Isobel spends most of the long train trip back to York observing.
Of course she observes the beautiful Scottish scenery, turning into the Northern English countryside. The fog lends a mysterious beauty to the outdoors that fascinates her, the sort of scenery that might inspire a mystery novel.
Infinitely more fascinating, however, are the two people she shares the compartment with.
Matthew is sitting on the seat across from her, his bad leg propped up on the rest of it, his head resting against the foggy windowpane. He is in pain, she can tell, by the way he winces whenever the train suddenly jolts. His injury is not nearly as bad as many of the others that she has witness, and yet he will still have to struggle with this for the rest of his life; the pain, the limitations, and the stigma of disability. And yet that has not been the largest part of his suffering.
How it has torn her apart to see him like this over the last few months; fragile, struggling, lost, broken. Her sweet little boy losing himself in his own mind, his experiences, yet incomprehensible to her, too overwhelming for him to handle. Her heart breaks to think just how close to death he'd come again, even after somehow surviving the trenches. She wouldn't wish his suffering of the past few months on even her worst enemy.
And yet to look at him now, she can hardly tell. He is paler of course, and thinner; his nicest day suit, which he has not once touched while in Scotland, seems to overwhelm his frame. But he looks alive, his eyes bright, the corners of his lips upturned, and his cheeks flushing with a color which may not be quite his normal red blush, but at least is somewhere in the spectrum of pink.
This blush, unsurprisingly, is in response to Mary, who sits across from him, chatting with him casually. Isobel smiles as she observes; they are so easy with each other, so loving, and they seem to suit each other so well. They have both had a lot to work through, but her heart fills with joy to see them both leave stronger than they had arrived.
It is as if Isobel is not even in the compartment with them, so lost are they in their own happy world. And Isobel certainly doesn't begrudge them that. She has been too lost in her own thoughts to listen to their conversation, and in a way, she'd rather not listen.
She half expected an engagement between them at this point, considering how close they have become. In the back of her mind, she still wonders if they might make a surprise announcement once they are back at Downton. But why would they not tell her first?
She sneaks a subtle look at Mary's hand. Certainly no ring, although she does wear the necklace he gave her at Christmas, which she had interpreted as some sort of promise for the future.
Perhaps he isn't ready yet. That would not be a shocking statement to come out of her son; Isobel knows his own self-worth is still abysmally low, even with all the improvements he has made, and no romance could fully convince him of it so immediately. That piece would still take time.
But she also foresees Matthew struggling with being so far from Mary, even if their homes were only a mile apart. An engagement may not have occurred yet, but the timeline will almost certainly move up as soon as Matthew finds himself in an empty bedroom.
Isobel does not judge what they have done, however improper it might be. She sees the merit of it, and their nights together seem to have done Matthew a world of good. For that, she can be nothing but grateful.
But such impropriety will not be tolerated at Downton,
As the train pulls through the Yorkshire countryside, she observes as Matthew reaches his hand across for Mary's. She squeezes it, and does not let go until the train pulls into the station.
They are at Downton. They are home.
Tom has waited at this train station many times in the last several years. He knows all the best places to wait, he knows exactly where the first class car will stop, and he knows exactly how many steps it takes to get from the platform to the parked car outside. He is excellent at picking out his employers in the throngs of people exiting the train, getting their attention as subtle as possible, and weaving his way through the rest of the station, luggage in hand, to get back home with no delay.
The train pulls into the station right on time, and like clockwork, the crowd exchanges places, as some enter the train and others exit. Even though they are on the other side of the platform, he spots Anna, Molesley, and Daisy first. They motion to Tom and he helps them hurriedly unload the rest of the luggage that had come back from Scotland.
"I'll take the Crawleys back first," he says, as he pulls off the last of the trunks, "and then I'll come back to pick up the rest of their things as well as you. Otherwise it won't all fit."
Anna nods. "We'll wait and keep an eye on it. Unless you can fit it now, in which case we could walk back."
"I think it will be better this way. Besides, I don't mind a little more to do. Ever since Lady Edith started driving I've felt as if I've hardly had a job," he jokes. The train whistles and slowly begins to pull away.
The crowd slowly dissipates and Tom picks out his task on the other side of the platform, making slow steps toward the exit of the station. He hurries across the now more open platform to join them.
