Trust and Providence

by Rachel Smith Cobleigh

* What if Mary had trusted Matthew with her secret and immediately accepted his first proposal? An alternate universe starting from episode 1x06, interwoven with canon, that spans from 1914 - 1971. [M for sexual content, wartime violence, racial slurs, character death (but Matthew/Mary and Sybil/Tom end happily!)] [STEAMM]

25. Chapter 25

25

September 1918

The hospital lorry bumped over a rut in the road, jostling Matthew as he lay on his stretcher, staring up at the metal ceiling. Downton Abbey. How strange to think of it as a convalescent home where he would soon be a patient. Even here, the war had transformed life into something nearly unrecognisable.

Despite the welcome change of scenery, it did little to improve his mood. This day dragged on as all of them did, with an interminable sameness. His skin no longer stung when he moved and he could sit up for an hour or two before needing to be helped back down so he could rest, but nothing seemed to provide respite from this weary sense of pointlessness that had settled itself on his soul.

Mary had brought some of his favourite books to read, and had plied him with his favourite dishes from Mrs Bird—"It's what you like, not what's good for you," his mother had said, but even that couldn't made him smile. Mary had sat with him and said bracing, cheerful things, but nothing lifted the curtain of melancholy. The words on the pages failed to hold his attention; the books seemed like dear old friends who had come to visit but had grown strangely unfamiliar. The food was similar, and he pushed the dishes aside, not wanting to replace what had been happy memories with the taste of dust. Of course Mary and his mother wanted him to eat to keep up his strength, but he only did it to satisfy them, and he was relieved when they went away.

Hours would pass and he had no recollection of them; naught remained except the constant awareness that he was nothing, broken, and so, so weary of soul. Sleep provided an escape, when it would come, but he felt so terribly alone.

I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me...

Matthew closed his eyes. Mary was kind and attentive, but even her beautiful face and gentle hands couldn't banish his mood. It was a strange sensation, to feel distant from her even as she sat beside him. Perhaps it was because he couldn't feel the warmth or pressure of her thigh against his own, even though he could clearly see her sitting there. But of all the things that passed through his days, she was the most welcome.

That was not to say he always welcomed her presence, but she came closest to lifting the curtain. Sometimes, when she smiled, he wanted to smile with her. He'd tried, at first, but it took too much effort to feel happy, and he abhorred the falseness he felt when he did it. He couldn't lie to her, but showing the truth hurt her, too. There was nothing he could do, no way out, and when she went away, he was relieved, for a short while at least.

As the lorry pulled on to the drive in front of the great house and the sounds under the tyres changed to gravel, Matthew opened his eyes and wondered how long this heavy emptiness would last. In his usual blunt way, Major Clarkson had informed Matthew that his life expectancy was shortened, because the immobility and the resulting weakening of his crippled body would make him more susceptible to illness.

A black humour filled him. At least there is the promise of an early death.

The lorry rolled to a stop and he heard the cabin doors slamming shut, then quick footfalls—I'm never going to make those again—coming round to the back. An orderly yanked open the doors and light flooded in, making Matthew briefly squeeze his eyes shut.

"Lt. Pearson, Capt. Crawley, we've arrived at the big house!" the nearest orderly announced in a too-bright voice. The lorry rocked as he easily climbed inside and took Lt. Pearson by the elbow, helping the man stand with the aid of his new stick and ushering him into the waiting hands of the second orderly with a cheerful, "There you are!"

The first orderly turned to Matthew and got a firm grip on the stretcher handles near Matthew's head. "You'll be inside and back in a comfortable bed in no time, sir," the young man said, smiling. "I'm sorry if you were jarred. I tried me best."

Matthew pressed his lips together and nodded, then felt himself being lifted up as the second man took hold of the other end of the stretcher.

"It's a lovely day out," the man observed, carefully lowering Matthew's stretcher from the lorry. "Not a cloud in the sky!"

"I'd walk wi' me girl on a day like this," the first orderly answered.

"Wait 'til the war's over and you will!" the other replied, and the two young men laughed. Their banter was good-natured, but their words still stabbed Matthew through.

"Bring Capt. Crawley this way," a familiar voice commanded, and Matthew squinted as Thomas appeared above him. Thomas did not smile or otherwise make an attempt to cheer Matthew up, for which Matthew was grateful.

"Yes, sir, Sgt. Barrow, sir," the first orderly quickly replied, and they carried Matthew up the short steps and through Downton Abbey's foyer—I've never seen it from this angle before, Matthew thought, with a smirk that never quite reached his lips—as they went into the great hall. The familiar view swayed in strange ways as the orderlies walked through to the sitting room, which was bright with the late-morning sunlight and filled with rows upon rows of starched white hospital beds.

"This one's for Capt. Crawley," Thomas said, and then, "Carefully, man!" as Matthew was suddenly tipped and he reflexively grabbed the sides of his stretcher.

"Sorry, sir," the second orderly said. The three men got Matthew situated on the bed and the stretcher out from under him while he did his best to simply lie still and let them shift him about like a piece of furniture. He tried to make himself comfortable on the pillow as the two orderlies departed.

Sybil stepped up to Matthew's bedside with a warm smile. "Good morning, Matthew. Sgt. Barrow's just gone off to fetch Mary and your new chair."

His chair. The wheelchair that would be his constant companion for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes.

"Papa had it sent up from London," Sybil continued. "It arrived yesterday afternoon. It's very well made, better than the usual ones, at least."

Matthew managed a sigh.

"How are you feeling?" Sybil asked. "Do you need anything? A glass of water?"

He was thirsty, but he would have to be sat up to drink it. He shook his head. He was weary and just wanted to be left alone for a while.

It seemed only seconds later—although the passage of time had become a rather fluid thing, so Matthew couldn't be sure—when he felt a light touch on his wrist and he opened his eyes.

It was Mary, leaning over him, an intentionally-cheerful smile on her face.

"Sgt. Barrow is here with your chair," she said softly. "Do you think you're up for it? He and Sybil are ready to help."

Matthew swallowed, then took them all in with a glance and nodded, setting his jaw. He might as well get this ordeal over with. He blew out a breath and pushed himself up to a seated position with a groan, as Mary kept a firm arm across his back to steady him. The sudden rise left him slightly dizzy for a moment, and he was grateful for the few seconds Thomas required to get the chair into position.

Matthew looked at it. It was quite a nice chair, he had to admit. It had polished dark wood, with sturdy, well-made wheels that somehow implied elegance without detracting from their strength, and comfortable armrests.

When did you become an expert on evaluating wheelchairs? a sniping little voice asked, but Matthew quelled it. He might hate the prospect of sitting in a chair for the rest of his days, but he could still appreciate good workmanship when he saw it.

"I'll have to thank Robert," Matthew said.

"You just did," a quiet voice replied, and Matthew turned his head in surprise. Robert was standing on the opposite side of his bed. He must have arrived while Matthew was dozing.

"Thank you, truly," Matthew repeated, but Robert just shook his head.

"Let's get you into it first and see if it suits you," he said. "I can always send for another."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Matthew answered. "Let's do this."

"That's the spirit!" Sybil said, and she lifted his ankles and swung his legs off the bed. Mary stood back as Sybil and Thomas both got a shoulder under Matthew's armpits and lifted him into the chair. Sybil and Thomas were surprisingly strong and evenly matched, he noted; there was less awkwardness in the transition than he'd expected. After they'd settled him and gotten his feet up on the rests, Sybil tucked a blanket over his legs, pushing the edges around his thighs, and making sure his feet were covered.

"I don't feel cold," Matthew protested, hating the sense that he appeared an aged invalid.

"You're in your pyjamas, darling," Mary said, sitting down on the bed beside his chair.

He also didn't give a fig whether the entire place saw him in his pyjamas—what did anything matter, really? He was just another bit of debris—but he remained silent. With Robert standing watch, Matthew supposed it was something to do with the family's honour being at stake.

At least I'm no longer the heir. What an awful embarrassment that would be, Matthew mused, taking a brief pleasure in his irrelevance.

"Bates will be by to dress you after lunch," Robert said. "He's out on an errand for me right now."

Matthew glowered at the great hall, which was visible beyond the sitting room doorway. I'm going to spend the rest of my life being dressed by someone else, he reminded himself, then felt a sour amusement. I suppose all the practice of enduring it before will come in handy after all.

"Thank you, Sybil," Mary said in a pointed tone, and Matthew frowned as he looked at her. She accepted a pitcher of water and a glass from Sybil, who nodded, smiled at Matthew, and then moved on to begin removing the rumpled sheets from a nearby bed.

"Will that be all, my lord?" Thomas asked.

"Yes, thank you, Sgt. Barrow," Robert replied.

