Those early December days pass peacefully. Assurance, it seems, is a potent remedy for both Mary and Matthew. Isobel sees it in both of them; less fear, less anxiety, more joy. Nothing is perfect, of course. Mary does not leave the house for the following weeks, too afraid that her story may come up again. She says that she prefers the house and has little to do outside of it anyway, but both Matthew and Isobel know differently. Matthew still has his difficult minutes and hours and days, and the nights are never easy. Every night, Mary warns him that she will not come to his room because he needs to be able to sleep alone before they can leave. Every night, she still comes in eventually, his whimpers and cries impossible to resist.
He still insists that they will head back to Downton in the new year, but Mary is not so sure about that deadline. Matthew is doing much better, but there is so much he would have to deal with upon going back, and the convalescent home, still in the process of winding down, could have adverse effects upon his memories. Perhaps she only believes this because she doesn't want to leave this place. Perhaps she is just being selfish.
She does not say anything though. Sometimes she wishes Isobel would speak up, would ask for them to stay a little longer. But her wishes go unspoken and unanswered, and the days hasten on.
Christmas is quickly approaching, and as much as Mary doesn't want to go home, she finds herself missing the hustle and bustle of the holidays at Downton. Despite everything, Christmas was always joyful, and while she's hardly missed her family the past few months sheerly due to occupation, she finds herself homesick. Homesick and yet dreading going home. She can't account for the oddness of it, but it really comes as no surprise that her feelings are insensible. For most of her life, her feelings were entirely absent. Now, she is simply unsure of how to handle them.
Matthew seems to be cheerier as Christmas approaches; even his complaints about how the cold affects his bad leg are tinged with a hint of playfulness, and Mary's heart warms to see this joy in in him. At the first snow of the season, he begs her to venture outside with him. Mary is reluctant but seeing him so excited is enough to endure her to join him.
She stays close by him as they walk out into the snow, afraid that he may slip on the icy steps down. He is eager to move, but she can tell that he is being careful; no doubt he wants to avoid a fall just as much as she wants him to.
The snow has been falling all night, and flakes still gently drift down from the sky, filling in and raising the white blanket of snow that covers everything in sight. Yorkshire rarely gets this much snow, and so both of them are a little in awe of the sight before them. It is not as enchanting as it would have been if they were children, but in that moment, they feel a little bit like children, eagerly awaiting the moment when their parents would allow them to scamper outside to build a snowman.
This enchantment wears thin, however, when Matthew shivers, although whether it is from the cold or from a chilling memory he could not say. He winces as he tries to make his way to a snow-covered bench placed on the property.
"Are you alright?" Mary asks, unsure what went wrong.
He nods, as they approach the bench, clear off the snow, and sit together. "I just... I thought about the last time I saw the snow. It was in France and... we were anything but happy to see it. It was so cold that week, a frozen wasteland, and so many men died that week. But our line was blocked for a few days within that time and we couldn't bring out our dead. So they just... froze, perfectly preserved, their mouths in the very expression of shock and pain that they had died with, and the rest of us had to see that, wondering if we would be next, if we would, unlike them, suffer a slow and painful death of hypothermia or frostbite or pneumonia. We ran low on food and supplies, and no one could get any medical attention, and a few more did die from nothing more than nature, the cruelest fate of all. A few days later, another regiment broke though the line and we were able to get relieved, but it was too late for some of them. And then the snow melted and the little beauty it brought to that wasteland was gone as well. And so were so many of my men..."
Mary's mouth drops open slightly. She is afraid to say anything, for fear of upsetting him. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, taking a quick glance over toward him. His eyes are glazed over, staring at nothing, his mouth pressed in a thin line. It's not an expression she likes, and her heart breaks as it has so many times.
He inclines his head slightly, his gaze now resting on the snow. "I don't want to remember," he whispers, soft tones dampened by the blanket of snow. "I can't forget, and I shouldn't forget, but sometimes I wish I just ...didn't remember."
"I don't know if I understand," Mary says, comfortingly. It is better for him to talk, she thinks, to work through things out loud.
"Forgetting would be oblivion," he replies. "And oblivion would be too drastic of a solution. I can't pretend nothing happened, that it didn't change me. And the world can't either. Otherwise, we're liable to make this mistake again and subject a whole new generation to the suffering that comes with it. So forgetting would be doing a disservice, to myself and to every other person affected by it. But I wish I didn't have to remember, every time I see something that I associate with the war. I can't ever forget, but I'd rather not remember."