"Good afternoon Lady Mary, Mrs. Crawley, Mr. Crawley," he says, as cheerfully as possible. "Let me get that for you."
It is all a part of his job, all a part of the act. He is paid to be pleasant, to be unobtrusive, to get the family where they need to be with as little fuss as possible. And he is excellent at it- well, perhaps except when it comes to Sybil.
But he will not think about Sybil right now, nor about their plans made under cover of night. He will be pleasant and unobtrusive and hardly noticed.
That does not mean he will not notice.
He knows Isobel Crawley well enough; she's never too high and mighty to chatter with him on those nights where it is simply too cold or too dark to walk home from dinner at the Abbey. He's heard all about her most interesting cases at the hospital, about her frustrations in the convalescent home, and about her fears for her son which she seemed to generally keep hidden. In fact, Tom wouldn't be surprised if he knew Isobel better than many of the Crawleys knew her, for outside of aristocratic confines, she seems to be even more herself.
Matthew he knows less well, not because he turns up his nose at speaking with the servants, but because he seems to speak less than his mother and because he had been gone for so long. Tom likes Matthew though, or at least what he knows of him; he might have once been jealous of the man Sybil often described in such glowing terms, but he has long since realized that Matthew and Sybil have a loving friendship and nothing more. Besides, he can clearly see that there is only one woman for Matthew Crawley, and she stands next to him, her arm linked in his, as they slowly make their way down the platform.
Tom may drive Mary the most of his three passengers, but he knows her the least. In his mind, there are two Marys. There is the cold woman who sits in the backseat, is mostly polite but nothing more, and sometimes speaks to those with her with frosty words, and then the Mary that Sybil speaks of. The Mary Sybil tells him of is lovelorn and lost and will do anything for those she loves. Tom has only seen this Mary recently, in the weeks after Matthew came back.
He sees this Mary again at the train station, standing so close with Matthew, carefully guiding him down the few steps at the front of the station and to the car.
"Lady Mary, I've instructions to bring you straight to Downton," he says, as they approach the waiting car. "Will that be alright?"
She turns to Matthew. "Can you handle going straight there? Or do you need a little time to be at Crawley House first?" Her voice is soft and full of concern, not clipped and cold as he knows it to be.
Matthew nods. "I think I can. I've felt alright today," he says, although his face belies some worry on his part.
Tom offers his hand to help Matthew in the car, but is turned down in favor of an independent ascent, although he notes the struggle. Before Mary enters, she touches Tom's arm gently and whispers to him, "Is the convalescent home fully shut down?"
"What do you mean?"
She shakes her head. "Are there any soldiers left? Any beds? Anything that might… bring back some unwanted memories?"
"I'm rarely up there to see, but all the extra help is gone and the army trucks that were there to move things out haven't been by in a week, so I think all will be well."
Mary nods. "Thank you, Branson." She takes his hand to climb into the car beside Matthew.
As he drives back from the station, he notices in his rearview mirror how close Mary and Matthew sit together, how their fingers are intertwined, how they smile at each other when they think that Isobel isn't looking.
He can't be sure of anything, but he considers himself fairly adept at observation, and Scotland has changed something between them for the better.
Tom is happy for them.
He hopes that someday, they might be happy for Sybil and him.
Robert has been anticipating this day for quite some time; he has missed his daughter, he has missed Matthew, and he can even admit he has missed Isobel and her constant interference. He had wanted to line up all the servants to greet them as they arrived, but Sybil had convinced him not to.
"Papa, Matthew's always hated that sort of thing. Think how much worse all that attention would be for him after being away for so long. The best you can do is keep everything simple tonight," she had insisted, and while he disagreed, for he could hardly comprehend not enjoying an elegant and well attended meal, he listened to her.
He, however, wants to greet them, and so he stands in the great hall, listening for when the car will pull up front.
He has had little contact with his daughter over the past few months, mostly relying on what he has heard from Sybil, who wrote quite frequently. He has heard about the worst bits, about the infection and about Matthew's long journey to recovery, but he has also heard that things are improving, and that gladdens his heart.
He is eager to see for himself.
He steps outside into the cold air as the distinctive whirr of the car's engine makes itself known. Once the car pulls to a stop, before Branson can get out, Robert hurries toward the it and opens the door for them.
