Mary meets them the next morning at the train station. Matthew is still unsteady on the crutches, and looks absolutely exhausted. Isobel, too, looks tired, but also excited. They can see Anna, Daisy, and Molesley off in the distance, carrying luggage and preparing to board the train.
"Shrimpie's chauffeur will meet us at the station," Mary says, quickening her steps toward them. "Then he'll drive us out to the house. Shrimpie says that the house is quite small, but it should be suitable for the three of us and three or four servants. He says a local girl will come to help clean, and otherwise we should be well suited. It's about three miles from the nearest village, and there are horses on the estate."
Isobel nods, absorbing it all. "Sounds like it's more than enough."
"He has been very generous," Mary agrees. She glances over to Matthew and meets his eyes; they are pale and haunted. "Matthew?" she questions gently, although there is no mistaking the fear behind it.
He wobbles a little bit and Isobel steadies him with her hand. "I'm just... remembering leaving from here to go to France. You're not sending me back, are you?"
"No, Matthew, we aren't sending you back," Mary says softly. Her own mind remembers kissing him before he left, and a shiver runs down her spine.
"They can't send me back, I'm not fit for service!" Matthew protests.
Mary and Isobel share a worried glance.
"They know you're not," Isobel says. "We're going up to Scotland."
"Scotland..." Matthew repeats. "Are we fighting up in Scotland as well now?"
Isobel shakes her head. "No, there's no war in Scotland. We're trying to get you further away from the war. You'll never have to go back to France, Matthew. Not unless you choose to. And I doubt you'll choose to for many years yet."
Mary puts a hand on his arm and encourages him toward the door of the train.
"Last time..." Matthew says, his voice getting caught in his throat. "Last time, I was going back to France, and you kissed me. Mother, she kissed me! Mary, why did you kiss me? Did you think it was going to die? Are you sending me off to die now?"
"Of course not!" Isobel says. "Here, let's help you up into the train."
"You're tricking me!" Matthew cries, struggling weakly against Mary's strengthened grip.
Mary shakes her head. "We're not, I promise." She steps up onto the train. "See, I'm going too. And they're certainly not sending me to France."
"I should hope not," he replies, an air of desperation in his voice. "Mother, I..."
"On the train," Isobel says, steadying him as he places his crutches on the narrow step up to the train car. "You'll be fine, just get on the train."
He does, albeit incredibly reluctantly.
Once the train starts moving, Matthew begins to fall asleep. He is exhausted, from recovery and from his lack of sleep the night before. He leans his head against the window, his leg carefully propped up on the seat beside him. Mary and Isobel sit across from him, and watch as his features, if not relax, then become less tense than they are when he is awake.
"I hope this helps him," Isobel says, keeping her eyes fixed on her sleeping son.
Mary nods. "I do, too. If I know him, it will, but sometimes I feel like I don't know him anymore."
"He's not my little boy anymore," Isobel whispers, and though her face is impassive, Mary can hear the tightness of her throat in her speech. "And I know he'll never quite be my little boy again."
"He still loves you though, so much," Mary says. "He always lights up when he sees you, and I know he always is trying to make you happy."
Isobel sighs and manages to tear her eyes away from her son in order to look at Mary. "I know he does. And that's how I know he's still in there, that he can still be brought back. Because he still loves so much."
"I've just been thinking about what happened with Lavinia... he thought she was a German soldier. And then he hit her. I know it was accidental, and he felt so much remorse for it, but I do wonder, would he have done that if he really loved her?" Mary asks. She is almost musing out loud.
Isobel doesn't outwardly respond with shock to Mary's question, but inside her heart constricts. If she needed any more proof that Mary loves Matthew, this is it. Mary, in all her memory, was beyond kind to Lavinia. For Matthew's sake. It was all for Matthew's sake. Mary loves her son so much, and Isobel almost can't reconcile this with the Lady Mary Crawley she thought she knew so well.
But she glances sideways at the young woman on the seat next to her, who is watching Matthew with such an un-Mary-like tenderness that she almost laughs. But no, it is not laughable, and Isobel, despite not enjoying the admittance of error, admits to herself that she has been wrong about Mary's love for her son.
