October 1918

Mary would occasionally watch Matthew sleep, check on him in the early days and months after he had come home. He had his own privacy, the sitting room have being made up as a sick room. She'd quietly check on him unbeknownst to him at night.

One such night she had witnessed him waking from a nightmare. He was jarred awake so suddenly that she nearly had jumped out of her skin. But he hadn't noticed her at first. Slowly he came around, not asking what she was doing there.

He had told her he had dreamed that was trapped. He often dreamed that he was, when he wasn't seeing their faces. He didn't tell Mary that last bit. "I always feel that."

She assumed that he was still talking about the dream, recalling that he had been buried under debris for hours. She did not ask about it. She let him talk.

"I lost my cool for awhile there. I suppose I was concussed." He pulled a slight frown.

"It must have been terrible." He didn't have to talk about it if he didn't want to but he continued.

"The whole time I thought the Germans were coming to get me, that I revealed my position, and that was going to be my end. Turned out it was just William. He saved me twice."

"And for that I'll for ever be grateful." She grabbed his hand and this time he didn't flinch away.

"As will I." He fell quiet then, his brow knitted together. "They're saying the war could go on for another year."

"Let's not talk about that now." She interrupted. He squeezed her hand in agreement, or was he doing it to make sure she was real? Don't be ridiculous. He's just exhausted.

But this exhaustion was nothing new. Was this what he'd been hiding from her?

The nightmares were becoming worse, she felt, or at least been unable to sleep, when his friend Private Hawkins came to visit.

He had brought up the war at dinner, that Matthew had saved his life. Before he could go into further detail, Matthew cut him off, excusing himself from the table, that he was not feeling well. Hawkins hadn't meant any harm, she was sure, but her father had been right. It wasn't the place to bring up such things.

She had come to his bedroom later. He had sent Hawkins away, demanding that he leave.

"I don't know why I was ever friends with him. I guess the war hides who people are." His voice sounded a bit distant. The men I was friends with weren't really, at least we wouldn't have been outside the war, apart from Patrick."

"I can't quite picture that."

"Did you have friends growing up or did you drift apart?"

"I was too mean and self absorbed."

"I can quite picture that." She pulled a scowl. "That was my first impression when I first met you. How incredibly wrong I was." His grin was hiding a laugh.

She smiled, having to look away as she felt the flush of warmth rush to her cheeks. "What about you?" She shrugged her shoulders. Clasping her hands together she placed them in her lap. "I'm sure you had all sorts of friends."

"I was bullied." She looked at him, unbelieving. "When I was away at boarding school." He had barley talked to anyone, just in the background, looking for trouble, he knew he'd get away with. An all boys school which had made his encounters with girls awkward later on. He felt his relationship he used to have with the mother had contributed to it. He thought he had felt alone then. He didn't regret his parents sending away, they wanted him to have the best education. The only thing he regretted was not spending more time with his parents, especially his father. It must have been hard, sending their only child away. No where near sending your only child to war. "They called me creepy Crawley."

"They didn't! How ghastly of them. If I were to come across any of them..."

"It doesn't matter now. Most of them are probably dead." Died in the war, or were still dying. He imagined that Lenny Hawkins would have been one such bully. War covers up who you were or who you are. There was an arrogance and pleasure that he had failed to see. He had discovered that Lenny was taking credit for what other men, greater men worth a thousand of him had done. No one else knew the truth, he didn't even confront Hawkins about his discovery. And then Hawkins had the nerve, painted him as a hero, for taking human life.

When Private Lenny Hawkins, (Matthew had called "Yank" affectionately, once upon a time and had caught on with the rest of the regiment) had come to Downton, he had brought with him a reminder of the darkness of Matthew's past, a dark part of himself he'd rather forget.

Monsters are real. They look just like you and me. Sometimes you are the monster. What had possessed him to save a person like Lenny Hawkins, a person like that was allowed to survive when so many honorable men, worth a thousand of him had died? If he were to decide now, who lived or died, Matthew thought, he'd be more of a monster than he already was. It was different in war.

"I can't believe we haven't met any of your friends till now." Cora said.

"You haven't met any of them because most of the are dead."

"Matthew here, is too modest with himself. He saved many as he could. He saved me. A hero just as much as his dear batman was. Captain Crawley, he raised his glass, he was left tenant then. He took down some Jerries rather than letting them take me prisoner. One of them wasn't wearing a helmet and..."

"Excuse me. I'm rather not feeling well." Matthew was already making his withdraw from the table. Robert was shouting at Hawkins, that it was inappropriate to bring up at a dinner table and in front of women, "especially my cousin, he's been through a great deal."

He had to get to somewhere private, he could feel the anxiety gripping him like cold icy fingers. Feeling he was not going to make it, he slipped into the linen closet, blissfully big enough to maneuver his chair in and out. He gripped the shelf, breathing deeply in and out, willing himself to calm down. A flood of tears suddenly steamed down his face, his body shaking. As soon as they had come, they suddenly stopped. He had nearly recovered himself when the door squeaked open. He jumped about an inch in his chair.