"Papa!" Mary says, as she takes his hand to step out. "You've taken Branson's job; how things must have changed while I was away!"
Robert laughs and envelops his daughter in a hug. "My dear girl, I'm so glad to see you again."
She smiles. "It appears then that my scandal hasn't caused you too much grief," she says, the edge behind her voice barely perceptible.
"I can't imagine anything would cause me enough grief that I would not want to see you after so long," he says. He had hoped not to bring the subject up for as long as possible, as it was uncomfortable and he didn't like to think of it. He had been angry at first, livid in fact, but perhaps it had been for the best that she had been away while he had to come to terms with the scandal, for Sybil and Cora and even Edith had helped him to find peace with what Mary had done and forgive her for it. He had noticed fewer dinner invitations and fewer calls, but he chalked it up to a dispirit from the end of the war and a lack of travel and events. Perhaps it was the scandal, perhaps people were not interested in being involved with the Crawleys anymore, but he assumed it would be forgotten soon enough, that Mary would no longer be of interest to the country. While it could cause her trouble in finding a husband, he did not believe it would impact the family forever.
The scandal had been shocking, and he hated to think of his daughter in such a position, but he has allowed himself and the family to move on. The time before the war seems so long ago that he can hardly hold it against her.
Mary looks as composed as ever, but her relief is palpable as she hugs him a little tighter. "Thank you, Papa," she whispers, and he realizes the burden that she has been carrying for all of this time.
He releases her and pats her shoulder gently, before turning back to the car where Matthew is slowly stepping out. "My boy!" he says, holding his hand out and shaking Matthew's heartily. He takes a step back to look over his heir; Matthew is certainly changed from how he was before the war, but he looks better, heartier, more alive than when he first came back. "So glad to have you home."
"It's good to be back," Matthew replies, smiling weakly. He is taking everything in again as if it were new, as if there is something he is searching for.
"You're looking much better," Robert says fondly.
Matthew averts his gaze to the ground. "Getting there at least," he murmurs.
"I'm so glad," Robert says. "Come in, it's quite cold out here. We'll have dinner very soon. No need to change, you've had a long journey."
Together, they walk into the great hall, and Robert notices, just out of the corner of his eye, that Mary takes Matthew's arm to support him up the front step.
Sybil is usually the last to the drawing room before dinner; she doesn't want to spend any more time on insipid conversation while in uncomfortable clothes than she truly has to. Tonight is different, however. She is the first one downstairs, thrilled to finally see Mary and Matthew and Isobel. She has missed all three of them, especially at meals which are long and arduous at the best of times. Without her nursing to occupy her, life once again seems interminably dull, the only relief coming from her near daily conversations with Tom.
She is so happy to see her family again, to enjoy their company, to be reunited.
The minute the door opens she is up on her feet, and they can barely get into the room before she rushes to them. "Mary!" she exclaims, hugging her sister first. "Oh, I've missed you so."
Mary chuckles. "I've missed you too," she says, with an unusual demonstration of emotion in her voice. She moves along the wall to allow space for Isobel and Matthew to come in as well.
Sybil gives a quick hug to Isobel, whispering, "I've so much to tell you about my work. I've had no one to share it with!" Isobel smiles in response and pats Sybil's shoulder.
Finally, she turns to Matthew, taking him in with a trained nurse's eye. He is still thin, still pale. He leans heavily on a stick, and she can see from the tightness of his jaw that he is in pain. But he smiles, with what Sybil can only interpret as genuine joy, and that is enough to give her hope that he is much better.
"I'm so glad to see you," she says, embracing him gently so as not to knock him over. "It seems like your time away did you good."
He nods and squeezes her hand as she steps back. "Yes, I think it did."
"Sit down," she orders, her nursing instincts kicking in.
He doesn't protest, and she joins him on the sofa, taking drinks for both of them from the footman. Mary sits on the other side of him, and Sybil could swear she see her unconsciously taking his hand before quickly pulling it away when she becomes aware of Sybil's gaze.
"So how are you? Really?" she asks, meeting his gaze intently.
Mary shakes her head. "Sybil, you can't wait ten minutes before you start trying to be a nurse again?"
"It's alright," Matthew says. "I'm much better than when you saw me last, I think that much is clear. Physically, I'm probably about as recovered as I'll get," he says, a little coldness creeping into his voice.