Mary poured a glass of water and offered it to Matthew, who just frowned and looked away, so she took a sip, unperturbed, before setting it down on the bedside table.

Robert came round the bed. "It's so good to have you home again," he said to Matthew.

Matthew pressed his lips together and nodded, relaxing his frown slightly. As sour as his mood was, he didn't want to give Robert the impression that he wasn't grateful.

"Thank you, sir."

Robert's expression was uncertain, pained, and Matthew looked down at the bottom, unfastened button of the earl's waistcoat, which was at eye level. Matthew supposed that he'd be staring at it rather a lot now. He frowned.

Robert cleared his throat. "I'll see you at dinner tonight. I'm going—" He cut himself off, swallowed. I'm going to walk the estate, Matthew filled in. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Matthew nodded and Robert left. Matthew watched him go, unable to follow.

"Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic," Mary observed dryly.

Matthew glanced at her, irritated, but he saw sharp understanding in her eyes and he looked away again.

"I suppose you're going to push me around for a bit, leave me in a sunny spot to nap, and come collect me for lunch."

Mary clasped her hands lightly on her knee. "Of course not. You've got physiotherapy this morning. Your mother saw to the schedule personally."

He scowled. He didn't feel much like enduring a session of anything at the moment.

"I have good news," Mary said.

"Oh?"

"Mama and Papa have given us Granddad and Granny's old suite," Mary announced with a proud smile. "The rooms are on the first floor—Granddad couldn't go up the stairs those last few years—so they're perfect!"

Matthew frowned. "I thought all the bedrooms on the first floor were in use."

"The rest of them are, but not this suite: it's fit for an Earl and Countess, not for common use."

"I'm common," Matthew said. Mary's eyes flashed at him in annoyance.

"You're a member of the family," she answered, "and it's where we'll be living, so you might as well just accept it."

"Like everything else."

Mary glared at him. "Why do you insist on being so sour? You're home, you're alive, you're safe. You have a family that loves you and the promise of a life lived in luxury for the rest of your days. You'll want for nothing."

He snapped around to look at her, his eyes burning. "Nothing? Really?"

She pressed her lips together, her eyes wide and suddenly filled with tears, and he saw that her anger had only been thin front for her pain, which he'd exposed without a second's thought. His frown deepened and he swallowed and looked away, feeling a right ass.

She rose to her feet, smoothing her dress. "I'll have Sybil come push your chair to a sunny spot," she said stiffly, and walked away, her back straight.

Matthew looked down at his lap, finally alone, but it was not a relief this time.

---

"Is Captain Crawley's blanket properly tucked?" a sneering voice asked as Thomas descended the stairs to the servants' hall. His head snapped up and he met the mocking eyes of O'Brien, who stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the end of the bannister. "We wouldn't want Lord Grantham's former heir to be served by anyone less than the best."

He stiffened. "What's it to you?"

"What's it to you?" O'Brien shot back, an ugly little smile twisting the corner of her mouth. "You aren't His Lordship's footman now. There's naught to keep you at his beck and call when you answer to Major Clarkson." She stepped back as Thomas reached the bottom step. "I thought you don't do orderly work, seeing as you keep reminding us how high and mighty you are."

"I don't," he answered. "And it weren't for His Lordship's benefit. Like I said, Captain Crawley's a better man than most and I don't mind saying it. And I was the one who took delivery of his chair, so I knew where to fetch it."

O'Brien laughed. "Yes, waiting as you were outside the back door for half the morning."

Thomas pushed past her. "Don't you have a letter to answer? I'm sure His Lordship'll be pleased to hear you've had a hand in stirring up the pot again with Vera Bates."

O'Brien closed her mouth and glared at him as he smirked and left her behind.

---

After a wearying first session of physiotherapy and a lacklustre lunch in the great hall with the rest of the convalescing officers—most of whom could serve themselves, Matthew observed sourly—a nurse wheeled him into the library and left him near a window...to watch men walking the grounds, enjoying fresh air and exercise, some with their arms in slings or their heads bandaged. He was torn between appreciating the beauty of the late-summer scene and stewing because he couldn't be out in it.

Edith came by, offering to bring him a book or two, but Matthew declined. The popping volleys of a game of table tennis produced an irregular staccato of background noise that was just irritating enough to make concentration impossible, particularly when Matthew had no real interest in reading, anyway.

So he awaited Bates's return, still wearing pyjamas, a blanket draped over his legs. His life stretched out before him and he felt tired just contemplating it, but it wasn't a weariness that would allow him to nap in the warm sunlight, so he fell to staring at dust motes that floated by the window-frame and wondering when this miserable half-life would end.

A slight touch along the underside of his forearm made him twitch in surprise and he turned his head to see who it was.

Edward stood beside Matthew's chair, his small hand running along the armrest. His eyes were wide with delight and he reached down, reverently brushing his fingers over the spokes of the near wheel as he made a small "oh!" sound. He lifted his eyes to Matthew's, showing a face filled with wonder.

"Mama says I can't ride with the officers, but may I ride with you? You're my brother."

Matthew stared at the boy. Edward had grown so much since March! He was leaving toddlerhood behind, his features narrowing and his speech nearly devoid of babyish habits. The boy would be four in only a few months' time, Matthew realised, his heart squeezing at the years lost to this endless war.

"May I?" Edward repeated, bouncing in his excitement.

Matthew smiled, then frowned slightly as he took in the situation. "I'm not sure I can lift you on to my lap," he answered. "I'm still a bit weak."

"Oh, that's all right," Edward said, and he started scrambling up Matthew's blanket-covered legs. Matthew couldn't feel the pressure of Edward's small body, but he could feel how Edward was tugging on him to get leverage, so he quickly grasped the arms of the chair to give the boy a stable surface to climb on.

Edward clambered up into Matthew's lap and began laboriously—with Matthew's help, once he understood what the boy was trying to do—getting under Matthew's blanket with him.

Matthew suppressed a chuckle. Clearly, one was only supposed to ride in wheelchairs with a blanket over one's lap.

Once Edward had gotten the blanket arranged to his satisfaction, he wriggled, bumping back against Matthew's belly in his eagerness.

"Go! Go!" Edward commanded impatiently.

Matthew laughed and reached for the wheels. He'd never propelled himself in the chair before, but he was suddenly filled with a childish urge to go fast and get into trouble. His hands closed around the rims of the wheels—

"Edward!"

Cora's voice rang out from the doorway, shock and horror in her tone. The table tennis players startled and lost the rhythm of their volley, sending the ball bouncing across the room.

Cora rushed to Matthew's side. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry! Edward, get down from there this instant!"

She bent to lift her son from Matthew's lap and winced as she set Edward down, quickly trying to rearrange the fallen blanket around Matthew's legs. He took the edges from her and secured it around his hips as she continued murmuring her apologies.

"I'm sorry, Matthew! He must have escaped from Norris. Edward, I told you—!" Cora twisted, looking harried as she glanced around for the missing nanny. "I've a mountain of things to do right now, I can't possibly—"

"It's all right—" Matthew began, but Edward kicked Cora's ankle and she jumped and glared at him.

"Edward!" she snapped. "Behave!"

"But I want to ride in Matthew's chair!" Edward whined.

"No," Cora answered. "It is not a toy. Matthew is..." She gave Matthew an uncomfortable glance and then a quick, concealing smile. "...recovering."

"Why can't I ride?" Edward demanded angrily. "Matthew said I could."

"No," Cora repeated, taking his hand and trying to draw him away.

"Really, it's no bother," Matthew said in a low voice, leaning towards them.

Edward twisted and tried to get his wrist free of his mother's grasp. "Let me! Let me go!"

"Edward!" Cora snapped, glancing around self-consciously at the roomful of officers, who were now watching the small drama playing out in the otherwise quiet library. "Stop this at once!"

Edward worked his hand free, collapsed on the floor in a dramatic heap, and began to wail. Matthew watched this sudden change of mood with some trepidation.

Cora straightened, her posture stiff and her mouth pulled down in displeasure. "Where is Norris?" she snapped.

Mrs Hughes rushed in with Norris close on her heels, flushed and breathless.

"Oh, Master Edward, there you are!" Norris exclaimed, crouching down beside Edward as Cora stepped back.

"I'm sorry, my lady," Mrs Hughes said. "I was speaking with Norris about the loose railing in the nursery and Edward took the opportunity to escape."

"Perhaps such matters should be discussed while he is napping, then," Cora responded flatly. Mrs Hughes gave a thin-lipped nod.

"I'm sorry, Your Ladyship," Norris said with a quick upward glance. "Master Edward, come now." Norris rubbed his back as his sobs subsided.

"Can I ride?" he asked with a trembling sniff, from under an elbow.

"No, not right now," Norris answered, catching Cora's frown. "But we can go out to the garden to look for snails and newts, would you like that?"