O'Brien was standing in the doorway, her hand full of linens. Why else would she need to be in here? Unless she had heard him? Her eyes were wide for a moment, as if looking at a ghost. Then the dark brown pools seemed to smooth out.

"My brother had it." She spoke with a voice that sounded foreign. "The shell shock. He was my favorite brother in fact...I was his favorite sister. If there's anything Mr. Crawley..."

Miss Hughes cleared her throat, standing behind O'Brien, in the hallway.

"Never mind for now. O'Brien. Thank you." He quickly recovered to cover for her. There isn't anything. He wheeled out past them as they made room for him.

"I was asking Mr. Crawley if he needed anything. He seemed a bit exhausted you see..."

"And that is Bates' job, not yours. He would ask if he needed..."

"...I doubt you have an experience in such matters." He heard their voices drift off in the distance.

Mary had gone to check on him, and annoyingly so, Hawkins. She couldn't shake him, deciding it was the best way for him to apologize. The usually all forgiving and charming Matthew, wouldn't except it.

"I want you gone." He said to Hawkins, outing him, for having taken credit for other soldiers. "Get out."

"Fair enough. It's clear I've already overstayed my welcome."

Now as she lay by his side, he didn't protest that it was inappropriate, running her fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes, the thought of the war and William, and the other ghosts that haunted him, receded from his thoughts. He began to wonder what the future held for them. Would there be any peace?

Later that night the whole estate had lost power. He and Mary had been sitting up by the fire. He wheeled over to where the candles were.

The bunker was plunged into darkness. The light of the candle had flickered out. "Damn. Light a candle, Crawley. Can't see a bloody thing." His soldier servant cursed. The table shook. Clark had run into it or it was from the vibration of the continuous shelling.

As Matthew grabbed the candle, he tried not to think of the cold waxy hand, that had been attached to an arm but nothing else, a Saint medal, in it's curled fist. The owner's prayer had been answered. He couldn't say the same for himself. As the dirt rained down on the roof of the bunker. With the layers of dirt and vibrations it would be any moment that it could collapse. Shuddering, he forced the memory back into the black depths.

He was here. That was then. That was now. The hand is gone. He's gone. The person he had been was dead and buried.


He was buried under rubble. This would be his grave. He could feel the vibrations of the ground beneath him as the shells exploded. He couldn't quite hear them. He thought he had gone deaf but he was just concussed.

It was hours he lay there before he was found.

He awoke in the dark, almost having pitched himself off the bed. His cot, in the bunker. It had all been a dream. There was still screaming around him. He thought it must be him.

It was some time before he realised that he was home, at Downton, that he hadn't screamed, for no one came pounding on the door to see if he was alright. And yet the cries were still so vivid, so real in his mind, rang in his ears for several minutes.

He rung the bell. He hadn't been asleep for long, he soon discovered. It was nearing nine-thirty. Wanting to sit up a bit he asked Bates to be sat up to his chair, telling him to come back in about a half hour. He had a bit of writing to do.

Mary knocked on the door. She was seen in. She saw that Matthew was at his desk, hovering over what she thought could only be 'lawyer business.'

"I'm sorry if I startled you." She said.

"No. Not at all." He half turned, happy to see her. "Coming to check on me twice in one night. Won't the others think we're up to?"

"Let them think all they want. The power should be back by morning." She paused for a moment, not sure what to say next. She had to think of something, not wanting to lapse into this dreaded silence again. What was he still doing up? Couldn't he sleep? Perhaps the power outage had reminded him of being alone, in a dark bunker with nothing but candle light. The thought of him writing his many letters to her that way warmed her heart. "You haven't been to bed? Are you ill?"

"No. Quite well."

"I can tell that you're troubled. You've been having nightmares?"

"Once or twice. Not really bad ones." It was a lie. A lie she didn't notice. He had to, constantly lie. Pretending to be someone was a form of lying wasn't it?

"You never told me what it is you did, in the war. All those secret missions with the Colonel. If there are confidences that you can't break, I'll understand." She would avoid the graphic parts of the war, that seemed to trigger this nervousness in him. But perhaps if he could open up about this, it would be a start.

"It's not confidences, not exactly. More how you would think...what you would think, how you might react."

"You can say anything to me. I won't be shocked."

"You might be." He smiled but had a bit of uncertainty in his voice. "I know you won't."


December 1918

A few weeks before her mother's death, they had attended a Christmas church service. The chorus song Silent Night. It had been very moving to Matthew, and had touched him in a way Mary never seen. She had turned to him in concern, seeing the tears well up in his eyes. She asked if he was alright.

"Very much!" And told her of the soldiers, Christmas of 1914, singing this song for a night of truce, how he wished he could have been there to see it. "I wonder if our Christmas's will ever be the same."