Mary reaches her arm around him, pulling him closer to her. "Someday the reminders will fade," she says. "As you make new, more pleasant memories, better associations. It takes time, but you've come so far already. When you first came back, you could hardly think about anything else. And now your mind can be filled with other things. You can be happy again now, Matthew, I've seen it in you. You can be happy, you have the right to be happy, and you don't have to numb yourself to achieve that. You've been shaped by the war, and that tragedy you've experienced can coexist with joy that is yet to come."
He closes his eyes and leans into her. "How can so many conflicting feelings fill up a man and not cause him to burst?"
"Because humans are resilient creatures," she replies. "We might feel too much, love too much, but we have the capacity to experience nearly anything and come out the other side. Which is lucky for both of us."
He smiles slightly. "We make quite the pair, don't we. A couple of broken people, runaways, failures in the eyes of the world."
"A couple of broken people who make each other less broken."
Matthew smiles. "There was a time I wouldn't have believed that was possible."
"It's more than possible, it's entirely true."
They both sit back, comfortably silent in companionship. It is not too cold out- the snow has stopped falling and the sun is brightly shining, making the white sparkle everywhere.
"It's so beautiful out here," Mary says.
He smiles. "It's lovely. What a perfect scene."
"I'll miss this, when we go back. Downton is lovely but even I can admit the view here is unparalleled," Mary says.
"Is that all you'll miss?" Matthew asks, somehow catching on to the conversation she clearly wants to have.
Mary closes her eyes. She doesn't want to admit this to him; it won't do either of them any good if she says she wants to stay, because more than her own happiness, she wishes him to do what is best for his own sake, not what she secretly desires. In years past she would hardly have been so selfless. But Matthew's question is not really a question. He knows, he can perceive somehow that she is struggling with it. She cannot lie to him.
She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. "I know that before I said that I didn't want to go back because it's so lovely and peaceful here, and because I was concerned for you going back. But the truth is... I'm terrified of going home."
"Oh, Mary."
She can't look at him, for fear that she will cry.
"It's been easy to forget about it, or at least the effects it will have on my life in society. It hasn't been easy to forget about him, as I've shown far too many times, but I haven't had to think about how my life will change because of the incident, because of the public knowledge surrounding it. And now..."
"You're afraid to face it," he says calmly.
She bites her lip. "I'm terrified."
"I wish I knew what to tell you. I wish I could simply tell you to not be afraid. But both of us know that there is little value in meaningless words. But really, that's what you're afraid of. Meaningless words. Petty gossip. People who wished to be you once upon a time filled with a glee borne of jealousy because perhaps they think they're as good as you are, or better."
"Those meaningless words are the ruination of my life," Mary says, raising her voice slightly. "I know the social circles you grew up in might have been more forgiving, but you surely understand the gravity of this scandal." There is almost a tinge of desperation to her voice, behind the resignation and heartache.
He cups her face in his ungloved hand. She flinches at the cold touch, but closes her eyes and draws closer to him. "Mary," he whispers, trying to calm her. "There is only gravity if you give it weight. I know you've been brought up to believe that your reputation is the pinnacle of life's purpose, and now that has been damaged through no real thought of your own. But have you not learned, in the months we've been here, that reputation is not everything, that there is more to life than what shallow socialites make you out to be? We cannot stay here forever, Mary, but we can come back. If you face what you fear and it becomes overwhelming, we can come back here, live out the hopefully many years before I become earl, and by the time that occurs, everybody will be too intimidated by your position as a countess to say anything about it, if they haven't already forgotten. But in order to have that reassurance, we have to go back."
"Mr. Crawley, did you just inadvertently propose to me?" Mary asks. She is on the verge of tears but all that will come out is a joke.
He smiles. "Not a proposal, but a promise. An eventuality. If you want it to be."
"Of course I want it to be. I was just afraid that might be all the proposal I get, and frankly, if that were all, I might have to say no."
"I will keep that in mind and be certain to make my real proposal something to be remembered," he replies.
She leans her head onto his shoulder, perfectly comfortable in his embrace. "The snow would be lovely for a proposal. You could lift me up and spin me around, and then we both topple over in the snowbanks with utter joy."
"With my leg, I think the toppling would be the first step. We might not even get to the proposal."
Mary lets out a laugh, but her face grows serious again. "Are you sure you want to wait? After all, we've lived in Scotland long enough, we could elope at Gretna Green easily." It's sort of a joke, but she hopes he will not take it that way. Mary has never been known for her patience; only ever with Matthew has she considered herself patient, and even now, she finds herself being tested.