Edward sniffed. "And snakes?"

Cora shivered; Matthew smiled.

The corner of Norris's mouth tugged up. "If you like. But we must leave them outside in their homes this time."

Edward sat up with a pout. "But I want to ride in Matthew's chair."

"I'll tell you what," Matthew said, leaning down towards the boy. "After you find a snake, you come find me and you can tell me all about him." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I don't know where the best snakes are to be found on these grounds; I'll need you to remember and tell me most carefully."

Edward got to his feet, blinking away his tears. His eyes and cheeks were reddened, but he smiled.

"All right." He took Norris's outstretched hand. "Can I sit on your lap when I tell you?"

Matthew chuckled. "Yes," he answered firmly, his eyes flickering up to Cora's, but she made no protest. She was watching him with a curious expression. He looked back down at Edward. "Now, you be a good chap and obey your mama and your nanny, do you hear?"

Edward nodded and sniffed, then followed Norris when she gently tugged his hand. The nanny gave Matthew a grateful nod before leading Edward across the room, Mrs Hughes on their heels. As they approached, Bates stood aside at the doorway to let them pass, then came into the library.

"Thank you for your patience," Cora said to Matthew. "Please don't let him be a bother."

"He isn't, at all," Matthew replied. "Truly." He looked at the empty doorway, surprised by how much he looked forward to seeing Edward again. "He's grown so much."

Cora followed his gaze with a wistful expression. "Sometimes he still seems a miracle." Pressing her lips together, she gave Matthew a polite smile. "Well, I must be going. I wish I could stay and talk, but I've a thousand things to do."

"Of course," Matthew said. Cora turned and strode by Bates, who gave her a nod as she passed.

"My lady," the valet murmured. He approached Matthew, looking him squarely in the face without any of the usual flickering glances of discomfort that Matthew was growing accustomed to receiving. "It's good to have you back home, if I may say so, sir."

Matthew gave him a tight smile. "Bates."

"I've drawn you a bath and I have your uniform pressed and ready."

Matthew swallowed. The thought of sinking into a tub of hot water was appealing. It had been too long. "Thank you, Bates."

The valet's eyes crinkled up in a genuine smile and he stepped behind the chair, hooking his stick over his wrist as he took the chair handles.

"Lady Mary has done a lovely job updating your new apartments, sir," Bates said, wheeling Matthew out of the library, past the once-again-active game of table tennis. "Everything possible has been done to ensure your comfort."

Matthew nodded, frowning, and rocked with the chair as it bumped over the threshold and Bates pushed him out into the great hall.

---

Bates limped over to the bedside with a slight frown as he laid out Mr Matthew's pyjamas and double-checked that he had all of the necessary supplies. Getting his charge ready for bed was going to require a significant adjustment in his evening schedule, if he were going be able to complete the process and still get to Lord Grantham by the time His Lordship usually retired. Bates stood back and glanced around the room. Towels, spare bags, changing cloths, disinfectant...

He felt a hand drift lightly over his shoulder and down his back, and he smiled and turned.

"You look worried," Anna observed, reaching up to rub his shoulder a moment. He shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned against the bedpost with a small sigh, closing his eyes. She always seemed to know exactly where the knot was.

"It's a lot to do," Bates answered.

"His Lordship will understand if you're a bit delayed this evening," Anna said, still working at his shoulder with her strong hands.

"I know." Bates drew in a deep breath and straightened, transferring his stick back to his right hand, and Anna stopped her massage. "But I expect this first evening will be particularly challenging. Mr Matthew does what he can, but he's taking it very hard. And he's not strong yet."

"Ask someone to help you," Anna suggested, frowning slightly. "I don't want you putting your back out."

Bates smirked at her. "My back is just fine."

Anna looked as though she wanted to embrace him, but she limited herself to giving him a warm smile, her eyes twinkling as she drew a step closer. "I know it is. But don't overexert yourself. You're not a young man any more."

"Why, Miss Smith, are you calling me old?"

"Only when there's no one around to hear us." Anna grinned.

Bates pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. How he wanted to kiss her! But they must wait until they were both free at the end of the evening. He settled for briefly running a hand down her upper arm and smiling.

"I'm so glad you're back under the same roof," he said, putting as much warmth into his voice as he could manage, and he was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

"Oh, yes," she replied with a happy sigh. "Seeing you throughout the day instead of just on Sundays and late in the evening!"

He nodded. "I'm sorry; I've been busy running errands for His Lordship this week, and I was tired. The walk to Crawley House..."

"Shh, I know. I'm not upset."

"The last day we spent any length of time together was at William and Daisy's wedding—" Bates cut himself off and frowned, swallowing. Anna's face had fallen as well, and she drew in a deep breath as she reached out to take his hand briefly, squeezing it. He nodded and looked away, and she released him.

After a moment, he said, "We're safe. We've got the decree nisi. I'm sure it's all right."

"Except you're not sure."

Bates frowned. "I can't be. Not until it's absolutely final. January is so far off."

Anna nodded.

He grit his teeth and shook his head. "I just can't shake the feeling that she's planning something. Vera won't go without a fight."

Anna took his hand again. "We are going to be together, whether she wants it or not. If we have to leave here, if we have to leave the country, we are going to be together."

Bates turned and squeezed her hand, giving her a grateful smile. "I love you, Anna Smith."

"And I love you, John Bates." She straightened, releasing him. "Now, are you done in here? I've finished putting Mr Matthew's kerchiefs in his bedside table and I just need to fetch the books that Lady Mary requested for him."

Bates tilted his head in surprise. "I thought you were putting those in here." He gestured at the bedside table near him.

Anna frowned. "What? Why? They always share a bed, you know that."

Bates shook his head. "No, Mr Matthew specifically requested that this bed be prepared for him."

Anna lifted her head in a slow nod, still frowning. Her expression settled into one of sadness and she stepped away as Bates sighed and looked down. He understood only too well the urge to isolate oneself when one was a cripple. He still marvelled that a woman as young and lovely as Anna would show the slightest interest in him, never mind the fierce devotion and angelic patience she demonstrated daily. How he had come to deserve her, he would never know, but he was so grateful for her calm and sensible presence. He watched her disappear into the master bedroom and he turned to check his preparations one last time.

There was a curt knock on the door and Carson stepped in.

"Mr Bates," the butler said, "Captain Crawley wishes to retire early. He's in the dining room with His Lordship."

Bates nodded and followed Carson out.

---

Mary lay trapped, paralyzed, in a dark bedroom with red walls—her old bedroom? She couldn't be sure, for she couldn't turn her head—and she felt a presence open the door. A shadowed figure, a man, was entering the room! His dark hair and olive skin, his movements, even his satin dressing gown were so awful in their familiarity that she wanted to scream, but she could no more scream now than she could before!

He was coming! He was coming closer! He was going to weigh her down, a dead weight, trapping her underneath him! She thrashed madly, but her limbs wouldn't respond and the dark eyes glittered in the dead face—

She cried out in desperation. Matthew! Matthew!

Matthew was her husband, she was his wife now. He would save her from this ghoul—

—but then she remembered that Matthew could not save her. He was in the other room—could he even hear her cries? Her throat was raw but there was no sound coming out except shrill, wordless moans—and he could not walk now.

She cried out at the image of him dragging himself across the floor to reach her. No! She could not do this to him. He must not be allowed to know of her fear and pain—

The dark figure climbed on to the bed! The laughing horror, the weight, she would be trapped!

She could not help it; she screamed. Oh God, oh God, noooooo—!

---

Mary awoke and flung her eyes open. Her heart was pounding and she trembled, her skin cold with sweat. The sheets were tangled around her legs. She sat up with a gasp, reassuring herself that she was alone in the room.

She was alone.

She fell to her side on the bed, exhausted, and sobbed.

---

Matthew roused from a fitful sleep, frowning and blinking. Something had awakened him.

He heard muffled sobs and froze as he listened. Mary.

His arms tightened convulsively around the pillow. Why did she want to share his bed now? He couldn't fathom it. Wasn't she repulsed by what she saw? By what was dead to her touch?

But if he were beside her now, he might be able to hold her, or rub her back, or just listen if she wanted to speak. His arms ached to embrace her and he wished he had the words to reassure her, the belief that it would all turn out well.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

Matthew squeezed his eyes closed. The old verses he'd memorised still echoed in his mind, stabbing him in their own way. He missed being able to pray, to have a recourse when he felt helpless, but he couldn't pretend faith. He wished for it, but he was powerless to create it. The ache in his chest widened and it hurt to swallow. He couldn't sleep now.

Another faint sob reached his ears as he opened his eyes. He used to ask for something simple for Mary, something he knew would do her good even when he didn't know exactly what she needed, or how best to help her find it. When he knew he was inadequate.