"They will be. One day." She added, not wanting to jinx it. But over the holiday season her mother was taken by the flu and two years later, her sister, in childbirth.

"Maybe now, we can have a little bit of peace."

Their Christmas's wouldn't be much of a joyous celebration till they started a family of their own.


May 1919

He and Mary had temperately parted ways, after Cora's death, (Matthew had felt himself responsible for it. When he refused Cora's request to call of the engagement she had seemed to get worse) and with Mary telling him about Pamuk, it had been for the best. He'd let Mary sort things out. They were taking it a step at a time, so to speak. He was still using crutches, just to stand. He needed the chair still. He'd give her time as she had given him. It won't be much longer. He thought. Even if she doesn't want to be with him, he still wanted her in him life and he was sure she'd agree. That's just the doubt talking. It might take a while longer to recover. In a few more months, they would see if he could move on to braces and sticks before he could move on to one and not need the braces at all. He envisioned walking with her back down the aisle.

Sometime next summer or spring. He hadn't discussed it with her yet.

It was a nice day with a slight breeze and warmth. They were holding a fair with music, a live band, for the soldiers in the village. The music was faster and up beat. He would have a hard time dancing to. He'd fall over. Mary protested it didn't seem fair, that he should miss out, she could suggest they play something slow, but he urged her that it would be alright.

He found a bench and parked his chair next to it, watching the people in the distance.

"Excuse me, is there anyone sitting here?" A voice brought him back to the present and he opened his eyes, squinting against the sunshine, to see a woman clad in mourning clothes, her face shrouded in a black veil. She wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last. Soldiers were still being found, the missing declared dead. There could be some more widows for a time to come. Matthew had a hard time looking at them at times, their melancholy always entered his soul, making him depressed, reminding him of his own mortality. His self doubt hovering to the surface. He might never have a wife that would dress in black and mourn for him. But they would mourn for him. No. He'd wait for Mary and she had done. He reminded himself.

The woman moved out of the glare of the sun allowing him a better look at her. She appears to be in her twenties, early thirties, her face pale, and hazel eyes that looked at him with confidence.

"No. Not at all."

She sat down on the bench next to his wheelchair. "I'm sorry I disturbed you. You looked so peaceful with your eyes closed." She was talking to him as if he were a normal person, giving him a fleeting smile, before she was drawn to the children, listening to the live music. "The band, they play very well."

"They're a local group. They play here from time to time." He said. He turned his head so fast, he caught that she was looking at him. Embarrassed he averted his gaze but not before he saw her smile at him again.

She lifted her veil. The freckles didn't distract from her pretty face. He'd say she was attractive if his heart didn't still belong to Mary.

"Kate Graham."

"Captain Crawley. I mean Matthew. Matthew Crawley." He corrected himself at once. He was already awkward in her presence. He was with any woman. It had always been that way. But it was different with Mary. With her it came easy to him. But even now, there was sometimes an awkward silence between them.

They continued a polite and a bit more relaxed conversation about a few minutes, about the music and floral displays but not about the war.

"I've spent rather a lot of time in doors recently. I mean shut in, in my Uncle's parlor, receiving visitors. It's lovely to be out here for a change, in the fresh air, to feel the sun on your face." She said, closing her eyes, breathing it in as she rubbed her arms as if to rub in the warmth of the sunshine. "Well, I must continue on my way, enjoy this lovely day."

"Would you mind if I accompanied you, Mrs. Graham?" He felt a pleasure in this attention, but still a bit hesitant, aware of the acute solitude.

"Yes, I'd like that." She lowered her veil again and stood up from the bench. Instead of offering to push his chair, she waited. He wheeled beside her along the pathway, they both commented on the children and their nannies scolding them while the mothers, well dressed sat on the benches, physically and emotionally detached from them. "I could never be like that." She said.

He tried to decide on her character, what her life was like. Childless. He can tell by the attentive way she observes the them. He knows that longing. Children he might not be able to give a woman.

"My husband was killed at Mons. That was last year. I'm here for my cousin. He was gassed there."

She had her time to grieve. She was looking for a potential replacement. Even if she did still want him, he wouldn't be that. It was clear she wanted children someday. What woman wouldn't? He had to shut this down. It would hurt her when he told her of his partial paralyses, (it had been polite of her not to ask) she'd say sorry, I had no idea and be on her way. But he couldn't help but get the feeling that she was showing genuine interest. The thought of anyone else possibly wanting him than Mary should be a complement. This would hurt him a lot more. "I injured my back in Amiens." He said to deter her.

She didn't react to that with shock or pity. She had probably been a nurse in the war or perhaps too numb by her grief to.

"It's been a really difficult recovery. I would have given up if it weren't for my fiance."

"She's very lucky." She meant it but he also detected a hint of disappointment. "Well, thank you for your company Captain but I must be heading home and face the sorrow once more."

He wanted to reach out to her, tell her that it would pass, even if it were a lie. "Do you wish me to accompany you further?"