"I'm sure. If you'll wait for me. I know eloping would make things simpler, which is a sentence I never thought I'd say, but it would just be one more abnormal step in a year that's been so awfully abnormal. I want to do things right, Mary, and I want to do them when I know I will be able to fully experience and enjoy the process. So yes, I want to wait." His voice drifts off during his last sentence, and he seems to be somewhere else. He is very sweet about how he speaks but behind it there is a testy expression, and his eyes dart around across the snowy field
He seems lost again, and Mary squeezes his hand. "You're alright?"
He looks at the snow and closes his eyes, trying not to see the red stains of blood on the pure white. "I will be, eventually," he says. "I just need new associations."
The snow blankets the ground and stays; it may have been cold, but the white all around lends an air of Christmas-like spirit. Mary comes to pick Matthew up from his physio session a week prior to the holiday (she has not been back inside-not after the whole Grace debacle) with a grand plan in mind.
"How would you like to go Christmas shopping, to find something for your mother?" she asks, as the chauffeur helps him climb into the car.
She shouldn't spring things like this on him-throwing Matthew off of his routine was never a good idea in the first place, and especially not now, but she wanted to take him out without Isobel's knowing, and this was the best way to accomplish that. He'd been talking about it anyway.
He smiles at her, although he is obviously exhausted, and she can see beads of sweat on his brow that he hadn't quite managed to wipe off. "Wonderful," he says, slightly breathlessly. "What excuse did you give Mother for our delayed return?"
"None," she replies with a smirk. "She'll worry for a bit, but she's got to learn to loosen her hold on you. We'll be back an hour late, she'll ask, and you'll say your physio was delayed an hour because Dr. Whoever showed up late."
"You can be quite devious," Matthew says. "Very well, did you have any shops in mind?"
"I'm afraid I don't know the village very well. But we can explore. It's a lovely afternoon, if a little cold. And I'm sure you know what you want to get for your mother."
"I really wasn't sure actually. I was thinking perhaps a book of some sort but I seem to get her something along those lines every year. Perhaps I should branch out with my gift-giving."
Mary touches his hand and smiles. "Let's have a look, then."
"Are you ready to go?" Mary asks, placing her teacup on the saucer and picking up the bags of gifts that they had purchased before stopping for tea.
Matthew takes one last sip of his tea and nods before reaching for his stick. "I think so. I think we've been rather successful!"
She stands and steps aside to ensure that he is steady before they walk towards the door. "I'd be inclined to agree," she says, smiling. It really had been a lovely afternoon, the snow coating the small village, which, while limited in selection, had provided an opportunity to find some fitting gifts. They had stayed longer than intended, however, and Isobel was sure to be worried again.
They step out into the cold air and begin the short walk down the street to the block where the chauffeur has parked the car, arm in arm. The village is fairly busy; likely people finding gifts at the last minute. As they make their way down the sidewalk, two men nearly bump into Mary.
"Excuse me," she huffs, under her breath. Matthew smirks at her indignant glare, but not for long, as the men turn and begin to laugh.
"Say, Jim, you read the papers lately? Innit she the girl who bedded the Turk and then smothered him?"
Mary's eyes grow wide, and she tries not to look at the men. Matthew, however, without thinking, whips around to glare at the men.
"Ooh, must be, her new boy's lookin' all pissed," says the other man, grinning.
Mary tugs on his arm, "Matthew, let's go," she whispers. He is lost for words, but he does not turn away; he simply frowns at the men and clenches his fist.
"Guess you're the only kind of man pathetic enough to take her," the first man teases. "Watch out, once she's bedded you, you're a goner too."
Matthew's face grows red and he reaches out to shove one of the men aggressively. "Do not speak about her like that," he says, with a low growl.
"Matthew..." she whispers again.
"I'd like to see you stop us," the other says, shoving Matthew back. He stumbles, and despite Mary's best efforts, loses his balance and slumps down, his back to the wall of the building by them.
The second man steps forward again, but his friend puts a hand on his shoulder. "Leave him, he's too pathetic to be worth it, and she's just a whore. Now we've met the most infamous lady to come up to this town," he finishes with a smirk. "Try not to kill this one too."
Mary is barely listening; she is crouched down next to Matthew. "Are you alright?" she asks. "Why didn't you just keep..."
"Shh... I'm fine," he says, although his face is pale. Mary takes one of his hands and he winces; he is badly scraped and blood is beginning to seep from his palm. "Just help me up."
He is able to stand with Mary's help, although he winces upon putting weight on his bad leg and his limp is more pronounced than it has been. "Are you sure you're..."
"Yes, Mary, I'll be fine," he says, although he is consciously avoiding the sight of the blood on his hands. Red streams will bring him back to somewhere he does not want to be. The rest of his body seems to want to hurry to the car, but his gait is slow.
