Part 3: Alexandrian Nights

(1919-1921)


Introduction

Following the altercation at the Langham hotel, Matthew Crawley was arrested and charged with battery and breach of the peace. He was promptly thrown into prison awaiting trial. The incident quickly became the favourite topic of conversation in London and throughout Yorkshire county. Furthering the escalation of the incident, Sir Richard Carlisle's publications began running stories of the barbarous behaviour of Mr. Crawley and the entitlement of the aristocracy and slandering the virtue of Mary Crawley. To her defense came the likes of Anthony Foyle, Charles Blake, and Evelyn Napier, speaking publically about the character of Mary and the honourable intentions of Matthew. Soon, Mary's image in London was transformed from scandalous harlot to persecuted heroine. Her public appearances with Anthony, Viscount Gillingham bolstered her renewed popularity. As the Great War drew to a close, so too did her cloistered life with Matthew in Yorkshire.

December 20th, 1918

My dearest Mary,

I have written you several times since my incarceration and I, as of yet, have not received a response. I hope the nature of your silence is due to the corruption of the prison and not because you wish not to speak to me after my unforgivable behaviour on that fateful night. But your silence is a result of the latter rather than the former, know that I understand and I do not blame you.

Even I never hear from you again, I just wanted to take the time to apologize to you in writing for the atrocious behaviour on my part that night. Believe me when I tell you that this was not the way I imagined our evening together and I certainly didn't anticipate Sir Richard being there. Of course that doesn't excuse my barbaric actions.

If you do receive this letter, know that I am well and the prison is treating me kindly and with respect.

Yours forever,

Matthew Crawley


January 4th, 1919

Accounts of Mary Crawley

She stepped out into the cold winter air, tugging her coat tightly to her chest as a gust of wind brushed passed her. In doing so she felt the stiff envelope that encased Matthew's letter. She promptly let go of her coat, disdaining to be reminded of his words. They hurt too much. And if she was angry with him for what he had done to himself, to her, to them, that had long since passed and become muddled with other equally unpleasant and complicated emotions. So much so that she deemed it desirable, if not entire necessary, to put it entirely out of her mind.

Yet still, she kept the letter in her coat pocket.

It was late, but not too late considering what life had been for her recently. A series of parties, splendid and endless, which she was the guest of honour at everyone. Every friend she seemed to have lost following the Pamuk scandal seemed to come together, following the inspiring leadership, courage, and oratory of one Tony Foyle, Viscount Gillingham. The aristocracy must stick together, especially now, he would often say.

Vindication at last. And Mary must admit, as she breathed in the icy air of the winter night, she felt a great sense of relief. As if an insurmountable burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She felt free, truly free, for the first time in a very long time. She had her life back, everything that the war and Pamuk had stolen from her. And thinking back to the parties, from before Christmas to after New Years, and dreaming of parties to come, it was time for her to live a little.

"There you are," a familiar voice came from behind her.

"Charles," Mary said as she turned to look at him.

"Getting some fresh air? It's quite chilly out here," Charles Blake remarked.

"No, it's getting late, I was just about to leave," Mary said.

"So soon?" Charles asked. "Was the party not to your liking?"

"No no no, it was wonderful," Mary replied. "They have all been wonderful, truly. I never thought I'd live like this again. I am truly grateful. But it seems, I'm not quite as spritely as I once was."

"I hope we haven't tired you out," Charles said in a concerned manner.

"Certainly you have, but don't let it trouble you. I had so much fun and I'm very much looking forward to other events. Just not tonight…" Mary explained.

"Well, I suppose that I should be thankful that you are not leaving with Tony tonight," Charles said.

Mary didn't immediately answer, unsure of what he was insulating.

"I didn't… I meant… that is to say, I only meant…" Charles stumbled over his words.

"It's quite alright," Mary said as she understood what he meant. She found his incoherence a little charming. He was usually so quick witted and sharp. "You boys play nice now."


Accounts of Matthew Crawley and John Bates

His cell was freezing. But he had long since given up his desire for warmth. Besides, it wasn't any colder than it was in the trenches and at least his cell was far dryer. He had been sitting in solitary confinement for around two weeks now. He had spent Christmas and New Years without any human contact, save for the guard who delivered his meals twice a day.

At first it was pleasant, a nice change of pace from the daily grind of posturing and looking over one's shoulder that typified prison life. After all, repeated violent altercations with his fellow prisoners is what landed him in solitary to begin with. He had already suffered a broken arm as a result of these fights. But as the calm morphed into silence, and his peace and serenity changed into a bleak emptiness, he began to reflect on the consequences of his rash actions, his unclear motivations, and his immediate violence responsive urges.