"No. Thank you, all the same Captain. My Uncle lives just there." She pointed to a row of houses. "It was lovely meeting you."

In other words, they would not see each other again. A chance meeting of strangers.

At breakfast the next morning, the paper was brought up with his meal. The paper was a few days old but it didn't matter. It'd preoccupy his time. He turned to the advertisement section and came across one that read,

Nurse in need of husband.

Soldier must be blind or missing limbs in need of care.

Contact Mrs Graham

227 Broad Street

York

It couldn't be a coincidence. He couldn't be someone's replacement. But he was trying to be, in a different way. The Matthew Crawley that was, would never be again. Him had Mary and that was more than enough. 5th June of 1920, they were finally married. Their long awaited happiness.

October 1920, four months, is the longest he's been without any episodes or nightmares. He doesn't have to hide. They went out to dinner for the first time, in public. There were some stares but it wasn't uncomfortably so.

He did not believe himself to be the romantic type. He thought himself more quite romantic about ideas, philosophy, law, art, music and a lot of other such things of his interest. She thought him too hard on himself. He was always like that. He was not just romantic in looks. He was so much more to her.

After his second proposal in 1916, they had dinner on the balcony of his hotel room, he had told her, "You and I are the only ones who make sense. I've never been able to talk to anyone the way I talk to you. Isn't that the way it's suppose to be?"

She had nodded, "I should hope so."

His eyes had flickered up to her, just as they did now. Her eyes spoke to him as much as her lips.

Mary found it strange that he was staring at his lips. Then again Matthew Crawley was ever hardly normal. That's what she loved about him. He was like no one else. Anyone in his position would have given up. She was so proud of him. It was hard to imagine that more than half a year ago, it was still uncertain how much he would be able to walk then, where he was now, how far he had come. The first time he'd been able to stand, it had been October of 1918. She had caught him in the Great Hall, listening to a record. Miraculously he had stood up from his chair, albeit shaky legs. As he had grabbed onto her they gradually steadied. Seemingly a miracle. Doctor Clarkson had said that it was nothing short of one. That he had been partially wrong in his diagnoses.

Matthew had had secretly been practicing to stand, with Bates's aide. He had wanted it to be a surprise to Mary. And he had wanted to avoid telling Clarkson (about the felling that he could stand), in fear of a repeat of before, that it was all in his head. When he had told Mary after Clarkson visit that next morning, she had asked rhetorically if he would go to a doctor if things changed. He had kept his doubts to himself. Even after when they had gone to a different doctor. Doctor Jacobson, a specialist in Leeds.

"He said I could regain some use of my legs." He had said in a tone that warned her not to get her hopes up. "And that's with a lot of hard work. It'll be an interesting challenge."

Even then the effort just to stand had been difficult. His upper half had to still compensate though not as much now. But he'd been able to, to dance with her, until his feet had given out. It had taken so long to get here. There was still a lot of uncertainties. There had been far too many in his lifetime. But there were many things to be grateful for. He had come this far! Not a lot of paralytics, even partial ones survived very long. He would make the most of it with Mary. He was far from the man that he was the first weeks of his injury, when he had been deeply depressed. He was out of that long dark tunnel.

He still needed the chair whenever he went out or for long distances. He still had to use two sticks but he didn't bring them with him. He'd look less than a fool having to juggle them around. This was their new normal. And he oddly felt...comfortable with it.

Things were looking bright. But still he felt less of a man in some way. So far he had not been able to give her a child. They could adopt. But then he had thought that due to his condition they might not be allowed to adopt. Who in their right mind would? He mentally shakes it away. He knows he should be grateful for what he does have. He could have died. He could walk, had some of his Independence back. It had seemed like a small rock in a large pond, (he had often skimped as a child. His father had taught him on one of their rare fishing trips) before facing his biggest concern.

Then there was still the question of his sexual life, what that would look like. Jacobson had said that it was possible but rare. He had had more questions about it, that he couldn't discuss with Mary, been too panicked to ask. And then if he had read his mind right then and there, the doctor had asked Mary to step out of the room. "It might take some experimenting and hard work. There's a good possibility that you can regain sensation sexually, given you already have some of it back in your legs. Although it's still a little to early to tell. First you have to focus on rebuilding your strength in your legs and upper body before we can get you walking." There had been no guarantee what that would look like either, not then. The doctor's prediction on how long it would take had been right. A year or two.

Still that foreboding question hung in the forefront of his mind, though Jacobson had wanted him not to worry about 'the rest' "When you're married and your wife is patient for a while, things can go very well. I don't think there should be a probably others wise, with you preforming your manly duties, it'll just take time. What happened to you is a shame but I'm certain you can live a good life, if you're willing to make the psychological adjustments to the limitations you might still have." "Still limited mobility..." "Yes. But I'm optimistic for the best for you."

"What are you thinking about?" Mary asked him, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Nothing of importance." He finished off his glass, starting at it for a moment.

