some rather disturbing gossip that's circulating among the officers," Matthew said seriously.
Alex sighed. "It's true, but you didn't hear it from me. The Russians are in high level discussions for an armistice with Germany."
"God help us," Matthew said bitterly. "How could they?"
"Revolution and regime change have a way of reorganizing a nation's priorities, Matthew," Alex said grimly. "There is a rather vocal faction in Russia that is against the War, and when you consider all it's cost, it's understandable really."
"Of course," Matthew nodded. "I may be unofficially questioning my own support of the War, and I'm in it."
"I'll pretend that I didn't hear that," Alex said. "And for your information, insubordination is not punishable by sending you back to London."
"Just my luck," Matthew huffed. "If the Russians put down their guns, it will free up all of the enemy forces in the East."
"That's true, I'm afraid," Alex nodded. "It may take them months to come to terms, but if they do, I expect a strong push from them by Spring. They know the intelligence as well as we do. The Americans will be here in force next year. The Germans can't afford to wait until then. They're getting desperate."
"So we just need to hang on," Matthew said.
"We need to stay alive," Alex said. "Hopefully long enough to see this through to its end."
Chapter 25:
Ypres, Flanders, Belgium, April 1918
"It's being called a successful defence," Alex said, looking down at his map.
"We lost nearly 200,000 men, and it's called a success," Matthew shook his head, sipping his tea.
"Our objective was to hold out until reinforcements could arrive," Alex explained. "We have guns and artillery en route that will replace those that were lost in the first assault, and the Americans are arriving in France by the day."
"The lads managed to hold Amiens," Matthew said, looking at the city's location on the map. "I suppose that's something."
"In the face of the sheer manpower and artillery sent against them? I should think so," Alex said. "The word, well, the hope, is that we hurt them more than they hurt us."
"What do you think?" Matthew asked.
"The truth is always somewhere in between," Alex shrugged. "After what they hit us with on the first day, some thought we wouldn't live to see the next week, and now here we are in a new month."
"I can't even begin to imagine," Matthew said solemnly. "Usually the reports don't do justice to how bad it actually is, but this time I think they came close. The sheer numbers of casualties is absolutely numbing. Meanwhile, here we sit, watching over a few kilometres of worthless land that's been blown all to hell."
"Be careful what you wish for, Matthew," Alex said grimly.
"Why, exactly?" Matthew frowned.
"We devoted most of the Fifth and numerous Allied forces to holding Amiens and Arras," Alex sighed, pointing to the French area where numerous coloured pins had been arranged. "That's left the ports open and vulnerable."
Matthew frowned as he looked at the map. Sure enough, the wall of protection that surrounded Dunkirk, Calais and Boulogne was now thinned or gone. Their supply routes were dangerously exposed.
"The enemy offensive has one sole purpose – to force our capitulation, or destruction," Alex said grimly. "They were hoping to drive us back and create a wedge between us and the French. They failed. However, the heavy cost we've paid has left us open. If the ports are taken, we'll be effectively isolated."
"Cut off," Matthew nodded. "They'll pick us off at their convenience."
"Which will then leave an easy route to Paris," Alex said. "We must hold."
"With what?" Matthew asked. "We've got tired men and reservists, mostly. Even with the losses the Germans suffered at the Somme, they must have more divisions coming from Russia."
"Early reports are they're massing here, and will come through Ypres, essentially trying to retake the land that we spent the past months capturing," Alex said. "If they drive us back, we'll be splintered, and the ports will fall."
"The Portuguese are stationed along the widest part of our line," Matthew said with concern. "They won't be able to hold against the number of enemy divisions coming."
"We'll reinforce them on the north and east sides," Alex declared. "I really don't care if we give up ground, but we must slow them down at a minimum."
"Dare I ask if anyone is riding to our rescue?" Matthew said.
"The French are moving quickly to reinforce us, but it will be days yet before they can arrive. We'll have to hang on for a week, I would think," Alex replied.
"A week," Matthew shook his head. "May as well be a month."
"We must hold, Matthew," Alex said, his gaze cold. "They are coming, and we must hold."
Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, December 1917
"I'm sorry, Nanny. I was delayed," Mary whispered, closing the door to the nursery behind her. "We had a bit of a crisis with Lady Edith's dress, I'm afraid."
"Of course, my Lady," the nanny nodded as Mary walked past her and leaned over George's crib.