Mary tries to breathe deeply, but tears seem to want to flow out of her eyes and every cell in her brain is pulsing in an attempt to process the last few minutes. It was just a couple of men being utter bastards, but it was also much more than that. She could not, she cannot escape this hell that she carved out for herself. If her story had reached rural Scotland, then there was no avoiding it anywhere worth living. She would forever be marked by it.
As the chauffeur drives them home, Mary stares out the window, trying to control her tears. She does not want Matthew to see her cry. He does not need to worry about that on top of everything else.
Before today, she had desired to stay in Scotland, to avoid going back to Downton for just a little longer. But now it doesn't matter. She will never avoid her scandal unless she avoids the world forever. As ideal as that sounds sometimes, she cannot. She has to live sometime. The road ahead looks so dark, so frightening, so full of obstacles and derision, but she has no choice. She must face the storm with all the strength she has, or let the storm come to her and blow her over unawares.
She has nothing to lose now. As much as she's tried to convince herself otherwise, she deserves this. So she'll stand in the storm, and perhaps it will be miserable. Perhaps she will be sick and broken afterwards, but it can hardly be worse than the hurt she still carries inside her.
Even though her logic brings her to some sort of resolve, emotions still threaten to overwhelm her.
As they pull down the long gravel drive, Isobel is standing on the porch, once again looking very cross. Matthew turns to Mary with a sheepish grin, although the worry in his eyes is evident. He might have tried to start conversation on the drive back; Mary couldn't say.
"Where were you?" Isobel asks, as they ascend the front steps.
Mary begins to answer, but another wave of emotion overwhelms her and she finds her legs dragging her toward the stairs and to her room, where she can collapse on her bed in tears.
"Matthew, what is..." Isobel continues, her expression morphing from angry to concerned.
He begins to move toward the door, to follow Mary. "We were out shopping, but Mary... erm... she heard some very unkind words of a sort and..." Before he can finish his sentence, he is already laboriously climbing up the stairs.
Isobel could go after him easily, catch up to him and demand that he explain everything, but he and Mary are both adults and while clearly something is going on, they might be able to resolve it themselves. The only thing that almost makes her go after him is the look of possible blood stains on his clothing. But if Matthew needs attention for that he'll get it eventually, she thinks, and so she goes to the library and waits.
Matthew knocks first on the door of her bedroom, remembering how badly last time went, and slowly opens the door. "Mary..." he says, softly.
She is face down on the bed, her pillow wet with the months of tears that a lady would never be allowed to shed. But, Mary reasons, she can hardly be considered a lady anymore. She moves her head to the side and closes her eyes again. "Leave me be."
"No," he says. "You never left me when I needed you most." He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed and stretches out his aching leg.
"Well you'll be sitting in silence a long time, then," Mary says, "Because I need to think."
Matthew nods. "That's alright. But if you decide you'd rather process out loud, I'd love to listen to you. After all, isn't it you that told me that talking about it helps? I've had to express so much of myself these past few months, and in truth, it was beneficial, even if it was uncomfortable."
"I'm fine," Mary protests.
"You're shaken," he replies. "And that's okay. It was an awful thing to hear and see, and absolutely despicable of those bastards to..."
"They weren't wrong, though," she whispers, pulling herself into the fetal position.
"They were entirely wrong, Mary, I don't know how..."
She laughs. "You don't know me, do you? Even after all I've told you, you still can't accept that the woman you fell in love with years ago is a dirty whore who..."
"Mary! Enough!" His voice is shockingly commanding. He lays a hand on her arm, and as she squirms away, she notices the color.
"You're still bleeding," Mary says, suddenly soft in tone. Her eyebrows lift in sympathy.
"I guess I..." he begins, pausing with a gulp. "I don't want to look at it."
She nods and pushes herself up. "Let me bandage it for you." Head high and with purpose, she ventures into the washroom and pulls out antiseptic and bandages. Her touch is so gentle that he barely winces as she cleans his scraped hand.
"You're quite the nurse," he says softly, although clearly his mind is not distracted from their earlier conversation.
"You've had worse wounds."
Hand bandaged, he pulls away from her. "Mary, I admire and am so grateful for all you've done for me, but you can't use that as an excuse to hide from your own feelings."
Her eyes widen and the bottle of antiseptic still in her hands drops to the floor. "What?"
"It's alright to be upset, to feel badly about this. But you either distract yourself with someone else's suffering or blame it entirely on yourself whenever you face something like this, and you can't do that forever."
"Well maybe it's better than wallowing in self-pity," Mary shoots back.