"Are you sure we're not doing this too early?" She was asking if he was truly ready to be out in a more public place. He had been out to the office on several occasions recently and the workshop, Edith and Isobel had set up for the soldiers. Though he had gone only once. It was his first time in a crowd of people, other than the anniversary of the armistice last year, when he and many others had received their own deserved metals presented by the King. That had been different, he'd been around men like him, men that had lost so much.

"It's not my first time being out like this. And I could care less what they think. I'd rather be here with you than in bed all day." He reached his arm across the table, grabbing hers. At first he had felt like everyone was staring at him. He was humiliated to not be walked by. Also he felt frustrated. Going out anywhere was a huge ordeal. Now, she was here with him. That's all that mattered. For the first time in a long time, it feels like freedom. It's freeing. So freeing. I'm more social when I'm in my chair because I'm having to think of less things, he discovers when he and Mary start talking so freely than they had done before, before he had felt so shut off from the world.

She answered and smiled, the amber fleck present when the smile touched her eyes. Replying enthusiastically. Her Matthew was coming back in fragments. Not long now before he comes back completely. For far too long he's been a shell of his former self. His time being fully paralyzed, and having faced certain death every day for three years, it had made him nicer, a little less prickly but still prickly. She adores this new vulnerability. He opened up to her about things about his childhood he had never told her about. She knew his own mother had used to be emotionally void and unavailable as hers but he had always avoided giving the reason why, until now. His mother's own mother had died when she was very young and her father had been distant. "It was obvious her brother was the favored child. Despite all their differences she was only ever close to him." Uncle Teddy. He had died in the Boars in 1902, saving his patience, during heavy battle. His brother that had died, ten years before Matthew was born, had been named after his Uncle. There probably had been more children before him, miscarriages, a stillborn and sickly children. He had been the strongest of them all to survive, hardly sick a day in his life. Now look at him. His mother had to deal with yet another sick child, (an adult child but still her child) well hardly, since Mary had taken charge of things, and since they had married. They had hired their own private nurse. Mother still got that chance to baby him whenever she came to visit or when he was visiting at Crawley House. He got the feeling she was trying to make up for something. "Although I think she did love me...does. She probably just didn't know how, until now."

"You two always gave the illusion that you were close."

"We were starting to. When your father so kindly uprooted us from our quaint city of Manchester, wanting to change our lives."

"Oh, is it his fault then?" She said, teasingly.

"It had just been mother and I for so long. After father died." They had gotten used to it. Just the two of them. A family of their own. "You're lucky to have him in your life the way you do. My father was always busy with his surgery but made time to spend with me." There was always a sadness and longing behind his voice when he spoke of his father, Mary always noticed. It stems from not being there when he died and not spending a lot of time with him.

"Don't be fooled. Papa is almost always tied up with the peerage or the tenants in the village. Appearances aren't everything, darling."

Don't I know it. "They both still found a way." He continued. His father had always done what father's do with their sons. Riding a bike, playing cricket. Two of the things he had loved because of his father. Things I can no longer do. Focus on what you can do. Sybil's words echoed in his mind. He could hardly imagine throwing a cricket ball to his son from a wheelchair. Bonding came in the form of action. A bond between father and son he had with his father, he might not ever have with his own. The image of the boy in his minds eye might as well be a ghost. Ghosts of those who never were sometimes haunted him as much as the ones who had been. Though much less of it now. His father's ghost however, he had never been able to make peace with. He hadn't been there for his father. His father, whom had always been the one there for him. He had been there for his mother after he passed and vise versa but it wasn't the same.. She did nurse him on the rare occasion he had been sick, he had been sent home from boarding school, was always by his side when he'd have nightmares as a boy. But it was his father that had visited him at school. Which was ironic considering he was away at university when his father had been sick, not once coming to see him. His mother had clung to him after that, though he couldn't help but sense that she had been hiding something, that she had blamed him. He loved his mother, who she was now. How could he not forgive her? Life was too short.

"She loved my father dearly but they often disagreed. Maybe...I suppose she was afraid of being loved. Why I was, other than my predicament." She watched him shake his head as if to shake away a thought. "Sounds a bit ridiculous, doesn't it?"

He was trying to shake away the thought of his failed attempts with her, shake away the question if he'd be able to regain full control over it, if he'd truly ever be a man again. He had been able to pleasure her at first on their honeymoon, but a few failed attempt afterwards, it had humiliated him. He had tried not to show it in front of Mary, however patience she was, bless her. It was still early. Jacobson had said. Whatever that had meant. It's going to take some time to get 'him' to wake up. Be inventive. But Matthew was uncomfortable with being inventive, even when Mary was doing things to him and he couldn't feel it. It wouldn't be successful every time. Jacobson had also said. But every time they had tried being successful was far from in-between. He would put sex off of the table, at least for now, and just enjoy the evening.

There are other ways to love.