Of course, Isobel can never say anything to Mary. Maybe she can put something in Matthew's brain— give him the idea to pursue something further.
For now, she is simply satisfied with this knowledge; her son is in very good hands.
She takes a deep breath. How does she approach Mary about something like this?
How does she approach Matthew about something like this?
"I think he was, and still is fond of Lavinia. I think she was the type he would have married if he had not become the heir. But I don't think he was deeply in love with her ever. She was a sense of normalcy for him, and I think, deep down, she knew that too."
"And that's why she left so easily," Mary breathes.
Isobel doesn't respond, but silently she agrees with Mary. She studies the young woman next to her. Mary looks older, more mature than she was five years ago, but then again, they all are. She carries herself confidently still, but with a heaviness weighing upon her. And she hardly smiles anymore.
The girl has been through a lot, Isobel reasons. She may be a lady, spoiled and living in the lap of luxury, but her life has had its strife. Including the Pamuk incident.
Isobel wasn't sure what to think of it when she read it. Her immediate reaction was to judge Mary, but she reasoned that she didn't have all the facts and the story was written from a very biased point of view, and meant to sell papers.
However, she is still curious.
She is aware that Mary would rather not talk about it. But before they arrive in Scotland, Isobel needs to clear this up.
"What did Matthew say to you about the story in the paper? About Mr. Pamuk?"
Mary freezes up and Isobel immediately feels terrible for asking, but does not retract her question. "He said... he couldn't judge me for it. Or at least he didn't want to. And for that, I was grateful. He didn't just tell me it was fine, which I think would have made me respect him less. He just said it didn't matter to him; he then talked a whole lot of rubbish about being broken now, but that's about all."
"That's about what he said to me, too. "
"He also said... he was glad to know. Because now he knew why I turned him down before the war. It wasn't money, it was the inheritance. It was because I was afraid to tell him about this, because I feared losing his respect and love, but I didn't feel that I could marry him without telling him."
Isobel nods, with an almost undetectable smile. "He said almost the exact same thing." She quietly appreciates how genuine Matthew is with her.
"And how about you? What is your opinion on my sordid affair, since the whole world seems to have an opinion on it now," Mary asks. It is almost a challenge to Isobel.
"I don't know enough to form an opinion. It's possible it could have been something you chose to do, and my first instinct was to condemn you in my opinion for it. But I remember how you were then; you were an impressionable young girl flirting irresponsibly but not erroneously. And I doubt you invited him to your room."
Mary shakes her head. "I didn't," she says, her voice almost too soft to be heard.
"I'm sorry if you don't want to relive this," Isobel says.
"That's why I'm going to Scotland. To get away from this."
Isobel raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's your only reason."
Mary looks out the window in lieu of a reply.
The train pulls into the station just as Matthew is waking up. His sleep on the train ride up had felt more like unconsciousness than any sort of sleep but at least it had been free of any dreams. He is disoriented when he wakes up, and for a second, he panics.
Thankfully, his mother has anticipated this and she quickly and quietly puts a hand on his shoulder and explains to him where they are and what they are doing there. Otherwise, it would have taken him a few minutes to remember.
Shrimpie's chauffeur is waiting for them at the station; another kindness by him. Matthew half wonders why a cousin he has never met is willing to do all this, giving them a house and arranging everything, but he is very grateful indeed. Scotland, he can already tell, is peaceful. The bright green of the hills contrasts so sharply with the brown that was the trenches; if there is mud, it is not the horrifying stuff of his nightmares.
The drive along the road is bumpy and jolting and certainly not pleasant, and Matthew has a pounding headache by the end of it, not to mention the searing pain in his leg that seems to be his constant companion now.
He is quiet throughout the whole ride. There is little for him to say.
For months, for years even, his brain has been filled with little apart from the war. It is in every crevice of his skin and of his brain; the filth of it cannot be scrubbed away with a bath or a distraction. When his mind was not on the war however, it always went to Mary. Then of course, in a fit of guilt, he would try to think lovingly about Lavinia, but it would always cycle back to Mary once more.
He looks across the car at Mary. She looks tired; he supposes the past month has been hard on her. She is so beautiful though, and he cannot put that thought from his mind.
Maybe it is a bad idea, to be up here with her, and so little else.