Sybil sighs and puts a hand on his knee. "I hope that we can prove that wrong, but if it's true, I'm still so glad to see you on your feet again. But how about the shellshock."
"I… went through some real lows," he says. He takes a glance toward Robert and his mother, but they are busily engaged in conversation. "However, I made it through those and while I've… maybe lost a part of myself forever, I've found most of my way back to normal."
"I'm so very glad to hear that. I've been reading a lot of the new research that has come out about shellshock and they've been finding new solutions to help patients all of the time, so don't give up hope," she says. Her research has been one of the few ways she has found to stimulate herself and keep occupied, but she hopes some of it will genuinely help him.
He smiles at her. "I haven't. It took me a long time, but I think in Scotland I managed to find my hope again."
Carson has observed many a Crawley family dinner over the course of his employment at Downton Abbey. He has seen every conversation, every argument, every relationship milestone, and every moment in between that has happened at the Crawley dinner table. If he so desired, he could spill many secrets that were meant to stay between those at the dinner table, reveal many scandals, and tear apart relationships.
Of course, Carson would rather die before he would divulge any of the secrets he was privy to; he is the very model of discretion and such a thought could never cross his mind. But he has seen enough to have a pretty good idea of what is behind every conversation, what lurks beneath the surface of polite conversation, and what has brought every member of the family to this point.
He observes, curious to hear about the last few months, curious to know how Mary has been doing. He would never admit that, of course; he does not eavesdrop or listen with intention. But he pays attention.
"You all must tell us about your time away," Cora says, after all the food has been passed around. "I'm sure you will have much to tell us."
Carson catches the glance between Mary and Matthew; it seems so natural for them to meet each other's eyes and share something between a smile and a grimace.
"I would hardly know where to start," Mary says. Carson watches her make eye contact with Matthew once again and take a deep breath. "It was …absolutely lovely. So peaceful and quiet, so beautiful. I wish I had taken up painting there, so you could see just how beautiful it is."
Matthew nods and clears his throat. He is gripping the napkin on his lap so tightly that the color of his hand matches the starched white, but he smiles and says, "It was a much needed escape."
Carson looks again at Mary, who is smiling across the table.
"I'm so very glad. I must write to Shrimpie to thank him for his generosity," Robert says.
"How have things been here?" Mary asks nonchalantly, although Carson can see from the wideness of her eyes that she is almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Well enough," Cora says. "It's been quiet, but I'm afraid that was to be expected. Between the end of the war and then… with what's been in the news, there's been very little happening."
Mary's face pales and Carson's heart sinks for her. He read about the scandal in the papers; in fact, he was the first person to read it in the paper. He had almost not brought the paper upstairs. He had been shocked, of course, but even such a scandal could not taint his view of Mary so harshly, not after he had known her for so long. It had taken him a long time to process, and it still saddened him to see the house engulfed in the scandal, but he consciously attempted not to be too harsh on Mary. Seeing the pain and anguish and regret in her face helps him confirm that he indeed made the right choice.
Awkwardness settles in among the diners at the table, and Carson observes each family member glancing around at the others, waiting for who will break the silence.
Regretfully, Robert is the one who speaks up. "Not so dull as it might have been though! We still had the convalescents here until a few weeks ago, and there was never a dull moment with all of that around. But of course, now the war's done, it's time to get back to real life and thank goodness for that. With all of the soldiers and nurses and all of their supplies gone, it's as if the war never existed! And I must say, that's something to be grateful for. Don't you agree, Matthew?"
Matthew pushes his chair back rather frantically and stands up, swaying slightly as he does. "Excuse me," he says, sounding slightly breathless. He hurries out of the room as quickly as he can manage, looking as if he is about to fall to pieces.
Carson barely has time to take a glance at Mary before she is also out of her seat, rushing after him. "Give us a moment," she says, and he notes that her expression is one of deep concern and sadness.
Robert, at least, has the good grace to look embarrassed. "Perhaps that was not an appropriate change of topic," he says. "I do apologize."
The awkwardness returns.
The second course is brought out and served before Mary and Matthew finally come back. Both look a little red-eyed, as if they have been crying, and Matthew's tie is half undone, his hair a terrible mess. But they are composed enough to be back and smile at everyone as they come in.