But he wanted so very much to give her children. There was another way. He wouldn't give up trying, for her. For now it was too much. I'm still half a man. In that sense. (can't even keep your own pecker up for long, just enough to please a woman but not enough to give her your seed. Even they want to run away from ya. Who would want you as a father?) Who's voice is that? It didn't sound like his. He bit down on the hard bread to silence the dreaded voice at the back of his head, and chased it down with a glass of water, drowning it. I've accepted my fate. I've accepted. Why does it still feel like I'm drowning?

It felt like an eternity for Mary to respond. "No. It doesn't. I completely understand." She would. She had pushed him away when he had first purposed. " I don't think my parents went through most of their lives loving each other, not right away at least." She hung her head a moment not comfortable of speaking of love. She could not say such things but show her love and devotion to Matthew. She wanted to show him in other ways too. He had been so embarrassed and devastated the last time. She'd wait till he was ready. There was a lot of waiting in their relationship. There sometimes seemed to be a rift. Sometimes she wondered if it had to do with her dalliance with the Turkish Prince. And if that was sometime the reason behind why Matthew was uncomfortable when they lied together, if he was up to snuff. No man wants to be compared with another man. Then she would tell herself, of course not, you're being ridiculous. That would be the farthest thing from Matthew's mind. He knows it meant nothing. That part of him is taking longer to heal than the rest of him had. What they had didn't have to solely rely on that part of things. She wanted to tell him. She had tried and he wouldn't listen. Oh, I wish he's just listen. How she wanted to box his ears. But she would wait, when he was ready. Their relationship was more than that. They were so much more. Her and Matthew's relationship was deeper than anything she'd ever known, even the love between her parents. But even they had kept each other at arms length. She didn't want that to become that way for her and Matthew.

"They just did what they thought they had to." They hadn't married for love in the beginning but she and Matthew had. The silence between them at times, she feared they were heading in her parent's direction. Her father had been seeing Lady Aldridge, her husband had died of the flu too,(she had a son a bit younger than Sybil, who had survived the epidemic) He swears she is just an acquaintance when had been confronted by it at the New Years eve party by Her, Granny, and Aunt Rosamund. It had come to light that Lady Aldridge's family was Jewish, which her father replied "Cora had a Jewish grandfather". It was a secret to remain between them. The more Mary had seen them together, when they thought no one was looking, it seemed he was showing that woman more affection than he had with her own mother. It's been almost a year since she died. Why shouldn't papa be happy? But that wasn't what this is about. She was going to let her mind get distracted. "I want more than that."

"I know you do..." He grabbed her hands from across the table, but then looked down. "I just haven't figured things out yet." She knew he was referring to that side of things. It infuriated her that he didn't see that wasn't what she meant. Why can't he see that it doesn't matter?

He withdrew his hands and went back to his food. When he looked up for a second he saw that her inquiring expression had turned into a frustrated one. He told himself not to further engage. Instead he leaned back without a word. He didn't want to make a scene in front of everyone. She couldn't well storm out and leave him here. He was not about to let the night become spoiled. "How about we go to Annabelle's." It was the dance school in the village, where all the young debutantes had learned to dance. It also held socials for older couples.

"That does sounds like fun. I haven't been there in ages. Mama took me there to learn how to dance, when I was eighteen, after I was engaged to Patrick."

"Dear old Patty."

"I've never heard anyone call him that other than his mother and even then he'd give her hell for it."

"Yes." He smiled, taking a sip of coffee now. He recalled Patrick relaying the story to him, one night in the trenches, in a far off world. It had been an oddly silent one. The silence could be as deadly as the sound of shell blasts. Not knowing what was coming was the worst trap you could fall under. He tried to picture a young Patrick and Mary, along with her sisters, running up and down the stairs and Great Hall of Downton, to outrun Patrick's mother. "He let me call him that and the officers. I suppose it was an army thing." His head turned as if someone was pulling a string. He was starting to get that far away look in his eyes.

She had to pull the string back before he could go away. "Are you sure you're up for it?"

He turned his head back to her, it seemed he was coming out of a daze. "You worry too much about me."

"Where would we be if I didn't?" Mary said with shrug, a warm smile spreading on her face. "Patrick hated dancing."

"Then that settles it! As soon as we finish here."

They didn't end up dancing too long. Only half a song before he got too tired. He told her she could continue dancing if he wanted. "I don't think I can dance anymore." He had said. "Besides you're young and I'm old." He joked.

Mary did a double take at the other patrons on the dance floor. "The men here are as old as my father and they're dancing with girl's Sybil's age."

"Some people are younger than they look." He seemed out of breath as he sat down in his wheelchair, a few meters away. He had to use Mary for guidance since he didn't have his sticks. She was dreadfully worried, almost frightful, that he was having trouble with his breathing.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Mary, if you ask are you sure, one more time..." He said with a laugh between each breath. "Go on..." he gestured with a hand toward the dance floor. "have fun." His breathing gradually turned back to normal, only then did she oblige. She was dancing with an old gentleman about eighty, who had more difficulty than him, it seemed, when a group of service men walked in. One of them asked Mary to dance.