Draw her close to You.

Would it hurt to ask, one last time? He couldn't take any comfort in believing it would be heard, or that it would do any good, but he wouldn't be doing it for himself. He would do it for her.

He whispered the words and felt gutted out, hollow, an aching grief wrenching through him. He groaned, pulling the pillow down with him as he curled more tightly into a foetal position, until his elbows bumped into the second pillow that was between his knees.

It was all gone; he was a dead weight on the outside and a mere shell on the inside, empty where once he had felt full.

The loss of faith hurt even more deeply than the loss of half his body, because it meant the loss of hope, the loss of trust that there was meaning even in suffering, and the loss of belief in his own worth. At the core of his grief was the loss of a deep Friendship that he'd once enjoyed and taken comfort in; the sense of being utterly known and still loved.

The emptiness swallowed him whole as he lay in the dark, with not even the distant, faint sounds of Mary's sobs to keep him company any longer. She had subsided, leaving him alone, only a shell of a soul in pain.

---

Two weeks later

Matthew lay awake, staring at the faint grey outlines of the ceiling. He'd known this was a bad idea; he never should have allowed them to go through with it. He knew he should pull himself to the side of the bed and reach for the bell cord, but Mary was curled against his side, fast asleep, her steady breathing his only anchor in the darkness. Waking her was out of the question.

So he lay in his own mess, self-revulsion curling through him, sickening him and filling him with a deeper blackness than any he'd yet felt.

Some distant part of his mind told him that he ought to pray, to fight despair, but the blackness that filled him had no edges, nothing he could grasp at to peel it aside far enough to feel anything. He didn't hate God; he didn't have enough left for that. But he sure as hell wasn't going through the motions of piety for…what? What would wishful thinking gain him?

Nothing.

Nothing.

He was nothing, now. Just a burden, a curse. Not only no longer able to control his own bodily functions, but not even capable of cleaning up his own mess. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he choked back the burn in his eyes and throat.

He heard Mary's breathing shift slightly and he caught himself, holding his breath. He must not wake her.

He mentally kicked himself. That choke had been audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no relief to be found there. He opened them again immediately, returning to the formless grey of the ceiling above him.

She shifted in her sleep, her movements against his torso warm and torturous. He remembered what it felt like to fill her warm, wet depths, to lose himself in the pleasure of her embrace. He remembered her head thrown back, her dark hair splayed against the pillow, her lips open and her eyes closed, her breasts unbound, for his eyes to freely feast on. He remembered running his hand along her flank, lifting her leg—

He swallowed back another threat of sick, now mixed nauseatingly with these sweet memories of his wife—he didn't want these memories of her tainted! They were all he had left, all he would ever have. He swallowed hard and tried to push the thoughts away, but the more he resisted, the more the sensations flooded him. Their reality was attenuated—they were no more than distant memories—but they were at the same time maddeningly heightened by phantoms of his imagination. There was nothing in the grey darkness to distract him from this conflicting hell, no escape to be found.

Her breath drifted over his skin, across the neckline of his pyjamas, and he clung to the sensation. He clung to her presence, focused on her breathing, waited for her next breath…there. His arm tightened around her and he fought back tears. He'd cycled through these thoughts for what felt like hours and he was exhausted from trying to fight them. God, he hated this. He hated it.

There was no relief from the agonizingly slow passage of time. Matthew resolved that this would be the last night, the only night, that he slept with her. He could not do this again. He'd thought he could make it through the night without needing to ring for Bates or a nurse, but then this had happened. It rarely, if ever, happened at night for him normally, but his body was far from normal now. He used to be able to fall asleep easily, but he never slept much anymore, only falling into unconsciousness from the sheer exhaustion of just being and then waking, unrested. There might not be any relief from this hell for him, but he would not drag her into it as well. It was easier for him to lie—or sit—through the dark hours alone, imagining that she was sleeping peacefully somewhere else, away from him and his curse. After all, he hadn't heard her crying again since that first night.

Mary drifted into a sleepy half-awareness and smiled as she felt her husband's chest rise and fall, the cotton of his pyjama shirt soft against her skin. Her head was still resting in the hollow of his shoulder and her arm was draped across his stomach. He was warm. It was so nice to be able to sleep beside him again. She'd missed him terribly.

She shifted her leg further across his, starting to settle back down again, and then sighed. She had to use the bathroom. As she roused herself and began to sit up, she stopped and frowned, sniffing. What was that terrible smell? It was more pervasive than—

She drew in a sudden breath as she realised what it must be, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest when she saw Matthew turn his face away from her. She couldn't see perfectly in the darkness, but she could see well enough to notice how stiff and uncomfortable he seemed. She felt awful for not having roused sooner.

"Oh, my darling! How long have you—?"

Matthew groaned in response and covered his face with his hand. A moment later, when she was sat all the way up, he pulled back the arm that had been underneath her and started to push himself away, to roll himself towards the edge of the bed and the bell cord. His lower half was a dead weight that kept the cord just out of reach and Mary's heart clenched as she watched him turn back to pull his leg over. She quickly fought back the urge to cry and she put a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Never mind that," she said.

Matthew turned his head back partway. "Bates will—"

"It's the middle of the night, Matthew." Her voice was steady, she was glad to hear. "We're not going to wake up any member of the household without good reason."

He snarled. "This is good reason! You won't be able to sleep like this and I'm absolutely not going to let you—"

"How are you going to stop me?" she asked, smiling despite herself.

"Mary!"

"Yes, Matthew?"

He flopped back on to the bed in frustration. "No. Call a nurse."

"We don't need a nurse. They have patients to tend to." She slipped lightly off the bed. She knew where Bates kept all the supplies, in the cupboard outside the bathroom.

"Mary!" Matthew called after her in a harsh whisper, as she disappeared into the bathroom to relieve herself.

She emerged a short while later and approached the bed. Matthew lay silently in the darkness, scowling, she was sure. She had to resist the urge to laugh, which she knew he would not appreciate. He took himself too seriously sometimes, but now was not a moment to poke fun at him: he was too raw. The truth of their situation remained a painful one, but one she had decided to accept with equanimity. Pitying herself was a waste of time, and humouring his black moods was wearying. She'd decided the right approach was to face their new reality and make the best of it. Matthew still had a full life ahead of him, even if he wasn't able to see it yet. She knew it would take time for his mind and heart to heal, but she wished she could help him along in some way.

She switched on the bedside light and Matthew hissed, covering his eyes with one hand.

"Sorry," Mary said.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this?"

"Not a chance." She brought the small pail into the bathroom to fill it with warm water from the faucet, then came out and placed a cloth on the bedside table and set the pail upon it. She turned down the covers and, after collecting the necessary linens and balm, she climbed on to the bed.

Matthew looked sceptically at her supplies. "Are you sure you know what to do?"

"Of course," Mary answered absently, glancing around. She realised that she had forgotten the basin for the dirty linens. She slid off the bed and brought it back a moment later.

Matthew frowned. "I hadn't thought it part of your responsibilities at the hospital."

"Oh, it's not," Mary replied, gesturing with her hands for him to roll away from her. As he complied, sighing, she worked an arm under his waist, careful not to let her fingernails catch on his skin. Even if he couldn't feel it, she didn't want to scratch him. She braced herself and lifted him with a small grunt, quickly working the waistband of his pyjama bottoms down around his hips before she lost the strength to hold him up. He helped as best he could, but given the way he was clenching his jaw, he was in no small amount of pain. She shifted the fabric quickly and lowered him back down, pulling her arm out from under him. He dropped to his pillow with a groan, rolling on to his back as he did.

"Then how—?" he asked, his voice sounding strained.

She pulled his pyjama trousers down, lifting his legs as she went, careful not to tug on the catheter line strapped down the length of one of them. "This isn't the first time I've done this," she replied, keeping her tone light.

"It's not? But you said…"

She left the trousers around his ankles, trapped in place by the line that ran down into his bedside bag, and turned back to him. He closed his eyes as she worked open the fastenings of his nappy.

"Oh, I haven't done this for anyone else," she said.

His eyes flew open and he stared at her. "What?"

She wet a couple cloths and draped them on the edge of the pail, then pulled the nappy open. She didn't grimace, he noted. In fact, he almost felt calm watching the matter-of-factness in her expression. Almost. Revulsion curled in his stomach.

She placed a hand on his hip and gestured with her chin for him to turn away from her. "Roll again?"

He sighed again and complied, accepting his knee when she gently pushed it up for him to hold. He set its dead weight down on the mattress in front him and winced from the slight strain the new position put on his back. He was accustomed to the humiliation of this procedure, but he was surprised by her calm acceptance of it.

"What did you mean, 'anyone else'?" he asked, trying to distract himself with conversation.