"I'm so very sorry for that, I just… needed some air," Matthew says. It is a weak explanation and no one in the family is fooled, but this explanation is accepted.
Robert smiles at his son-in-law. "Do whatever you need. We'll try and be more sensitive to these things."
Matthew shakes his head as he sits down. "Don't concern yourself so much with me," he says. "I'm learning to cope. I have my solutions."
Carson takes another glance at Mary, who sits across from him and gives him a proud, if still sad, smile. Matthew's solution, Carson suspects, is at that very dinner table.
A memory strikes Carson as he observes the dinner table. Not so long ago, and yet what seems like many years ago, Mary and Matthew had their very first dinner together, at this same table, sitting in these same seats. He remembers the dinner well; he had been horrified at the uppityness of this new heir, who thought that his very middle-class work was appropriate dinner table conversation and deigned it wise to insult Mary, although his memory might not have picked up that she began the sparring. And he remembered the story of Perseus and Andromeda, and the question of who might have saved who.
The past seven years have certainly changed the narrative. As Carson watches the two of them for the rest of dinner, he wonders if perhaps Mary, of all people, might have become Perseus in the end.
Edith is relieved that the dinner is finally over, for it was absolutely interminable and filled with more awkwardness than she can stand. Cora's veiled references to Mary's scandal only made things worse. Ever since the publication of the scandal, Edith has felt guilty for it; she never really wanted to bring this upon her family, and the war even put her relationship with Mary into perspective. But she had done the damage long ago, and now she had to live with the consequences.
Thankfully, the after-dinner discussion is cut short. Isobel claims exhaustion on her and Matthew's part, which everyone readily accepts. The family gathers at the front to say goodnight; an unusual gesture but appropriate after such a long absence. Edith watches as Mary and Matthew hesitate to separate, their hands touching a second too long to really be a purely friendly touch. There is something going on, Edith suspects, but she will let it be. She has interfered enough in Mary's life, and Matthew certainly deserves happiness, even if happiness with Mary seems like a long shot.
As soon as Matthew and Isobel have pulled away, Mary announces that she is planning to turn in as well. Edith, feeling drained by the awkwardness of the dinner, follows her sister up the stairs, and through the hallways they both knew so well.
They didn't say anything on the way up, a heavy silence floating between them, but Edith knows she has to say something, or the silence will forever be between them. She has to apologize, she has to show that things have changed.
"Mary," Edith says, as she is about to turn down her hallway.
"What is it?" Mary asks, almost snapping but not quite.
Edith bites her lip. "I really need to talk to you."
"Can it wait? I've been traveling all day." She sounds so dismissive, so uninterested, and Edith is almost tempted to let her have her way. Almost, but not quite. This is essential.
"No. I've already waited far too long," Edith says, her voice trembling. She takes Mary's forearm and opens the door to her bedroom, leading Mary to sit on her bed.
"What is this all about?" Mary asks.
Edith gazes into her sister's dark eyes. They have not really properly spoken as sisters in all the years since Pamuk, not heart-to-heart, and even before Pamuk it was a rare occurrence. Edith hardly knows where to start.
"I'm sorry," she starts, the words coming out like a breath.
"What do you…"
"I'm sorry," she repeats, "for the letter. It was unthinkable of me, really, and I can never quite make it up to you. How could I betray my own sister like that? It took me a long time to realize how terrible it was, but now, now that I understand the full consequences of my actions, I cannot even begin to see the end of my guilt over my actions. And I know that you might never be able to forgive me, and I understand that, but…"
"Stop," Mary says. Her face is turned away, and Edith cannot see how she is taking this.
"Mary, I just…"
"No, no," Mary whispers, and she turns her face back to Edith. There are tears in her eyes. "Edith, I forgive you."
This is a surprise. Edith was sure she would have to get down on her knees and beg for forgiveness in order to get even the slightest semblance of a relationship back. And she cannot remember the last time she saw her sister cry. She doesn't know how to respond, so she does what feels most natural; she wraps her arms around her sister and embraces her. "Thank you. I don't understand how, but thank you."
Mary shakes her head and leans into Edith's embrace. "I'm only learning how to forgive myself for what happened that night. How could I forgive myself and yet not forgive you?"