He shouldn't be jealous. He wanted her to have fun. Another soldier in a wheelchair rolled up to him and they started to talk. It was a relieving weight off his shoulders, though they didn't talk about the war. It was a silent oath. After the song ended, the soldier that was dancing with Mary must have asked her for another one, for she shook her head and pointed in his direction. She came over to him and went around to the back of his chair. Her smile turned into a brief frown, a bit annoyed and relieved, hiding it from behind Matthew's chair so he couldn't see. "Ready to go?" She asked him cheerfully, her smile returned.

When they arrived home, they didn't go inside right away. They stayed outside and talked some more.

"It would be easy to say that you are only limited by what you allow yourself to be limited by, however, living in a wheelchair on and off...even after the war, all those who require one," After all they did serving their country, the disabled get treated like garbage, like their sacrifices had meant nothing. "it does have social implications. In the beginning, every one sees you differently, until you show them that you are still you. I will say that often many look past you, as if not to see you."

"I see you."

"You always do. And haven't I always told you that?"

After a moment, he went on,

"I believe the most common glances are an inherent wish to not offend, hurt, or make to feel inadequate the person in the chair. Those who take their 'able-bodiedness' for granted are brought to an uncomfortable juncture when faced with the reality of someone confined to a wheelchair. They think or try to imagine how we would feel should they suddenly lose the use of those parts of their bodies that are taken for granted. So, I would have to say that it is due to a mixture of sympathy, empathy, regret, fear, and(in some cases) perhaps even anger at the vicarious pain that they feel in response to type of encounter."

"Do you...did you ever think that I was one of them, that I thought that way about you?"

"No. Never." His kiss is like fire. She doesn't want this to ever end. But she did not know how easily he can rebuke those words, that he's accepted it, that he doesn't think himself worthless, when those claws of depression sink their way into him again, just a year later. She'd be there for him. As she'd always been.


"Do you remember the day of father's death?" He was looking out the window, watching the drops roll down."It was a day like this one." He had been coming home from Cambridge when he had received the news. He had stared at the window, watching the droplets as the train steamed down the track. He had been finally going home to see his father and he had just then received the telegram. A young woman had walked up to him, "Telegram for you Mr. Crawley." Imagine a good looking girl approaches you and you think, she has taken interest in you, only to be delivering to you the worst possibly news. The cold loneliness that he had felt revived itself, seeping into his bones. That could just be his old injuries but he doubted it.

Isobel looked at him solemnly. She was glad that he couldn't see her face, being too preoccupied with his thoughts. She watched as he brushed the curtains with the front and back of his hand, as if it were a cat, rubbing it's scent against the fine silk. As a boy, Matthew would always feed the stray cats that would wonder onto their porch, even when they had very little for themselves. Those strays had saved him from being attacked by a dog one day. Isobel had been sorry then for having ever scolded him for skimming their milk and fish Reginald had worked hard catching. That day had struck fear in her, that she was going to loose another child. Then out of nowhere, one by one the cats zoomed, hissing and pouncing with their claws at the unwelcome visitor, who had it's own teeth bared, but at Matthew. The dog had whimpered and scampered off. Matthew was still a little weary and untrustworthy of canines. The thing that had frightened her more than that day, was when he had announced he was going off to war. Even if she had told him about the children she had lost then, it wouldn't have changed his mind. She had to have faith that he'd come through in the end. And he had. But she had only half her son back, not because of his injuries he had sustained, but in his spirit. She felt it. Despite this she had tried to convince herself, he was still her son (he was but not in the way she had known him) that he was wrong, that her son was gone. He had been half right. She would always still love him regardless. She always had. It had taken her husband's death, and many other circumstances to see that. "Yes. I will never forget that day." He did not stir from his position. Their teas seemed to always attract the talk of death, the memories of loved ones.

"Mother, do you still blame me? For his death?"

"What makes you think I..."

"There's something you never told me. What he said. If he said anything."

"He was delirious and in pain, Matthew." He winced at her words. Her tone became soft, apologetic. "He asked for you."

"And I didn't come."

"You were a young man. You couldn't comprehend the severity..."

"Excuses I've been telling myself for years, trying to convince myself of." He put his hand up to cut her off. "Was he...was he disappointed in me? I really need to know."

"No. He would never be disappointed in you."

"You would say that even if he was, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe." She teased, smiling. Then it fell. "I never blamed you Matthew. He would never think that now. He would be so proud of you. Having the strength for what you had to go through. What you're still going through." She reached out her hand. He started to slowly extent his arm across the table but stopped halfway.

"I still ask myself, what if I had died?" He wrapped his hands around the mug in front of him to warm his hands. "I don't want to but but I still do think it, if I'd be better off. But I know what the answer is."