He frowns. "Is that really what you think... you know, never mind. We can talk about that later. But Mary, if the words of those men hurt, acknowledge it. If you're angry at Carlisle for publishing, be angry. If you hate Pamuk with every fiber of your being for coming to you without permission, you're entirely allowed to do so. You're allowed to feel, Mary."
"I'd rather the feeling just dissipate," she says.
"But for something like this, it won't. You get reminded, and that's when you have to remind yourself that it's not your fault. You don't deserve this. You are not a dirty whore, not by any stretch of the imagination, so stop calling yourself anything like that."
Mary looks at him, unsure of what to say. "I just wish I could believe it sometimes."
"So much of believing is simply allowing yourself to feel. If you acknowledge that you are not at fault, you may have an easier time believing."
"Matthew..." she starts. "You know so much of this is easier said than done."
"I know that all too well," he replies. "The mind is complex and our thoughts are not always our own. But I also know that we are not completely beholden to our old thought patterns. Even the slightest change can make us better. So I'm not asking you to feel alright about everything right at this moment. I'm just asking you to feel."
She lays her head on his shoulder. "You know I don't have a heart."
"I know very well you do, and a big one at that. Suppression has simply kept it a little out of practice."
Mary turns away from him and wipes an escaping tear from her cheek. She allows herself to sink into his embrace a little longer; it is a warmth that she never wants to leave. Her thoughts threaten to overtake her once again. She will listen to him, she will allow herself to feel, or at least she'll try. Just not right now.
"You were awfully stupid to try and fight that man," she says, taking his hand in hers gently, as not to hurt him.
He gives her that sheepish grin that fills her heart to the brim. "I know, but I had to show something. They couldn't just get away with that without any..."
"They wanted to rile us up, that's all."
He kisses the top of her head. "They tried to hurt you, that's all. And so I had to respond."
"Well, my valiant knight, perhaps you ought to avoid any more scrapes such as this."
"I would do anything for this beautiful damsel, even if it meant a scrape or two."
Christmas is not nearly the grand affair that Mary is used to. There is no massive Christmas tree in the hall, no line of servants waiting to receive Christmas gifts, and no massive feast waiting for them. Instead, Mary, Matthew, and Isobel sit in the library, gathered around a roaring fire, sipping tea and opening the few gifts placed on the the table in front of them. Modest, perhaps. Domestic, middle class, even. But Mary finds she quite likes it.
Isobel is delighted with her gifts, and hers to Mary and Matthew are quite lovely as well. Nothing extravagant, but new books and lovely, if simple clothing are always appreciated. One gift on the table, however, is marked to her from Matthew, and she wonders how he might have managed to get her something. She went out alone to buy his gift, but she cannot recall anytime he might have left without her nearby.
He reaches forward and picks up the small box. "Mary, this is for you." That smile again lights up his face, and in that moment, that is all the Christmas gift she needs.
Unfolding the paper methodically, as has always been her habit, she opens the gift. A small box. She lifts the lid and pulls out a beautiful necklace with a simple, quiet elegance, a teardrop shaped diamond set in silver.
"Matthew..." she begins, unsure what to say. Eventually she settles on, "How?"
"I bought this for you a long time ago," he replies, putting his hand over hers. "During the season, actually. It matched... the ring, which I never thought you might wear but now I have hope that you will. I kept them both, though. I'm not sure why."
Mary shakes her head. "But you had it with you here?"
"I had Sybil post it," he replies. "When we came here, I had no idea... of anything, really. Certainly not..." he gives a furtive glance to his mother, but she simply smiles, "certainly not love."
"Is that what this is?" she asks, staring down at the necklace and once again trying to prevent tears from leaking. It seems as if everything is trying to make her lose her composure lately.
He doesn't say anything, but the gleam in his eyes says more than his words could.
She pulls herself further onto the sofa, kisses his cheek, and lays her head on his shoulder, seeming to forget that Isobel is still in the room with them. Not that Isobel would say a thing; she looks on the couple with soft admiration.
Mary holds out the necklace to Matthew, who gently loops it around her neck and fastens it in the back.
"Beautiful," Isobel remarks.
"Yes, it is," Mary agrees, her fingers wrapping around the charm.
"Yes, she is," whispers Matthew at the same time, nearly breathless.
It may not have been a typical Christmas, but it certainly was a happy one.
Merry Christmas! I know it's been an age since I updated, and I'm sorry about that. However, conveniently I was planning this chapter to be Christmas-themed so it seemed appropriate to post today. Hope you enjoy and have a very happy holiday season! If you can, please leave a review! For a writer, it's like a Christmas present!