"Who do you think took care of you when they first brought you back from the front?" she asked.

He frowned. He hadn't really thought about it. He'd just assumed the nurses had. But Mary? The thought had never crossed his mind. Even Sybil, for all of her attentiveness to his other needs, had never taken care of these most private ones. It was always some anonymous, stern-faced woman, thankfully. That had been humiliation enough.

"You?" he repeated. "But you never—"

"Not after you woke up," she said. He heard cloths splash in water again. "I didn't think you'd let me."

The black humour in him echoed the smile he heard in her voice, but his own voice was bitter. "You were right."

He frowned at the shadows on the floor as he imagined Mary caring for him while he was unconscious.

"Why does it matter?" she asked.

How could she ask such a thing?

She apparently took his stony silence for an answer, because she continued: "I'm your wife, Matthew. I could hardly shirk my responsibility!"

"Your responsibility," he echoed derisively.

"'…for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish…'" she quoted.

He blinked. It was a beautiful sentiment, but he hadn't expected her to hold to it quite so thoroughly. After all, a woman of her station could expect to have servants for such distasteful tasks. His frowned deepened. When they'd made their vows, he'd never intended to hold her to something like this. He'd envisioned growing old beside her, having her tuck a blanket around his legs when they were both at an age when doing that sort of thing became necessary. Normal sickness…not this. This wasn't a proper marriage any more. It couldn't be.

They had been properly married for far too short a time, despite having begun the marriage almost four years earlier. He could count on two hands the number of times that he'd been home on leave, for God's sake. Why had she married him, knowing what an idiot he was being leaving her behind, and for what? He'd thought he was doing the right thing, fighting for King and Country, but what had four years in the trenches achieved? The war still wasn't over and after a while, it was hard to remember just what they were fighting for. It just lingered interminably over everything like a cancer, the lines moving back and forth in the cold and the mud, a few hundred feet at a time, at the cost of thousands of lives. The whole thing was a bloody waste of time. Time that he should have spent with his wife, raising a family. A family… After all this time and no sign of a pregnancy, Matthew had wondered, in his darkest moments in the trenches, if it was because there was something wrong with him.

The shadow inside of him laughed.

There was no doubt of that now.

He would give her a divorce, he reminded himself. She was still young and had her whole life before her. With her beauty, wealth, and position, she would have no trouble finding a more suitable husband, someone who could give her a secure future, children, and possibly even a title. It was what she deserved. She didn't deserve to be chained to a cripple with no prospects. He would claim that he had been unfaithful on his leaves—although he'd been mocked for never bedding a prostitute while in Paris, but no one here knew that—and that he had mistreated her.

If this wasn't mistreatment, he didn't know what was, the shadow observed.

At least his legal training would be useful for something now. He started composing the opening paragraphs of the divorce petition, to distract himself from the way she was shifting his body in her movements behind him. He couldn't feel a damn thing of what she was actually doing, but she had shifted him forward a little, probably to reach a new piece of—

Concerning the matrimonial dissolution of Lady Mary Josephine Crawley, Petitioner, and Matthew Reginald Crawley, Respondent, in the District Court of the County of York, West Riding, herein follows the Original Petition of Divorce. To the honourable judge of the aforementioned Court: the following suit is presented by the Petitioner, who is— Matthew had to think for a moment, —27 years of age, residing in Downton, County of York (W.R.). Respondent is 33 years of age, residing in Downton, County of York (W.R.). Petitioner has been the domiciliary of—

"I noticed that you didn't object when I left out 'obey'," Mary said.

Matthew blinked, confused, and then he recalled their conversation: the marriage vows. Against all reason, a short, disbelieving laugh rose out of him. He didn't want to feel humour in this moment, but it was too late. She'd made him smile. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I wouldn't dare," he replied, annoyed. "To be honest, I wasn't completely sure you would say it during the ceremony."

Mary laughed. He opened his eyes. The sound made him want to cry, but he didn't know why.

"I'm glad to hear it. I should hate to be predictable." She chuckled, then sighed. "I'd always disliked how unequal the vows were. Travis never had a satisfactory reply when I asked him about it as a child." She moved away behind him, then returned. "But when the day came for me to say them, I realised…I trusted you. You would never demand that I do something that wasn't in my best interests."

He couldn't stop himself. "Like this?"

She sighed. "You didn't demand this, Matthew. It was forced on you against your will, but in your best interests."

He made a disbelieving noise.

"Besides," she said. "Who's to say that this isn't in my best interests? Wasn't I a bit arrogant and self-absorbed when we first met? Don't you prefer this me to that one?"

He gave a soft snort of acknowledgement, but then: "No one deserves this punishment, Mary."

"Of course not," she said. "But this isn't a punishment to me."

Matthew felt the bed shift behind him and he turned his head to look down at his body. Mary had finished her cleaning and was laying a new nappy out behind him.

"Should I roll back?" he asked.

"In a moment," she said. He looked away as she dabbed at one more spot and then he heard her say, "Now."

He rolled on to his back and stared fixedly at the ceiling as she cleaned something more. She left that cloth in the basin and returned to fasten one side. Then he heard her mutter, "Stupid—" under her breath. He looked down quickly and saw that she was drawing her hand away from his hip and moving it down to his knee. "Roll towards me?" she prompted.

"What's stupid?" he asked, dragging himself towards her until he was lying on his side and fixing his gaze on the bedside lamp behind her as she shifted his legs and started fastening the other side.

"Nothing."

"Mary."

She sighed. "I forgot. I tried to ask you to roll towards me by just tugging on your hip. Stupid."

A thick, black feeling welled up in his throat and he kept staring at the lamp.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The black feeling made his throat sore. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he bit out.

Her hand rested on his hair and he closed his eyes, wanting to twitch away but having nowhere to go. "Don't, please," he said. "Just finish."

"All right."

Her hand lifted away and he felt the bed shift repeatedly. After a while, he felt her tugging at him; she'd finally worked the pyjama bottoms up high enough on his legs that his torso was being shifted as she lifted his thighs.

"I think this'll be easiest if you're on your back again," she said. Her voice held a note that he couldn't place and he opened his eyes to look at her. He pushed the question away and focused on helping her raise his body enough to work the pyjamas up around his hips again. She grunted quietly and then nodded and he let himself drop to the bed, his arms and shoulders and stomach—as much of it as he could feel—aching from the effort.

Without a word, she climbed off the bed and set about clearing away the soiled linens and returning the remaining supplies to the cupboard. He heard the water running and then she emerged from the bathroom. After all her exertions, wisps of hair had come loose from her braid. In fact, her cheeks had some colour in them and he thought she looked so lovely—

He closed his eyes and turned away. "I can't do this to you," he said. "I'm releasing you."

She sighed as she sat on the edge of the bed and she looked at him, exasperated. "We've been through this already, Matthew."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"Then it's settled."

"Like hell it is," she shot back. He turned back to her in shock. He'd never heard her speak so crudely before. "I promised," she said, in a softer voice.

"I'm not holding you to that promise!"

"I am."

"Mary!"

She arched an eyebrow. "Matthew?"

He slammed his fist on to the edge of the mattress beside him.

"Did I do it poorly? Did I hurt you?" she asked quickly.

"Of course not," he answered.

"You looked like you were in pain."

"I'm always in pain, Mary."

She was silent for a long moment.

"Then why?" she finally asked. "And don't tell me that I have my whole life ahead of me and I'd be better off with someone else, because I don't want to be with someone else!"

He threw an arm over his eyes, weary, hiding the burn behind them. The weight was a small relief. "Why ever not?" he asked hoarsely. "You're Lady Mary Crawley, for God's sake! Who am I, besides a dead weight?"

Mary growled in frustration. She hated his black moods. He was so irrational; it was impossible to reason with him.

But he wasn't finished. He pulled his arm back and gestured at his legs. "I can't be a proper country solicitor in a wheelchair! Can you imagine me trying to wheel myself into some rutted farmyard with a briefcase in my lap?" He gave a bitter laugh and dropped his arm to the bed. "I can't provide for you, I can't give you children, I can't even make love to you! What could you possibly get out of this marriage?"

"As long as you insist on being hopeless, very little," she replied. "But if you can manage not to give up, if you can hold on to that God you claimed you so deeply believed in, then I expect a long and joyful life together."

He scowled at the ceiling.

"I'm not telling you to feel hope, Matthew. I'm telling you to choose it, despite everything."

He still scowled.

"Do you want to know when I realised I loved you more than anything else?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, but she could tell he was listening.

"It was after I chose to confess everything about Mr Pamuk to you, not knowing what you would do, but expecting you to reject me. Instead, you forgave me and proposed again right away. You exceeded my wildest expectations."

"I didn't forgive you," he corrected.