The boy was sleeping peacefully, one arm across his stomach, the other hanging loosely out to his side. Mary reached down and touched his blond hair, smiling at how peaceful and happy he looked.
"Good night, my darling. Mama and Papa love you so very much," she whispered. She kept staring at him for another moment before straightening and turning away. She nodded to the nanny and went back out to the hall, wiping her eyes before going back downstairs.
The party was livening up as Mary came into the salon. Edith and Sir Anthony Strallan were standing in the centre of the room with her parents, accepting well wishes from the guests. Music played and the drinks flowed. Her Papa gave a toast, which was followed by another, and another after that. Mary suspected that most people were just looking for an excuse to keep drinking, rather than having genuine intentions of celebrating Edith and Sir Anthony, but in these times, one's intentions didn't matter. Everyone had a reason to want to drink.
Mary smiled as she surreptitiously made her way over to stand next to Sybil on the far side of the room. This was Edith's night, and she deserved all the spotlight. Truthfully, it had been years since Mary truly cared about which one of them received the attention at one of these gatherings. She was grateful that Sybil felt the same, and had wisely staked out a refuge for them away from the crowd.
"She looks happy, doesn't she?" Sybil whispered.
"Of course she does, darling," Mary nodded. "And she is. I dare say this may be the happiest day of her life."
"You make it sound so small," Sybil frowned. "As though Edith is settling, or something."
"You said it, not me," Mary replied, arching her eyebrow. She sipped her tonic water as her eyes roamed to the elegant cane that Sir Anthony was leaning on.
"I'm glad for her, truly I am," Sybil said firmly. "It's just that I can't help but fear for what her life will be like years from now."
"Come now, darling, it isn't as though she'll be wheeling him around Loxley, at least not yet," Mary scoffed. "His injury will keep him out of the War, he has a decent sized house, a staff, and supposedly shares the same passion as Edith for cars, farming and…whatever else they talk about. It's not as bad a life as it may seem."
"I knew she would have to take care of him, but now with his foot…" Sybil frowned.
"Well, it isn't as though he wasn't going to be limping sooner or later," Mary said lightly. "It will heal further, as you know. He'll be more mobile than Bates is at the moment, which is fortunate for him. So, if Edith doesn't care, then neither should we. You know how much she enjoys being relied upon. She's going to make nursing Strallan her life's work, and so be it."
"She's capable of so much more than that, though," Sybil shook her head.
Mary sighed and rolled her eyes. "Darling, I love you, and I'm sure you're going to change the world one day, but you mustn't be so judgmental. Edith will have a house to run, a small amount of property to manage and a husband who adores her, who is no longer a soldier, and who she's sure to spend many years with. From where I stand, that's a perfectly wonderful life for her."
Sybil looked at Mary apologetically. "Yes, of course, you're right," she nodded. "I just think it should be possible to have all of it – a happy marriage and an ambitious career."
"Ask Lady Frances Balfour how well she was able to mix her political and career ambitions with her marriage," Mary said pointedly. "She spends all of her time attending Liberal campaign rallies with her parents while her husband drinks himself into a stupor each night."
Sybil huffed and turned back to look at Edith.
"So you agree with Granny and Mama, then?" Sybil frowned. "That our place is in the home?"
"I can tell you I'd much rather be playing with George than playing nurse, meeting with tenants and attending to all the Estate matters that Matthew's tasked me with," Mary said easily. "I don't think you need to be concerned about us going back to a life of leisure, darling. The way things stand, I don't imagine we'll ever have that life ever again."
Sybil blinked and turned to look at Mary, startled by her words. Mary kept her chin raised and her eyes on Edith and Sir Anthony, her posture straight, resembling every bit the aristocratic Lady she was required to be.
"Excuse me, my Lady," Carson said softly, coming over to the two sisters.
"Yes, Carson," Mary turned to him and nodded. "What is it?"
"A message for you, my Lady," Carson nodded, handing her a small envelope. "A courier just delivered it."
"How odd," Sybil frowned. "At this time of night?"
"Thank you, Carson," Mary smiled, dismissing the butler.
Carson bowed his head and left them.
"What is it?" Sybil asked.
Mary turned the envelope over and examined the seal on the back. "It's from Sir Richard," she rolled her eyes.
"God, what could he possibly want?" Sybil groaned.