The war was over and he missed the last month of it rotting in prison. He wasn't able to celebrate the end of the war with either his family at Downton or with the men of his regiment. And while he received many letters from the soldiers he fought alongside, all of whom stood behind him for defending Mary, he had yet to receive any word from Mary herself.

He began to wonder if her silence was not due to mere shock of what had transpired but rather a growing sense of disgust. He then realized that while he had told her in grim detail about all of the atrocities he had committed over the course of the war, she had never truly seen it first hand. She had never experienced the soldier in him, she had only seen the uniform. And perhaps, she confused the two.

He was huddled in the corner staring blankly into the dark crevices of the walls when he heard the lock click and the door creak open. In stepped two guards, almost identical in dress and stature.

"Get up," one of them said.

Matthew didn't say a word as he struggled to push himself up against the wall of his cell. The guards shackled his hands and feet before escorting him out.

The walk between his solitary confinement, passed the prison courtyard, and into the warden's office was slow and deliberately drawn out. As if to show by example the force of the prison and its ability to tame any man. Matthew did indeed look broken. He was grown gaunt and his eyes appeared lifeless. Even from a distance, even through his long disheveled hair and his heavy beard, John could see the empty expression upon Matthew's face.

Upon reaching the warden's office, the first thing he took note of and savoured for as long as he could was the warmth from the fireplace. Immediately, life began to return to his fingers and his toes, but so too did the pain of his broken arm. The warden nodded to the two guards beside Matthew before they unshackled him. He then looked at Matthew and with a silent gesture of his hand, told him to sit. Matthew did as the warden commanded.

"Two weeks," he said sternly as he folded his hands across his chest and leaned back in his chair. "That's how long you were in there. I know that people tend to lose track of the days when they are in the hole."

Matthew said nothing.

"How's your arm?" The warden asked as he looked over at Matthew's sling?

Matthew simply looked down at his arm and shrugged.

"You're a tough one…" The warden remarked. "Or perhaps you're just stubborn."

Again, Matthew said nothing.

"They'll kill you, know you?" The warden said. "Those guys down there. They don't care that you're an heir to an estate. In fact, that's just another reason for them to slit your throat. They don't care that you were a soldier. They don't care that you're tough. They'll still kill you."

Matthew simply nodded.

"Good, no more fights?" The warden asked.

Matthew nodded again.

"Say it," the warden demanded.

"No more fights," Matthew said with a hoarse voice.


Accounts of Mary Crawley

Mary hadn't taken more than a few steps down the road before she heard the clacking of footsteps behind her. Normally, she would pay no notice as it was London afterall. But it was late and it was dark and there was a part of her that feared for her safety. But when she turned around, she was greeted with a familiar face that brought both relief and a smile to her face.

"Mary,": Tony said with a pant as he slowed his jog to a small walk.

"Hello again, Tony," Mary replied politely.

"You left without saying goodbye," Tony said.

"I'm terribly sorry about that, I must've forgotten," Mary replied.

"Oh, it's no bother. I hope that neither mine nor Charles' behaviour at the party tonight has put you off," Tony said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I know that we can get… competitive at times."

"Not at all," Mary replied. "In fact, it was rather flattering."

"Can I walk you back to Grantham House?" Tony offered.

"Oh no, that isn't necessary," Mary replied.

"I don't think it would be very gentlemanly of me to allow you to walk yourself home in the dead of night," Tony insisted.

"It's barely 10:30," Mary replied with a giggle.

"Nevertheless, it is quite dark out here," Tony shot back. "And London can be a very dangerous city."

"Nevertheless, and unfortunately for you, I'm not heading home," Mary said.

"You have a very low opinion of my character," Tony replied with a grin.

"You've made your intentions perfectly clear," Mary said.

"I know I may have been rash in asking for your hand in marriage," Tony said apologetically. "And I understand your hesitance in giving me an answer but your reputation has been cleared and the public loves us together."

"How do you know I love you?" Mary asked curiously.

"Well, give it time," Tony said nonchalantly.

"Quite confident," Mary remarked.

"You don't like that?" Tony asked.

"I don't believe that's what I said," Mary said with a smirk.

"Please, do me the honour of letting me escort you to your next party at least," Tony said as he held out his hand.

She looked at his hand and then up at him. There was something insufferable about his self-assuredness. Perhaps, it was because it reminded her of Matthew in the early days. Perhaps, it made her angry to think back to those moments and to remember the sweet gentle, and often times, aloof, Matthew that he was before the war. Before the violence and the mayhem and the blood and bullets that had tore his soul asunder.

"I'm not going to a party," Mary answered simply.

"Then if you're not going to another party and you're not going home, where are you going?" Tony asked.

"I'm going to visit a friend."