She smiled. "I know that's what you said, but yes, you did. You forgave me so thoroughly that you helped me to begin to forgive myself."

At this, he turned to look at her. "Really?"

She thought she saw his eyes glisten in the low light. She smiled.

"Yes, really."

He regarded her in silence for a long moment, and then his features lightened. He didn't smile, but it was a start.

"I'm not going to leave you," she said, "and before you start scowling at me again, stop and think about how you'd respond if our positions were reversed."

He frowned at her. Technically, it wasn't scowling.

"You shouldn't stay on your back for the rest of the night," she said in a businesslike tone. "Side instead?"

He sighed, nodding. He hated being told how to sleep—or rather, how not to sleep—but bedsores were a very real concern. He had already begun to resign himself to a life of being incessantly shifted about by other people. He turned away and she helped him to bend and move his legs and get his pillow settled.

"Comfortable?" she asked.

"Well enough."

She crawled down the bed and tugged the covers back up over him, then leaned out to turn off the bedside lamp.

The room was plunged into darkness, which Matthew expected to offer him some degree of comfort, or at least some privacy, where he could have his own thoughts without her watching them run rampant across his face. Thankfully, she hadn't protested when he'd chosen to sleep facing away from her. After what she had just done for him, what he craved was privacy. He wanted to remember what it was like not to need someone to wipe his ass for him, but he could only do that in the dark, when he was still. Then, for a few fleeting moments, he could forget.

That was what he expected, his usual ritual after Bates extinguished the lights and closed the door, but Mary didn't know that. She wasn't Bates; she didn't leave. She didn't even pull the covers up over herself and go to sleep beside him, as Matthew had thought she would. No, instead he felt her fingers in his hair and he gasped. Her touch dragged him back into the present, evoking both a painful reminder of his loss and an exquisitely pleasant ache to feel more of the comfort her fingers offered. The longer her soft stroking continued, the more the sense of comfort took over, and he finally let his eyes slide closed to focus on her movements. She sat, leaning against him from behind, her arm braced gently against his upper back. She ran her fingers through his hair for a short while longer and then she moved them down from his hairline on to his brow. He felt her knuckles kneading the tense muscles in his forehead and he acquiesced to her, allowing them to relax under her massage. He felt her hum in appreciation and after a few more strokes, she ran her fingers back up into his hair again. He sighed; he couldn't help it.

Her fingers lifted away and her lips brushed against his temple before she returned to gently working at his scalp. Her kiss didn't evoke all the old sensations, but her touch was comforting and pleasant, nonetheless. He still felt the yawning blackness that no amount of her physical comfort could banish, but he was glad, for the first time that night, that he was not alone in the dark. After a while, she pulled away from his hair again and he felt her rest her hand on his shoulder as she leaned down. Her lips brushed his cheek, his ear, and then she said, "Good night, my beautiful sea monster."

He silently choked on a laugh and then everything hurt. "Don't joke—" he tried to say. "I can't—"

Mary frowned down at him in the darkness, caught off-guard by the harshness of his tone. He'd finally seemed to be relaxing. She doubted he'd slept much all night, but she'd been hoping that after this, he might—

She realised that his shoulder was shaking under her hand and she leaned over him, suddenly worried. His whole torso was shuddering.

"Matthew?" she asked, panicking. Was this some kind of seizure? She tried to remember what Sybil had told her to do— And then Mary heard him sob and she instantly felt a mixture of relief and pain. She huddled over him, trying to hold him in her embrace without leaning too much of her weight on him. He cringed and pressed his face into the mattress beside his pillow, but she wouldn't let him pull away when he tried.

"Oh God…" he moaned, his voice high and strained, so unlike his usual timbre.

She held him tightly as his frame shook in her arms and she listened to him cry. She didn't try to shush him or convince him that everything would be all right. She didn't say anything or do anything at all to distract him; she just held him and closed her eyes. She'd already cried herself out in the intervening weeks since he'd returned, so her eyes remained dry now. She felt she had strength to share.

Eventually, when his sobs began to quieten, she pulled away to find a clean cloth to use as a handkerchief, which she laid over his hands for him to take. She ran her palm over his back in comforting circles, careful to stay above the area where he lost sensation.

After he dried his face and blew his nose, he reached up and grasped her hand, still resting on his shoulder. "My storm-braver," he whispered.

She gave a soft laugh. "Gale-force winds this time?"

His shoulders shook in a weary laugh. "I love you, Mary."

"I love you, too," she answered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, my lady."

She slapped his shoulder lightly. "I told you not to call me that! You're a member of the family!"

"I didn't promise to obey," he shot back, unable to stop the grin that pulled at his lips.

She felt a curl of arousal at the playful, teasing tone in his voice and she blinked. She hadn't expected to feel that with him again. She expected lifelong friendship and companionship, with any of those needs attended to quietly, alone. She'd thought she was at peace with this prospect, but in this moment she realised she didn't want to cut him out of this part herself. She had no idea what he wanted, however, and she couldn't possibly broach the topic with him. Not now. She knew it pained him to have lost such a vital part of himself and she would not wound him again by bringing it up for entirely selfish reasons.

Matthew twisted slightly to look at her in the darkness, frowning. He'd expected a quick rejoinder, but when none had come… "What's wrong?"

He heard her sigh as she patted his shoulder. "It's nothing. Good night, my love."

She settled down under the covers, no longer touching him. Something was definitely not right. Despite his earlier desire to face away from her, he now felt compelled to find out what had happened. He twisted on to his back and pushed himself up enough to pull at his leg as he tried to shift himself on to his other side, facing her. His movements were awkward and he bumped into her more than once.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding worried.

"Trying to roll over," he grunted.

Mary immediately sat up and helped him move his legs. "Careful! Careful," she said. "Let me just make sure—" She rose up and checked the tape on his abdomen, then stretched over him, pulling back the bottom of the covers near his feet to make sure that the catheter line wasn't under tension. It was imperative that it not be pulled out, not just to avoid the possible mess, but to prevent infection. Sybil had instructed Mary most carefully on this point. Satisfied, Mary replaced the covers and sat back.

"Everything in order?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "You should have asked me for help."

"I have to learn how to do this for myself, you know."

"Yes, but you don't have to do it all tonight. The physio will get you there soon enough." She made sure that none of his clothing was twisted too tightly around him. "Comfortable?"

"Yes." He was settled on his side, facing her now, one arm bent under his pillow. "Thank you."

She lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin, closing her eyes.

"Well?" he asked, after a long moment of silence.

"Well what?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Who said anything is bothering me?"

"The fact that you suddenly quietened," he replied.

"I'm tired, Matthew."

"Is that really all?"

She sighed and opened her eyes. She'd promised him at the very beginning to always be honest with him. She just didn't want to hurt him.

"It can wait," she said, giving in slightly.

"What can?"

She gave a short laugh. "Matthew!"

She could practically feel him smiling in the darkness. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her own mouth. She'd missed sparring with him in bed; she'd missed the way that he managed to gently work his way under all her defences and yet leave her feeling warm and safe when she'd expected to feel exposed instead. It had always made her want to kiss him and curl up against him afterwards in thanks, which was exactly what she couldn't do right now. Her body was too aroused already.

She needed distance, to wait until the desire tapered off. At the beginning of the night, she hadn't responded to his presence like this, so she'd thought she would get through their first night sleeping together without being distracted by desire for him. A part of her had muted itself when she'd been told that he had lost his virility. The cold feeling had begun before she'd even received official word of his injury, and somewhere in the meantime the cold feeling had silently transmuted itself numbness. She was still a woman with certain basic desires, but Matthew had always been able to evoke something more in her, and the thought of trying to rediscover it without him held no appeal. She felt almost guilty for even contemplating it.

But she couldn't possibly tell him any of this. He seemed to have just begun to turn a corner and revealing this would be a cruel blow that could send him back into a black mood.

"Trust me, Mary, please."

She looked at him. "I do trust you! It's not a matter of trust. I'm trying to avoid causing you pain."

"I'll stay awake worrying for the rest of the night."

She snorted. "Blackmail won't work."

"It's not blackmail, it's true."

She shook her head.

"Hmm," he said. "Let's see. Something that makes you no longer want to touch me, something that you can't tell me about because it might hurt me…"

Mary closed her eyes, knowing it was pointless to resist. "Matthew."

"Ah," he said, a kind of finality in his voice. "I see."

And from his tone, she knew he did. She relented. "I miss you," she whispered.

He was silent for a long moment, and then he asked conversationally, "How long has it been for you?"

She felt heat flush her cheeks; she had never felt comfortable talking about this sort of thing, not even with him. Speaking wordlessly with her body presented no challenge, but actually naming anything? She shied away from it. He had no such compunctions and found her reluctance amusing, but he never pressed her on it. She decided to make use of this and deflect.