"I'm almost inclined to burn the damn thing and not bother finding out," Mary shook her head. She quickly opened the envelope and took out a small folded card. Reading it quickly, she scoffed, then folded it back up and hid it away in her pocket.
"Well?" Sybil whispered.
"He sends his warmest wishes for the holidays," Mary shook her head. "The absolute gall of the man."
"How did he even know we were in the City?" Sybil frowned. "Most years we don't arrive for another week or two."
"Does it matter?" Mary said resignedly. "He has spies everywhere. I wouldn't be shocked if one of the porters at King's Cross was paid to keep watch for my arrival."
"What will you do?" Sybil asked worriedly.
"Nothing," Mary said, giving her sister a reassuring smile. "He doesn't deserve a reply, and he can't possibly expect I would give him one. He's just trying to rile me."
"It seems unfair that you should have to bear his presence still," Sybil shook her head. "I thought after you and Matthew turned him away so soundly, he'd simply leave you alone."
"When it comes to Sir Richard, nothing is ever simple, darling," Mary said ruefully. "He thinks that I won't report this to Matthew, that I won't follow through on our threat against him regarding his betrayal of the Army."
"That's rather foolish of him," Sybil cringed.
"Sadly, he's right this time," Mary grit her teeth. "I can't distract Matthew by telling him about this. He'll be incensed at it, and when he's angry he's not rational or careful, and I cannot put him in a reckless mood when he's over there."
"Oh, Mary," Sybil said, putting her hand on her sister's arm.
"I hate it, I just hate this entire mess," Mary hissed. "If I wasn't so stupid to spend so much time with Sir Richard, he would have become fixated on someone else and none of this nonsense would have happened."
"You can't believe that," Sybil said kindly. "You know that Matthew doesn't hold you responsible for any of this."
"Of course he doesn't, he's too good for that," Mary said bitterly. Her hand shifted down her front to her stomach. "It doesn't matter. I'm happy to ignore Sir Richard for the rest of eternity if need be. There's far more important things in my life now."
Sybil smiled and patted Mary's arm.
"If we could have all of the family for a photograph, please?" the photographer's assistant called from the centre of the room.
Mary and Sybil smiled at each other, then walked over to join the rest of the family.
Ypres, Flanders, Belgium, April 1918
The bombardment started on a Sunday evening. The German artillery launched a barrage of shells along a stretch of the Allied line near the River Lys. The bombardment continued for a full day, throughout Monday and into the early hours of Tuesday. The whine of shells flying through the air and the thud as they landed were familiar sounds to the soldiers by now. After living through so much, and being worn down by years of fighting, the terror they felt in the early days of battle had given way to an almost morose resignation and despair. Their blood still pulsed and ran quick, and they still shivered at the sound of the bombs, but they had all heard the reports for the past months and the sheer size of the enemy forces made defeat seem inevitable.
Matthew hunkered down with his men in the trenches further back from the front lines, out of range of the German artillery for now, though not so far away that he could not hear the bombs. He made a point of looking his men over during times such as these. The actual attack would follow shortly and they would be called upon to defend, and he needed to know his men were ready, or at the very least, as ready as they could be.
"Chaplin," Matthew called, drawing everyone's attention. "Something on your mind? You look pensive."
Private Chaplin glanced about sheepishly as all eyes fell upon him. He swallowed, then met his Captain's stare.
"Sir," Chaplin said. "I was just thinking, sir, that we spent so much of last year fighting to take this land, and now it seems it'll all be lost in the next few hours."
Matthew nodded solemnly. He had learned over the years never to mix words when speaking to his men. For one thing, he wasn't very good at putting an overly positive spin on the hard truths of War. For another, he would rather his men be cautious than overly confident, and exaggerating anything, be it their chances of success or their relative strength compared to the enemy, was a dangerous game.
"Why should you be bothered about that, Chaplin?" Matthew smirked. "Were you planning on making your summer home here in Belgium?"
The men snorted and grunted, which passed for laughter.
"Chaplin," Matthew continued. "You're putting your thinking cap on again. Last year, our orders were to take this land, and we did, at great cost, yes, but we did. Now, our orders are to hold against the enemy. We are not seeking to keep this ground at all costs, but to slow the opponent's advance, to defend, to delay, to stall them, for as long as we must. That is all any of us need know – our orders are to stand fast. We will repel them, and they may counter. They may push us back, and we will get stuck in all over again. The bosses back in London can debate the value of the territory that we may gain or lose. We fight, Chaplin. We fight because we fight. That is all."