"You…still feel guilty about it?" Edith asks, with a tone of surprise. Maybe she shouldn't be surprised, but she always figured that Mary took some pride in what she had done; bedding the handsome Turk, even if it had all gone awry.
"Terribly," Mary whispers. "Matthew has tried to tell me it isn't my fault, what happened, but I can hardly even believe him."
Edith's eyes widen, as she realizes how what she has done may be even worse than she originally believed. "Mary, you… what really did happen? I thought you would want him?"
"Oh yes, of course I wanted him. I was young and stupid and naive and flirty as anything. But I didn't want him that that way, not at that point. I knew the risks well enough, and I was not prepared for that. But he came into my room, and if I had screamed, we would have been found, and he wouldn't leave me alone so…I had no choice."
It is much worse than she had ever imagined. How had Edith thought so little of her sister, to instantly believe she would enter into this willingly. Looking back, even that had been stupid and ignorant. But there is no way to change the past anymore. "Mary, I'm so sorry, that's… awful. I can't imagine how frightened you were, and then when he…"
"It was awful, but I still let him have me. I could have and should have resisted him, but I let him have me. And I have regretted it every day since," Mary says softly.
Edith buries her head in Mary's shoulder, trying to step the tears that she wants to shed for her sister's sake, for her own stupidity's sake, and for her guilt's sake. "Mary, now knowing this, what I have done is even worse, and I can offer no true compensation for my actions. But please know that I regret what I have done, and in my case, my actions were of my own free will, and not forced upon me as yours were. You must forgive yourself; we as women must stop blaming ourselves when men do evil to us."
"You sound like Sybil," Mary murmurs briefly.
"Would she be wrong?"
Mary shakes her head. "I certainly hope not."
"Mary, is there anything, anything I can do at all, to make this up to you?"
"No," Mary replies, and Edith freezes for a minute. "No, there is nothing that you need to do or even that you should. I did some perfectly beastly things to you in that time as well, and I fear I might have ruined your chance at happiness with Sir Anthony Strallan. So really, you must forgive me for that."
"That was rather beastly, but I daresay I deserved it," Edith responds.
"The war has changed so many things for us, Edith, and I think we can wipe the slate clean. A fresh start for both of us."
Edith nods and smiles. "A fresh start. Does that mean you will also forgive yourself? Because from what you've told me…"
"I've been working on it," Mary says. "Maybe someday Matthew will manage to convince me."
Edith stands up and closes her curtains. "Ah, right. Now is there something you'd like to share about what's going on between you and Matthew, or is that something that will remain painfully obvious to the rest of us but no one will speak of it."
Mary rolls her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Mary stands up and raises an eyebrow. "Some things are only in your imagination."
Edith laughs. "Tell me what really happened in Scotland."
"Some things are not meant to be shared now. Or ever. Now I'm exhausted, so I really must get to bed. Good night, Edith."
"Good night," Edith replies, following her sister to the door as she leaves. "And Mary?"
Mary stops in her tracks and turns. "Yes?"
"Thank you. For understanding. For listening. For forgiving. I feel like a weight's been lifted off my chest."
"Fresh starts will do that for you," Mary replies, before turning back and disappearing down the hall.
Molesley enjoyed Scotland, but he is undeniably happy to be back on English soil, in the familiarity of Crawley House's warm kitchen. He takes a cup of tea and puts his feet up, letting out a sigh of relief. Scotland had not really been so different; he had done the same sort of tasks but probably even less, because there was no one who came by. But Molesley is a man of simple pleasures, and being back in the village which had always been his home is a relief.
He sips the last of his tea and glances over his shoulder, surprised to see that it is already past one and he really should get to sleep. But Matthew has not rung for him… That in itself is not a surprise, for half the time Matthew fails to ring anyway and simply prepares himself for bed. But still, Molesley feels obligated to go and check on him before his own day is finished.
He wanders upstairs, down the hallway, to where Matthew's room is. The light is still on. He can hear Matthew inside, speaking about… something, almost yelling. Molesley's heart constricts a little; he feels so much pity, seeing so clearly what Matthew is going though. He feels guilt as well; he managed to escape the war while so many others did not, and came back like Matthew or even worse off. He cannot help but be grateful for his absence from the trenches, but it weighs on him all the same.