"Six months," she answered. That was when he'd last been home on leave.

He laughed. "So, a while, I take it."

She sighed, giving in. "Since a little before you came home."

"Mary, that was nearly a month ago."

"Your point?"

"You need to take care of yourself. I hope you've not been abstaining on my account."

"Of course I've been abstaining on your account, Matthew!"

"We talked about this: there's nothing wrong with meeting your body's needs when we're apart."

"I know that. That wasn't why."

"Then what is it?"

Mary frowned, thinking. She was reluctant to voice what she found. He waited.

She sighed. "I'm…not sure. I haven't felt myself, really."

"You've been unwell? Have you spoken to Clarkson?"

"No, it's not like that. It's…" she squeezed her eyes shut. How to describe it? The words that came to her sounded too melodramatic. She searched for something more reasonable, but nothing came. She sighed again. "It's as if…some part of me…went away…when…some part of you did. And to…do that…I would feel guilty, somehow."

She heard him exhale in the darkness, and then his hand slid on to her stomach and rested there, warm. "You don't need to feel guilty, Mary. It's not your fault."

She placed her own hand on top of his. "I know that. But I—it just—it's not the same without you."

His arm couldn't quite reach across her, but she felt his palm tug gently on her belly. "Come here," he said.

She did want to snuggle against him and he was willing, so she let him tug her closer. She shifted to lie beside him, still on her back, and now his arm lay across her torso in a loose embrace.

"What do you want?" he asked, his thumb beginning to stroke against the side of her breast through her nightgown.

"No," she protested, starting to pull away, but his arm tightened around her and his mouth was suddenly beside her ear.

"If you really want me to let you go, I will," he said, his hot breath tickling her ear and stirring up new curls of arousal as his low voice vibrated through her. "But I don't think you want me to. You wanted to share my bed. Why do you think you can resist me now when you couldn't before?"

God, something squeezed at his words, and she pressed her eyes closed.

"You have a very high opinion of yourself," she muttered, trying to stay aloof.

He just gave a low laugh and his breath ran over her neck. "Tell me I'm wrong. Be honest." His lips closed over her earlobe and then released it. His tongue traced the sensitive edges of her ear and then darted briefly inside.

She gasped. "Not—fair."

He laughed again. She was clutching at his arm; she let it go. He pressed a soft kiss against her neck and pulled back, releasing her.

"I meant what I said: if you want me to stop, I will."

Her heart was beating faster than before. She let it pound in her chest and noted the matching pulses that echoed further down. She wanted this, but she didn't want to do something that they would regret later. "Why are you doing this, Matthew? You don't have to. If it's too soon—"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't want this to be something that it's not."

"Such as?"

Mary searched for the right words. What was she afraid of? "An escape? You trying to prove yourself?"

He lay in silence beside her for a long moment and then asked, "Would it be so bad if it were those things?"

She frowned at the ceiling.

"Mary, this is going to be long and difficult. I know that. But you held me just now and by the end of it, I felt relief. It's not perfect. It's far from over. But it's the first time since I woke up in hospital that I haven't been completely under a, a—" he gestured with the hand that rested on her stomach, "—a darkness that weighed me down." He held her again. "It's still there…waiting to pull me back under. I can feel it. But for a few minutes, with you, I was able to remember what it was to not feel only that. You reminded me of how much I enjoy just being with you." He pressed a kiss against her temple and he squeezed her waist. Relaxing again beside her, he said, "Yes. It's an escape. I get to focus on you instead of myself. It challenges me to be creative. I look forward to watching you, to listening to you, to feeling you move in my arms. You don't have to do anything, or perform for me, or even agree to let me be a proper husband right now. But if you want a release tonight, it would be my honour to help you—" with these words, his hand drifted down to rest tantalizingly close to where she ached, his fingers lightly brushing but never quite settling down, "—achieve it."

Her ear tingled under his onslaught; her neck tingled as his breath ran across it; her inner muscles squeezed and released; she felt her heart starting to pound again. Oh God, he still could do this to her, and he wanted to. She felt tears well up without warning and she quickly covered her face with her hands, one of them bumping hard against him as she pulled it out from underneath his arm. Her shoulders shook, once. He'd pulled back initially with a gasp of surprise when she'd hit him, but a moment later she felt his arm come around her again, and he rested his forehead against her temple.

"What's wrong, my darling?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she sobbed, then laughed. "Nothing at all."

"Then why are you crying? Is it something I said?"

She just broke into another laugh-sob and shook her head under her hands. A moment later, she dashed away her ridiculous tears and rolled to face him, pressing her mouth against his and cupping his face in her hands. She poured all her crazy, conflicting emotions into the kiss, which she hoped at least conveyed to him that she loved him terribly, even if she was a blubbing mess. After a few long moments, he broke away with a breathless laugh, although with a slight frown on his face.

"That's a yes, I take it?"

She laughed against him. "You maddening, beautiful man."

He hummed in response and initiated the kiss this time. She made a small sound of contentment and felt herself begin to relax into his embrace, until he cupped her bottom and gave it a teasing squeeze. She pulled back with a gasp, smiling.

"As charming as this is," he said, pulling at her nightgown and bunching it up on her thigh while the rest of it stayed anchored beneath her, "it's dreadfully in the way."

"Fine," she smirked, and rolled out of his embrace. She made quick work of removing her nightgown and pants, then slipped back under the covers. His resulting silence and stillness gave her pause, however. She frowned. "What is it?"

"It's just so strange…to kiss you, to look at you, to recognize how beautiful you are, and to feel no answering desire for you," he said. "Don't misunderstand: I want you a great deal. I've missed you terribly and this…" his arm slid around her again, holding her loosely against him, "…this is so nice. But it's just…peaceful and contented. I don't feel an urge to take you."

"Do you miss it?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course I miss it," he answered, his face twisting. "But not in the same way as I would have missed it before. Not like in—not like when we were apart. I miss it like an old memory. Not quite. But something like that. Like when you miss a favourite part of childhood, but since you don't feel like a child anymore, the missing it…feels more distant?" He shook his head. "I'm making a real dog's breakfast of this, aren't I?"

"I don't know," she answered. "They're not my feelings you're trying to describe. But you are talking more than I expected you would."

He laughed. "Fair point, my lady."

"I told you—"

He silenced her with a kiss, then rose up on his elbow and rolled slightly to bring her underneath him. She felt his leg fall on to her own, and then she smiled as he broke the kiss and bent his head down to kiss her throat. A small moan escaped her.

He hummed in satisfaction. "Your servant," he murmured.

"No, you're not," she managed, as she felt him pull back slightly—and then felt his hand close over her breast. Both breasts suddenly ached to be held, massaged. God, it had been months. It was always like this: months of waiting followed by intense relief at being together again. Her body briefly looked forward to being filled and then—then she remembered, and mourned, and closed her eyes, and let herself enjoy his touch in this moment, and gasped when his fingertips teased her nipple, plucking softly at it.

"Let me be," he answered. "I enjoy it."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him while she squirmed under his touch. Although his features were in shadow, she could tell by the shape of his cheeks that he was smiling.

"Very well, Crawley, get on with it, then."

He mock-growled and tickled her. "No, not like that."

She squirmed. "You presume to dictate to your lady?"

"You. are. not. going to rush anything."

"Some 'lady' I am," she groused, watching him shift his body.

"The best kind," he replied, and made her hiss and arch against him when he closed his mouth over the other nipple without warning and sucked on it. His mouth released her and he laughed.

She groaned and resisted the urge to lift her hips. "It's been months, Matthew, and unlike you, this isn't a distant memory for me."

"That's what I'm counting on." He'd moved further down, shifting his legs and pausing, and she lifted her head to watch him. He made a thoughtful noise.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Whatever it looks like I'm doing," he answered, placing a kiss near her belly button. He pushed the covers to the foot of the bed. The room was a comfortable temperature, so she didn't mind, but she had imagined somewhat more tame lovemaking, not whatever this was turning into.

She frowned. "Be careful of your line," she said.

"I am. I've had one hand on it to make sure it's still loose," he replied. "Don't worry about me. Lie back."

She raised an eyebrow, although there was no way he could see it in the darkness. "And think of England?"

"If you like..."

His hand parted her legs and she dropped her head, feeling the anticipation building tension in her body. An achingly pleasurable tension, but still. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he was doing as he moved around her, but his movements were unfamiliar as he worked out how to shift his own body and hers. What was he doing? He'd lifted her leg to lay it across what felt like his chest, but then he'd twisted underneath her and she wasn't sure what he was trying to do.

"...but I'd much prefer you focused on this," he said, and she felt his tongue run along the inside edge of her sensitive folds.