Matthew looked around the group, from face to face, watching as his men absorbed his words. He did not pretend that his attitude on their current predicament made things any easier, but now was not the time to debate whether the fight to take Ypres had been worth anything or not. Truly, he already knew the answer to that question, anyway.
"Captain Crawley!" a voice called.
Matthew glanced past his men to a messenger running towards their position.
"The attack has begun, Captain! We expect the Portuguese won't be able to hold for very long. We're prepared to concede back to the river, if necessary. We're moving units over to Messines. If the line is breached, that's where we'll reform," the messenger said quickly.
"Understood," Matthew nodded.
The messenger continued down the line to the next unit.
"Prepare to march!" Matthew called out.
Jennings and the other officers passed the order through the group. Matthew took a deep breath and looked up at the dark sky, the sound of artillery having gone ominously silent.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, January 1918
Mary almost dropped her tea cup. As it was she had to put it down on the coffee table and clasp her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.
Sybil touched Mary's shoulder, rubbing her back soothingly as Mary gathered herself again.
"I don't understand," Robert said, glaring at Murray. "It's impossible. Absolutely impossible."
"My Lord, I quite agree," Murray said nervously, glancing over at Mary before turning back to the Earl. "But I'm afraid that my research comes to the same conclusions each time. I've verified it five times from beginning to end, and the story has not changed."
"Then you've got it wrong five times," Mary said coldly, straightening her back and fixing the family solicitor with a hard stare. "Patrick Crawley is dead. He drowned on the Titanic. Cousin James died with him. Everyone knows that."
"Well, Lady Mary, yes," Murray stammered. "Of course, that is what we all thought until now."
"We all still think it," Mary replied.
"He doesn't look like Patrick," Edith added, glancing over at Mary. "All three of us have seen him."
"Yes, Lady Edith, I did not think he looked like Mr. Patrick either when I interviewed him, but it's been nearly six years since Mr. Patrick left on the Titanic. The natural ageing of a man, together with the usual weight loss from serving in the War and his disfigurement from the gas attack could have altered his appearance significantly, as well as affected his voice sufficiently that it does not ring familiar to all of you."
"This is ridiculous," Mary snapped, rolling her eyes.
"What proof does this Patrick Gordon have?" Cora asked. "I thought he had amnesia?"
"He does, Lady Grantham," Murray nodded. "He does not remember anything about the family or about Downton. He can barely remember small pieces of the battles he fought in just months ago. He has no recollection of where he comes from, who his family is, or how he came to join the Army. He's at a complete loss."
"Then why would you think he could be our Patrick?" Cora asked.
"I expected that he would have no personal recollection," Murray nodded. "I interviewed him first to ensure he was legitimately befuddled and was not attempting to deceive us. More importantly though, I needed to examine a particular part of him, and he obliged me."
"A particular part?" Robert frowned.
"Before Patrick Crawley and James Crawley left on the Titanic, they had full medical examinations in London, mainly because they were both due for them, but also because with Patrick's pending marriage to Lady Mary, it was thought that we would regularly track certain measurements to monitor their health going forward," Murray explained.
Mary frowned.
"Yes, I do recall that," Robert nodded slowly. "It was hoped that it would help curtail James' more damaging habits and protect Patrick from developing the same ones."
"Precisely, my Lord," Murray nodded. "One particular fact of note that came from these examinations was that Patrick Crawley had a rather unique birthmark – a crescent-shaped blue spot on his right hip. It was noted during one of his childhood examinations, and was monitored over time. It decreased in size, but was still noticeable before he set sail in 1912."
"Patrick never mentioned anything about a birthmark of any kind," Mary shook her head.
"That is understandable, my Lady," Murray nodded. "It is not at all common, particularly among the English. It also would have been concealed for the most part, given its location. It may have been that Patrick Crawley did not wish to inform any of you about it."
"What does Patrick Crawley's supposed birthmark have to do with anything?" Robert asked.
"Oh God," Sybil said, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Sybil?" Mary frowned at her sister. "What is it?"
Sybil swallowed before lowering her hand and looking over at Murray.
"Private Gordon has a small bruise on his right hip," Sybil said quietly.