Molesley puts his hand on the doorknob, but hesitates. Matthew will not want his help; in fact, he'd probably make things worse. His heart breaks as the shouts briefly become screams, but he knows he cannot help. He is useless in this scenario, and going in will only make things worse.
He does not leave his post by the door, however, for quite a long time. Not until the screams die down and he hears little but restless movement.
Molesley wakes up later than usual the next morning, but neither Isobel nor Matthew are awake. Matthew finally makes his way down the stairs, looking bleary-eyed and exhausted, as if he did not sleep a wink.
"How are you this morning, Mr. Crawley," Molesley asks, as he serves coffee in the sitting room. Normally it would be tea this time in the morning, but Matthew looks like he desperately needs coffee.
"Not so well," Matthew says. "I'm afraid even being back in my own bed was not enough to allow me to sleep well. It's hard for me to sleep a…"
Molesley knows he is about to say 'alone', for he is not so unobservant. He knows that Mary slept in Matthew's room every night, although he will never admit that knowledge to anyone. But he nods in understanding.
"You must take some time to rest today, then," Molesley says.
"Yes, of course. I've an appointment with Dr. Clarkson this afternoon," he says, looking at his watch. "But after that, I have no plans."
"Excellent. Traveling can be quite exhausting."
Matthew smirks slightly. "And not sleeping even more so."
Molesley does not wonder at Matthew's reason for not sleeping, and he thinks he might be able to provide a solution. "Mr. Crawley, I know I may be… stepping out of line by saying this…"
"Go on."
"If you ever… wanted a certain specific visitor at night, I can be relied on to assist with the utmost discretion."
Matthew looks at him incredulously, and for a moment Molesley thinks that he has lost his job. But only for a moment, because Matthew smiles and returns to his newspaper. "I hope it won't come to that, for I wouldn't want to engage in such impropriety with so much risk. But I appreciate the gesture, and if… things do not go so smoothly, your discretion may need to be relied upon."
Molesley breathes a sigh of relief and picks up the coffee tray. "I am at your disposal, Mr. Crawley. Enjoy your afternoon."
Clarkson looks over the case file with curiosity. Dr. Warren certainly has a different method of keeping records, and the notes, while medically accurate, provide absolutely nothing on the mental health of the patient in question.
Did he keep a separate record of such things? Did he not bother to take any sort of notes on the health of the mind? Was he completely ignorant of the shellshock itself?
Clarkson shakes his head and pushes the file away. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to let Matthew go to Scotland, at least medically. From the notes, he surmises that Matthew has not physically recovered as well as he had hoped, and the lack of discussion about the shellshock is rather concerning because it meant that there had been no sort of treatment attempted.
But he cannot only rely on notes; he will have to see the patient.
The knock n the door of his office is rather appropriately timed. "Mr. Crawley here to see you, sir," one of the nurses says. Clarkson looks up from the file and smiles.
"How nice to see you, Mr. Crawley. Have you brought anyone with you today?"
Matthew takes a few more steps into the office, and Clarkson frowns at his obvious limp, but says nothing. "I didn't try to bring them, but they both tagged along anyway," he says, gesturing with his free hand toward the door where Mary and Isobel stand.
"Very well. Lady Mary, Mrs. Crawley, I hope you are doing well. I'd like to speak to both of you soon, but for the moment, if you'll let me speak with Mr. Crawley in private."
Mary nods. "Take all the time you need. We're happy to wait."
Clarkson closes the door and pulls out a chair for Matthew. "Now, Mr. Crawley, how are you feeling this morning."
"Unfortunately, I did not sleep so well last night, but otherwise, I'm doing alright. Glad to be back at Downton," he says.
Clarkson takes in the young man's face. It is obvious that he didn't sleep much the night before, but otherwise, he looks better than when he was here last. Clarkson detects no dishonesty in what he says; alright is as adequate a way as any to describe his condition.
"Good, good. Have you normally struggled so much to sleep?" he asks. It wasn't the question he was planning on leading with, but it seems appropriate.
Matthew shrugs. "I mean, more than before the war I suppose. I had some difficult nights in Scotland but… most of the time, there were factors that made it easier to sleep."
"Like what?" The pale face and averted gaze tell Clarkson that he's not ready to speak of it. "Never mind that, we can discuss it later. Now, I've received your case file from your doctor in Scotland. Very detailed in terms of your physical health, which is certainly something we will discuss. Curiously, however, it makes no mention of your mental health."