But then again, Mary is what got him through much of the war. She diverted his thoughts away from the mud and the death and the hell and maybe she can keep saving him.
Mary certainly doesn't know this, and he doesn't think he'll ever tell her, but she saves him. She keeps him sane, she keeps him calm. He isn't sure what it is about her that does that to him.
Unless...
Maybe he loves her. Maybe she loves him.
No, that cannot be. He loves Lavinia; it was just his guilt and his shame that caused him to send her away...wasn't it? And Mary certainly doesn't love him. She is here to get away from Carlisle and his story, to get away from the judgment and hatred cast her way and he cannot blame her for any of that.
But she doesn't love him.
She might have at one point though.
She turned him down because of Pamuk, because she couldn't tell him, but would she have accepted him otherwise?
Maybe he'll never know.
It doesn't matter now. He's too broken to be a proper husband to her- to anyone.
It's best to let her be happy where she can, and try to muddle through the best he can.
But the thought never leaves him.
Maybe Mary still loves him.
The chauffeur hands Isobel a key to the house as they pull up the drive. The road leading up can barely even be called a road; this is truly a secluded place. The house is not especially large, comparable to Crawley House, which to Matthew and Isobel is space enough. Mary finds it small but says nothing. She is happy to be here, regardless.
Isobel and Mary step out of the car and help Matthew out after them. Isobel keeps a steadying hand on him as they make their way to the front door; the ground is rocky and uneven and Matthew is unstable on the crutches in the best of circumstances. He manages to make it up the few steps to the front door and Isobel opens the door.
The house is dark, musty, and cold. The dusty wood paneling seems uninviting, and it looks as if the place has been unused for years.
"Lord Flintshire wanted to have the whole place cleaned for you but there wasn't enough time," Shrimpie's chauffeur informs them. "The first floor is all cleaned and much of this floor as well, but not right here. Sorry about that."
Isobel shakes her head. "It's no trouble. It's very generous of Lord Flintshire to do all this for us."
The chauffeur nods. "I'll unload your trunks and take my leave; Lord Flintshire has installed a telephone so if at any point you need a car ride anywhere, call him and he will gladly oblige."
"Tell Lord Flintshire how very grateful we are," Isobel says.
The chauffeur nods and takes his leave.
Mary keeps her steadying hand on Matthew as they make their way down the dark hallway to the library. She opens the door into a room with large, pleasant windows. Were it not for the daylight streaming in, the room would be dark and ominous, but as it is, it is fairly pleasant. There are many shelves full of books that have collected dust for years, and this delights Matthew. Whatever different man is inside him now, books are still something he loves.
He sits down on a couch near the fireplace. It is not lit, but he assumes that once it is, the room will be pleasantly warm. Mary helps him, with no small amount of pain, prop his leg up on an ottoman in front of the couch.
Her touch is so gentle that he relaxes into it, before realizing what he is doing. This is wrong, he reminds himself. Mary is not in love with you, she is not here for you, and you should not take advantage of your cousin's kindness. It is kindness, nothing more. You're lucky to have such a kind cousin.
But any mention of luck is a segue into a destructive train of thought about why he is so undeservedly alive while better men like William are in the ground. And then he wonders why he is left here with a shattered leg and a shattered mind. Surely it would have been better for him to die. His dear mother wouldn't have a useless, crippled, and broken son.
Isobel, as if in response to Matthew's thought, bustles into the room. "Unfortunately there's no downstairs bedroom here. Hopefully in a week or two you'll be able to get up the stairs fairly easily. We'll work on it. Until then I'll see if Molesley and someone can manage to bring a bed down and put it in here. It's not especially proper but no one is coming here so it shouldn't matter too much."
Matthew nods, hardly taking in her words, except for the fact that he is a burden yet again.
He can feel the panic beginning to set in on him, and as much as he tries to force it away, to tell himself that he's being silly, there is a sense of suffocation that encapsulates him. He pushes the thought away, but it keeps coming back.
You're a burden. You're a burden. You'll always be a burden. Maybe if William hadn't bothered saving you...
He can't respond. He feels as if he can't breathe. There is nothing inside him but the taunting voices of his deepest fears come true and a mounting sense of panic that he cannot escape.