"He does," Murray said. "His medical records indicate that when we was first admitted to a field hospital, they assumed it was a bruise. When he reached London, he was examined again and the so-called bruise remained unchanged. When he was admitted to the Village Hospital, the discoloration was noted once again, and in particular that it did not resemble a bruise at all, but a crescent-shaped blue spot. I can confirm that the mark is still there."
"Just because this Private Gordon may share a similar blue spot to one that Patrick allegedly had proves nothing," Mary frowned. "It's merely a coincidence."
"I wish that were so, Lady Mary," Murray said gravely. "You see, it was upon reviewing the medical records of Private Gordon that I discovered the notation of the blue spot. It caused me to recall the notation of the birthmark in Patrick Crawley's medical examination report from six years ago. That was why I ordered Patrick Crawley's medical file, just to close off such an unlikely possibility, or so I thought. However, there was something else in Patrick Crawley's medical file."
"And what was that, pray?" Mary asked suspiciously.
Murray looked over at the Earl before answering.
"Patrick Crawley had his fingerprints taken six years ago, and Private Gordon's fingerprints are in his medical file as well," Murray said.
Mary blinked.
"Are you saying that the two match?" Robert asked incredulously.
"They do, my Lord," Murray nodded. "I've had the two compared by four different recognized experts that I deal with. The two sets are identical."
Cora gasped.
"It can't be," Mary choked out.
"I still do not understand," Robert shook his head. "How could Patrick have survived? And if he did survive, why have we not heard of him until now, six years later? Where was he living? How did he come to join the Army?"
"Unfortunately, my Lord, as Private Gordon is suffering from amnesia, he cannot tell us anything," Murray answered. "His military file is sparse, at best. He joined up in 1914, and there's very little information beyond his name and measurements. To be honest, we were so desperate for soldiers that there was not much of a screening process. If he had no fixed address, or next-of-kin, that would not have disqualified him. And, incidentally, all of his measurements correspond to those of Patrick Crawley."
"I can't listen to another word of this!" Mary said angrily, rising from her seat.
"Mary," Cora pleaded. "There's no need to be angry. This young man is either Patrick or he's not. If his birthmark, fingerprints and measurements are all the same, then…"
"No!" Mary bit back. "This man – this Patrick Gordon – isn't Patrick Crawley. Patrick Crawley is dead. He's either a fake or an impostor, and I think it's a cruel trick to play when Matthew – my husband – is at War risking his life for our protection!"
"Mary," Robert sighed.
"He's not Patrick, Papa!" Mary interrupted him. "He's not!"
She stormed from the room. Edith and Sybil looked at each other with concern.
"I am terribly sorry, my Lord," Murray shook his head. "I had an obligation to investigate fully once I saw the notation of the birthmark, just as I now have an obligation to not only inform you and your family, but to advise you that, as your heir, this Patrick Gordon is entitled to know his true lineage, whether he remembers anything or not."
"Leave your report with me, Murray," Robert said heavily. "I'll review it and decide on our next course of action."
"Very well, my Lord," Murray bowed his head and left.
"Edith, you and Sybil are due back in the wards soon," Cora said gently. "Go on ahead. I'll speak to Mary after she's had some time to calm herself. Not a word of any of this to Private Gordon, for now."
Sybil and Edith both nodded obediently and left to go to the hospital wing.
Robert walked over to the window and stared out across the snow-covered grounds.
Cora folded her hands across her lap and sat quietly, looking off into the distance, deep in thought.
Ypres, Flanders, Belgium, April 1918
Matthew wiped the mud from his forehead, trudging through the muck and lifting the flap of the command tent before ducking inside. He dropped his pack and rifle on the ground and almost stumbled forward, his legs rubbery and weak.
"Captain Crawley, reporting, sir," he said wearily, giving Alex a crisp salute.
"Be seated, Captain," Alex nodded.
Matthew took a seat, removed his helmet and set it aside on the table. He ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head and casting a forlorn glance over the map. The Allies had given up huge swaths of land in the face of the brutal attack from the German divisions. The Portuguese had been overrun on Tuesday morning, with the British flanks retreating to fill in the gap. They had sent several reserve units forward to stem the tide, but the enemy had ploughed through undaunted, pushing through to the river and taking back Messines village. By Wednesday evening when they were able to take some respite, the lines were drawn back to Ypres, mere kilometres between the enemy and their objective of Hazebrouck, the rail station where supplies were sent into Belgium. Should the enemy take that strategic point, the British battalions would be cut off from each other, and the ports would be next to fall.