She tensed in surprise and pleasure and he laughed. "That's my girl."

Her breath caught and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find something to do with her hands. Clutching the bed sheets seemed as good an idea as anything. She wanted to tighten her entire body in response to the pleasure he was giving her. She wanted to straighten her legs, but she didn't want to press on him too hard with the leg that he'd draped over himself, so she forced herself to stay relaxed and endure the exquisite torture he was inflicting upon her. Arousal was coiling her into a tight spring and he was leaving her no recourse for relieving its mounting pressure.

"Matthew," she finally moaned.

He continued his attentions a moment more and then pulled back.

"Yes?" he inquired in the blandest, most innocuous tone, as if he were reading his paper over breakfast. She suppressed a smile, easily able to picture the studied innocence of his expression.

"This is torture!"

"Good."

"Matthew!" she ended on a squeak, caught by surprise mid-word when his tongue flicked the whole length of her, ending farther up than before. He'd been holding back.

He laughed in a low voice.

"Please," she gasped.

"I hear and obey, my lady."

She growled and lifted her leg up when he pushed on it, still laughing.

The time it took him to return to her side gave her a chance to restore some balance to her body, tensing and relaxing, drawing in a few steadying breaths. She opened her eyes and watched him, looking for opportunities to help. He batted her hands away.

"I'm fine," he said. "Relax."

He settled back up beside her. "Now. Where were we?"

"Here, I think," she murmured, and kissed him, smelling some of her own scent on his lips. "You seem to have energy."

"You inspire me," he smiled. "Speaking of which…" He slid a hand down to rest on her abdomen. "Are you ready?"

"Oh yes," she answered, bending her knees and lifting her hips in anticipation. He leaned down and smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips as he slipped a finger inside her. She moaned into the kiss and pressed her hips up against his hand. He continued to move his finger, stroking her, and she broke the kiss and arched her head back.

"You were ready," he observed with a smile in his voice.

She couldn't do much more than moan in agreement at that point.

"Go ahead," he murmured in her ear. "Touch yourself."

"What?" her eyes flew open.

His finger slowed. "Well, I don't have three hands. You'll need to help."

She'd never done this in front of anyone before, not even him. She froze a moment. They'd tried many different positions when he'd been home on leave and his attentions had always been enough for her. She'd never needed to help things along. She thought that was only for when she was alone. She thought he preferred it that way.

"You…you don't mind?" she asked.

"Why would I?" he asked, drawing out his finger to rub it where he intended for her to touch, leaving her wet and gasping and clutching the sheets again. "I've dreamed about watching you do this."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "You have?"

He laughed. "I freely admit to imagining all sorts of things. It was a nice pastime. I was very much looking forward to seeing you again."

She giggled. "Me too."

He shifted down her body a short way and she lowered her legs so that his hand could get a better angle as he slipped his finger inside. He briefly withdrew, teasing her for several long moments before he re-entered. Her breath caught; her eyes closed. She felt curiously exposed and still reluctant to touch herself, but he pressed soft kisses against her skin, stroking her slowly and waiting for her until she relented. He lifted his head away when she did, to watch her, she supposed.

She put his interest out of her mind and focused on following her body's instructions. It was curiously heightened, to do this while also feeling his movements inside her. She felt the pressure building more quickly than she had expected and she drew in a breath, losing herself in the sensation. She hissed and writhed a moment later when she felt him licking at her nipple. He hummed appreciatively against her skin and the sound tightened her and she moaned, then shuddered, pulsed, and rode the sensations until she finally sighed and relaxed, limp and satisfied.

Matthew pressed his lips to the side of her breast and pulled out of her gently. She heard him give a small breath of a laugh.

"That was different," she sighed after a long moment. It had been more intense than she'd expected it to be.

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"Quite," she answered, feeling sated. He pulled himself up beside her again and when she felt his face near hers, she opened her mouth to answer him with a sleepy kiss.

"Good." He sounded satisfied with himself. She smiled and shook her head wryly.

She opened her eyes when he twisted away from her and reached for something near the edge of the bed. She frowned in confusion until she saw him drying his hand with the handkerchief that she'd given him earlier. He rolled himself back to her, pulling his legs into a stable position, and she matched him, pressing her back against his warmth with a sigh of contentment.

"And you?" she asked.

"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her, his hand cupping her breast in a familiar embrace.

"What?"

"…but when the desire cometh, it is the tree of life."

"You certainly seemed to blossom," she observed. He laughed and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, nudging aside her braid, then relaxed back again behind her. He shifted his hand to rest on her arm, his wrist now lying comfortably between her breasts.

"I'm beginning to think that we can make this work," he said.

"I'll say." She smiled.

"I just needed to succeed at something."

She frowned. "You've been doing well at physio, they said."

"It's not the same," he answered. "The whole reason I'm there is to learn to cope with this. I can never forget while I'm there."

She was discomfited by this idea. She did not want the weight of helping him to forget his disability; she was afraid she wouldn't be able to maintain it, and the prospect of disappointing him made her dread the day when it happened. Would his spirits sink even lower than they had before? And what would possibly be left that she could use to lift him out? She felt so limited, so overwhelmed by the finality of his condition and her powerlessness in the face of it.

But she would keep going, take each day as it came, and they would make it through until they adjusted to the normalcy of this new life. There was no sense in looking back, so she must look with clear eyes at the present and plan for the future, for they would have a future. Her mind started to turn over possibilities. Forgetting was not a viable strategy for him; she must turn his attention towards accepting his new life and even embracing its potential. Without the need to plan for children, what could they aim to achieve instead? Although they could spend the rest of their days at Downton, she didn't think he would thrive in a life of leisure.

Perhaps they could work together in some fashion? A charitable foundation? The thought of spending the bulk of her time on charity did not hold much appeal for her; Mary discarded that idea for the time being and turned her attention to what might lie beyond it. Aside from being some rich man's wife and raising a family, she had not given much thought to her future before; there hadn't seemed much point to it. Sybil was the one with all the dreams and ambitions. Even given all her experience managing the Downton hospital, Mary wasn't sure she wanted to be a working professional. The war had opened up many opportunities for the women left behind, but that was for the lower classes, not her kind of people. She did envy those who had something worthwhile to do with their days, however. She'd admired Matthew for continuing to practice law after he'd moved to Downton, although he hadn't needed to.

She paused. He might not have needed to continue working for his daily bread—her father had provided Matthew and Isobel with Crawley House and a regular stipend upon their arrival, of course—but Matthew had needed to continue working for other reasons. Those reasons hadn't made sense to Mary at the time, but now she could see that his work had provided him with more intangible benefits. He still clung to a sense of pride at being middle-class and working had enabled him to maintain the illusion.

No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't an illusion to him. And if she were to be honest, she reminded herself, it wasn't an illusion to her, either. He would never become the earl now. Matthew might be her husband, but he still was not a member of the aristocracy. Also, he was not the sort of man to take advantage of her father's generosity, even with a serious disability: Matthew wanted to provide for himself and his family. He wanted to be useful and he wanted the stimulation that work afforded his mind. He enjoyed his work. There was no reason he couldn't continue it in some form, she thought. It wasn't as though he'd made his living as a manual labourer before the war. Although he might not be able to return to his old job, exactly, there was nothing wrong with his mind. Surely there was still some sort of legal work he could do.

But perhaps not in Downton, or even Ripon, she realised with a certain sadness. Rural Yorkshire was not exactly a thriving centre of economic activity, in need of someone who specialised in industrial law. He'd been fortunate to secure a position with a firm on such short notice when he'd arrived at Downton. She'd visited the firm's office once, after he'd left for training, to deliver some paperwork that he'd forgotten to return in the flurry of activity before their sooner-than-anticipated wedding. She could have put the paperwork in the post, but she'd also needed to sign some things for his employers as she was his new next-of-kin. Messrs Harvell and Carter had been kind and solicitous and they'd spoken very highly of him then, but Mary was not sure they would be in a position to take him back now.

She sighed and frowned, looking towards the curtains. Dawn was only a few short hours away and it was not long before Anna would be in with a tray. Their day would begin; he would go to physio after breakfast. That would leave Mary with a couple hours before lunch. She needed to talk with someone about her ideas before broaching the subject with Matthew. She wanted to be prepared, to anticipate his objections and have answers for them. Perhaps she could speak with Granny, or her father…yes, her father would suit.

Satisfied with having arrived at a plan, Mary shifted on to her back to kiss Matthew good-night. She paused and smiled when she realised his eyes were closed and his breathing was even. He had finally fallen asleep.

---

Author's Notes

Excerpt taken from "The Cat That Walked By Himself", by Rudyard Kipling, 1902.

Biblical excerpts taken from Romans 8:28, Proverbs 13:12; King James Version.