"And what is the answer?" Her heart nearly skipped a beat.

He picked up his mug and took a sip before putting it back down. "No. It wouldn't be better." He took another sip and smiled.

He looked better than he had in months, the past few years. But looks can be deceiving. Depressed people still smiled even though they're sad or distressed. It was so hard to tell with Matthew. With anyone. She could ask if she could get Doctor Clarkson to prescribe him something. They had already been down this road. She knows what his answer will be. He wanted his head clear. He had said. He didn't like the way they made his head feel. Or he didn't trust himself. It was easily to become addicted. As a son of a doctor and nurse he knew this and probably at first hand. If soldiers didn't take to drugs and opiates, they took to drink. Matthew had hardly touched a drop after the war, apart from the occasional meal and a cognac with Robert. And always with those dreaded cigars. Each soldier had their vice. She'd rather it be the cigars.

"It'd be like killing him all over again."

"Who?"

"I can't give your son back to you."

"Matthew, we've been over this..."

He sucked in a breath, running his hands over his thighs. He could barley feel the motion. Why can't she understand. Why can't any of them? Taking his life would not have only left a world of pain for those left behind, and would not only destroy the memory of young William but the memory of Matthew Crawley. "I'm not him anymore, mother."

"I'm sure your father would devise..."

"You're not sure what he wants."

"I know what he wanted. He wanted a life for you. All the hopes and dreams we had for our other children..." Had faded and died with them. "We were so blessed with you."

He turns his head away. The key being were. Past tense. "I know." He muttered softly, inhaling a breath through his noise to cover a sniffle.

"I don't think you do."

"I need to be going know mother. I have a big day tomorrow at the office. I got a major overhauling of the books Robert wants me to go over."

"Do you know what the name Matthew mean?" He stopped in the doorway but didn't turn around. "It means Gift from God." She watches his shoulders go slack.

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Breath on his neck. He wants to hightail it and run but he knows he can't. He couldn't run to save his life. Or anyone's. Even if there had been a German behind him. He had failed to save them. His men. The men he had sent to their deaths. That day when he and William had been injured, everyone of his men had been taken prisoner. They had left him and William. Probably they had assumed they were dead or were good as dead. The Germans had sometimes shot prisoners that couldn't walk. The last few months since opening his old army suitcase and valise he hadn't really thought about it. He wasn't going to loose this battle now.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to turn and face her, embrace her, but he felt if he did, he would crumble. He trembled a bit under her hand but then steadied.

"You are a gift. And a blessing." She continued.

He turned anyway and gave her a hug. "I couldn't do this without any of you."

"I know."

"I've been bloody ungrateful."

"Not unbearably so."

"I'm glad we had this talk."

"Why don't you come and sit for awhile? You've been standing for quite some time."

He went back to sit down. A short time later, Mary came to join them. She talked about King Alexander of Greece was injured by a monkey while walking through the grounds of the Tatoi Palace. They had laughed about it.

"Who expects to be attacked by a money?" She had asked.

"It is to expected since they ought to be common in the area. But the statistics are rare." He was going into his lawyer mode. Isobel decided to leave the room and quietly slipped away. You could easily forget how damaged he was, and at the same time you could see how their relationship was heeling him. How she was healing him. It might take years but one day she will have the rest of her son back.

"I had wanted to travel there one day but now I'm not so sure." Mary continued.

She could lighten any mood, just by her presence. At least to Matthew. They continued on talking about the days events and the months events. Leaving out the bad news of course. Lady Aldridge would be coming to dinner later in the week. A few days before her arrival, October 9th of 1920, Lloyd George held a speech at Carnarvon in Wales that his government would never allow Irish home rule, and that the British government would continue to fight to maintain order. This got Tom in a foul mood for the next several days. Matthew knew Tom's limits and that he wouldn't do anything irrational.

At the same dinner Lady Aldridge would be attending General Strutt would also. The General being against the Irish home rule, seeing them as brutes, Tom had planned to humiliate him by pouring a pot of slop on him, unbeknownst to everyone of course. Anna, Carson, and Miss Hughes had stopped him in time, thanks to a misunderstanding.

By 1922 Tom tells Matthew that he does not believe in types, but in people. He notes that he no longer sees things only in black and white. Nevertheless, he does not consider himself one of the aristocracy."

Matthew thought about what he was saying. Those words rang just the same for him. "If it weren't for Mary, I'd still be seeing things in black and white as well."

"We promised to take on the Crawley sisters together!" Tom patted him on the back. They rest against the bonnet of the car, looking up at the stars. "I always tell Sybie, if she ever feels lost and wishes that her mother was here, I tell her to just look up at the stars and she's not that far behind." He laughed for a moment, thinking it was silly. "Am I barmy or what?"

Matthew didn't think so. "The ones we loose never truly leave us."

They go back to work on the car. Matthew pretended to know what Tom was talking about. Tom knew that he didn't but he didn't mind. He enjoyed the company.