"Did you sleep, Matthew?" Alex asked.
"No," he said shortly. "Not much, anyway. I made sure the men did, but I closed my eyes and didn't get very far beyond that."
Alex nodded, sliding a cup of tea across the table to Matthew.
Matthew raised it in acknowledgment, then drank it gratefully, the burn of the hot tea waking him up a bit. He finished it quickly. Now was not the time for sipping.
"It's funny, isn't it?" Alex said, putting his own cup down. "How quiet everything is? How calm?"
"As though the dawn could bring with it a new day full of promise," Matthew nodded, smiling wanly.
"Do you remember that sparring match we had years ago?" Alex asked. "In Manchester? It was before I took you to London for Lady Rosamund Painswick's Winter Season party."
"I remember," Matthew nodded after thinking for a moment. "Probably one of the best matches I've ever had against you, which is not saying very much."
"If I recall correctly, you were rather inspired near the end," Alex remarked.
"Only because you dared to mention Mary's name," Matthew rolled his eyes.
"It was like watching Arthur pull the sword from the stone," Alex joked.
"I suppose I believed in miracles back then," Matthew nodded.
"Find it within yourself to believe in them again, Matthew," Alex said seriously. "Or at the very least, pretend well enough to fool your men."
The Major slid a folded piece of paper across to Matthew.
"A Special Order of the Day," Alex said quietly. "From Sir Haig himself."
Matthew stared at the paper sitting on the table for a moment, then took it and stowed it in his coat pocket. He took a deep breath, then rose from his chair and put his helmet back on. He retrieved his pack and rifle, then turned back to face Alex.
Alex stood up and came around the table. The two men looked at each other for a moment, their eyes locked in silent discourse.
"Dinner tonight, Captain," Alex said. "Do not be late."
Matthew swallowed, then nodded. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Major," Matthew replied.
They shook hands, then Matthew stepped back and saluted.
"Good hunting," Alex said, saluting his friend.
Matthew turned and left the tent, hurrying back to where his men were gathering to prepare for the day's fight.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, January 1918
"Mary?" Sybil asked, knocking lightly on the door. "It's me. Edith is here too."
"Come," Mary said softly.
Sybil and Edith came into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Mary was sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, staring at the flickering flames.
"Mama said you might not be coming down for dinner," Sybil said.
"I'm not very hungry," Mary replied, not looking at her sisters as they sat down in the chairs around her. "Edith, you'll give my regrets to Sir Anthony, won't you? It has nothing to do with him."
Edith glanced worriedly over at Sybil. "Of course," Edith nodded. "Anthony wouldn't assume that it involved him anyway."
Mary nodded, still looking into the fire.
"Darling, I know this entire situation has come as a great shock," Sybil said carefully. "When the Titanic sunk, I didn't have any hope that Cousin James or Cousin Patrick had survived."
"They didn't survive," Mary replied, though her voice was remarkably under control. "Anyway, that's not important. Not really, anyway."
"It's not?" Edith frowned.
"I'm still angry about this whole Patrick Gordon business. I told Mama that in no uncertain terms," Mary said, finally looking over at her sisters. "But whether he ends up being exposed as the fraud that he is doesn't concern me at the moment."
"Then what?" Sybil asked. "You seem quite distracted."
Mary looked down at her lap, her fingers playing with her wedding and betrothal rings. She remained quiet for a while before looking back up at Sybil.
"Do you know, when Matthew arrived here in 1912, that wasn't actually the first time I had met him," Mary said quietly.
"What?" Sybil blurted out.
Edith blinked and stared at her older sister.
"I know that's how it seemed," Mary nodded. "But we actually met much earlier, by chance. We were both volunteers at the Royal College for the Blind. That was before I knew he was Cousin Matthew, of course."
"That's…remarkable," Edith mumbled.
"It truly was," Mary nodded, a slight smile crossing her lips.
"So you and Cousin Matthew…volunteered in the same school?" Sybil asked.
"We did," Mary said. "We worked with the same class of students, and over the course of a month, we fell in love."
Edith gasped and immediately covered her mouth with her hand.
"But that was…" Sybil began.
"Before my Season, yes," Mary finished for her. "I told him that from the beginning. I told him that there could never be anything between us. Nothing that could last, anyway."
"And what did he say to that?" Edith asked.