He can vaguely hear her mother speaking to him softly, can almost see her eyes staring into his, imploring him to come back to her.
Almost.
Instead he hears his mother's frustration and anger at his mental state, can see her desperation and frustration with him and his problems.
He is sobbing now, so exhausted, so overwhelmed, so unprepared to continue on with life.
What a broken mess he is.
In his mind, he can almost hear William... the poor boy talking about how if he died, there would be no one left in the world for his father. Matthew wants to cry out, to protect William, but instead, William protected him. He did not deserve that protection.
He isn't aware of anything anymore except for a pounding headache, a dampness on his face, and a soft hand in his.
A soft hand.
He blinks several times, trying to regain his bearings. But he can't come back alone. He still hears explosions behind him, screams and cries and desperation.
And then a voice. It isn't his mother, telling him how useless he is. It sounds somewhat like...
Like Mary.
"It's alright, Matthew," he hears, and her voice is soothing in the midst of the hell and the death. "You're not in France."
Surely she is lying.
But no, Mary is many things, but she is not a liar. She would not lie to him.
"We're in Scotland, remember? It's just you and me and your mother, and we're going to have lots of peace and quiet up here," her voice says. It is slowly sounding closer, less distant, and Matthew begins to regain his bearings.
He starts shaking, shuddering, but he can see the room around him, see his mother and Mary by his side, and he is not crying for a fear that is simply created by his mind, but he is crying as a release of stress, of grief, of pain.
"Matthew," Mary says. His name on her lips seems almost out of reality, but her face is genuine enough that he knows that this is real. "You're alright."
He manages to regain a little bit of control; the wracking sobs have become soft tears. "I'm..." he begins, choking out the words. "I'm sorry."
"No," Mary says. "Don't be. This is not your fault."
"I wasn't strong enough."
Mary shakes her head and kneels down next to him. "Never say that. If you tell yourself that, you will believe it. And you are strong enough."
He is asleep on the couch when Mary and Isobel finally leave him. He's slept a lot throughout the day, but it's getting late and they figure they might as well let him sleep; his healing body needs it.
"I hope that was just brought on by exhaustion," Isobel says softly. "And hopefully these episodes will start to decrease."
Mary nods. "He just... he was murmuring something about how he was a burden and better off dead. I hate that he thinks that way, it's just awful."
Isobel nods and glances back through the library door toward Matthew. "I just pray we made the right decision."
"So do I, but I think, in time, we'll be proven right. I know he's in there, Isobel. There's been a few times he's talked to me and he's so much like he was before the war and I know he's still himself, despite what he says. He'll smile and laugh with me, make a sardonic joke, and that's how I know he'll get through this."
The unusual earnestness of Mary's answer makes Isobel believe it, too. She has spent the last few weeks almost certain that Matthew couldn't be brought back, having seen so many shellshocked men who got worse, rather than better. But she can't allow that to happen to her son. So she puts her hand on Mary's arm. "Thank you. So much. For everything."
Mary shrugs. "It's really nothing. Coming here, that's for my own protection."
"Can I ask you a question, Mary?" Isobel asks, suddenly spurred by boldness.
"Of course," Mary replies. Her face remains impassive, but her voice belies an uncertainty in her reply.
"Do you enjoy portraying yourself as cold and heartless for the world to see? Because you are anything but that."
Taken aback, Mary steps away. "I'm not sure what you mean."
Isobel is suddenly mortified by her question, but she continues. "No matter what you say, you're not coming here for self-interest. You're here because you care deeply for my son."
Mary shakes her head. "I'm glad I can be of help here, but really, I came here to escape the story. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go and arrange my room."
As Mary walks up the stairs, Isobel presses her lips together and twists her hands. Mary is so difficult to understand, but Isobel has a new need to understand her. Because Mary loves Matthew, she is certain, and she must understand any woman who loves her son.
I was honestly overwhelmed in the best way possible by all the love for the last chapter and that seriously means so much to me! So thank you to all my amazing readers, especially those of you who are sweet enough to let me know your thoughts on the chapter, it makes me so happy! Thank you all, and I hope you continue to enjoy (well... enjoy may not be entirely appropriate for this story at this point but oh well) this story!