"He said that if we were only to have a few weeks together, that we should make the most of them," Mary said, unable to stop herself from smiling at the memory.
Edith and Sybil smiled at each other.
"From my Season through to when Patrick died, I saw Matthew a few times in London," Mary said. "They were never planned. Literally, I would look up and he would be there. We would spend time together, then have to say goodbye for good, or so we thought. It was the hardest thing I think I've ever had to do – saying goodbye to him."
"Oh, Mary," Sybil shook her head.
"No one knows, except for Alex," Mary added. "He was actually the first person who found out when we got engaged. I'll thank both of you not to tell anyone."
"Yes, of course, we won't say a word," Sybil nodded.
"I don't think that Anthony would even care if I told him," Edith shrugged.
Mary shot her a warning look.
"But, of course I won't," Edith swallowed.
"Neither of you truly understand how much he's done for our family, for Downton," Mary said. "He actually doesn't care about being Papa's heir, and becoming Earl one day. It's not as though he was raised with such an ambition or expectation, and I suspect that his time here with us hasn't swayed him much in that direction."
Sybil and Edith nodded in agreement, all three of them sharing a smile.
"I don't believe that Patrick Gordon is Patrick Crawley come back to life," Mary said firmly. "But if somehow Papa refuses to fight it, and Mr. Gordon displaces Matthew as the heir, then my course is set. Once Matthew returns from War, we'll leave."
"What? You? Leave Downton?" Edith asked in alarm.
"You wouldn't," Sybil shook her head.
"I wouldn't want to, but I would," Mary nodded. "I won't force Matthew to stay here and spend his time, money and effort preserving a place that won't even be ours."
"But what about George?" Edith asked. "He would still have rights."
"Until this Patrick Gordon married and had a son," Mary shrugged. "No. George will learn to stand on his own, just as his Papa did."
"But where will you go?" Edith asked.
"I don't know," Mary shook her head. "London. Manchester. I doubt Matthew has put his mind to it. We'll decide together when the time comes."
"But in the meanwhile," Sybil said. "What will you do?"
"That will depend upon Papa," Mary said. "I believe he has very good reasons to want to keep Matthew as his heir. Whether he agrees or not, we shall see."
Mary looked back into the fire.
"So, in fact, you've loved Cousin Matthew for longer than any of us suspected," Sybil said.
"Yes," Mary nodded, the flames dancing in her eyes. "Much longer."
Ypres, Flanders, Belgium, April 1918
"Gather around," Matthew called, as his men came around him. "We have a Special Order from Field-Marshal Haig."
Matthew unfolded the paper and looked at it closely under the grey light of the morning.
"Three weeks ago today, the enemy began his terrific attacks against us on a fifty-mile front. His objects are to separate us from the French, to take the Channel Ports and destroy the British Army," Matthew read aloud.
The men exchanged looks.
"In spite of throwing already 106 Divisions into the battle and enduring the most reckless sacrifice of human life, he has as yet made little progress towards his goals. We owe this to the determined fighting and self-sacrifice of our troops. Words fail me to express the admiration which I feel for the splendid resistance offered by all ranks of our Army under the most trying circumstances," Matthew read on.
The men exchanged stunned glances. 106 Divisions? And still the enemy were coming…
"Many amongst us are now tired. To those I would say that Victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. The French Army is moving rapidly and in great force to our support," Matthew announced.
The men remained stoic and silent. Even if the French were on their way, they would surely be too late.
"There is no other course open to us but to fight it out. Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one of us must fight to the end. The safety of our homes and the Freedom of mankind alike depend upon the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment," Matthew finished.
He folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket, then raised his eyes and looked at his men.
"I will not ask any of you lads to forget the gossip that you have heard, nor ignore what you all must feel in your gut," Matthew said. "The Commander's words are clear. We are in desperate times. The enemy is at our doors, and no quarter will be given."
The men all nodded in reply.
"We don't need grand gestures now," Matthew said, looking from one man to another. "We need to survive, to live, even if it is for but an extra hour, an extra day. Know that thousands have done the same – have endured in the face of overwhelming odds – so that each of us is still here to do our part now."
The men straightened their backs, their expressions hardening.
Across the field whistles and horns rang out. Battalions organized and began marching, heading out to their positions, to defend to the last man.
Matthew gave the order and his men went forward, walking in formation. He looked up at the sky in the direction of England.
"I love you, Mary," he whispered, before turning to join the defenders.