"Of course it doesn't," Matthew replies, his voice almost low enough to be a growl.
"You're not surprised?"
"Warren utterly dismissed any notion of shellshock being a legitimate issue, preferring to say that it was simply a result of weakness. Obviously I… did not take that well, especially considering my state at the time. I'm afraid I was quite beastly to him, in fact, but looking back, he might have deserved it."
Clarkson frowns. "So you had no treatment, no anything for the shellshock while you were there?"
"Not formally, no."
"But it seems you've improved despite that, if outward appearances are to be believed," Clarkson says. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but simply speaking with you I can tell quite a difference from last time. I know time cures many things, but if this was without intervention…" "I have my mother and Mary to thank," Matthew interrupts. "Without them, I wouldn't be as well as I am today. In fact, I probably… wouldn't be here today."
Clarkson raises an eyebrow. "Are you speaking of the infection you contracted in November?"
"No, not…" Matthew's eyes glaze over and he shakes his head. "Right before that occurred, I had reached such a low point and suddenly I had the means and so…" He takes a deep breath, his lips moving without words coming out."I… I attempted suicide. Or I almost did, but Mary found me and stopped me." His eyes are beginning to fill with tears. "I… I haven't told anyone that before. I probably won't tell anyone else because it's something I'd rather forget."
Clarkson reaches out and puts a hand on Matthew's shoulder. He can't pretend he isn't shocked; even if becoming suicidal is a common symptom of shellshock, the horrific idea of what might have been hurts to think of. "That is something that is only yours to tell, when you feel the time and the company is right."
"You must understand that… now, I could never… I would never think of it," he says, swallowing to try and get rid of the tears that are choking him up. "But then, everything felt so dark, like there was no way out."
Clarkson nods. "But you said your mother and Mary helped you out of that dark."
"Yes. Yes. Especially Mary, she… she was always there for me, always supporting me, always talking to me and listening to me and comforting me. She gave so much of herself to understand and help me through what I was struggling with, while she was going through struggles of her own. She would stay by my side through the nightmares and talk me through the lowest moments. When I felt like I was drowning, she would pull me out of the deepest waters."
This is a surprise to Clarkson from what he knows of Mary Crawley, of her attitude toward others, of what she seemed to be in the past. But perhaps the Crawley sisters all have hidden depths; he certainly saw that working with Sybil, and now this new revelation shows a side to Mary that he had never truly seen.
Although hadn't he seen it before? Clarkson thinks back to that time before they left for Scotland, where Mary was there for every conversation, fighting so hard for Matthew's sake in every way. The psychologist who had examined Matthew had picked up on it; perhaps he should have as well. Maybe this love that at first glance seemed so deeply buried was on the surface after all.
"Does she know all of this?" Clarkson asks. It may not be a question that he really needs to ask, or even if he should ask, but on a personal level, he wants to know.
Matthew nods. "I try to tell her, every day. How grateful I am for her, how she has saved me."
"And now, do you feel as if you can suffice on your own?" Clarkson asks.
This seems to strike a nerve, for the tears that were barely hidden begin to leak out again. "No. I don't," he whispers. "I couldn't sleep last night, not without her there. I had so many nightmares and nothing to bring me back to reality."
Clarkson frowns. Matthew seems much recovered and yet… he cannot qualify this as recovery, not with this sort of attachment. "You spend much time together in Scotland, I suppose."
"I was almost never alone," Matthew confirms. "At first they were afraid that if I was alone I would take… drastic actions. When that fear faded, however, I usually didn't want to be alone."
"So that adjustment is now difficult, coming back, living with only your mother" Clarkson says.
"I've been back here less than twenty-four hours but… yes, I would say that it seems as if it will be difficult," Matthew says. His mouth opens, and closes again.
Clarkson frowns. "Do you yourself feel hopeful for further recovery mentally?"
"I'm not sure," Matthew replies geuninely. "Somedays I feel as if I can function almost normally and others… I can't get it out of my mind. And I'm constantly afraid something will trigger me and I'll be back to where I began."
"I'm no psychologist," Clarkson says, "but I'd like to believe further recovery is possible for you. I will make some inquiries but I'd like, if possible, to direct your to another doctor who may be able to help you. The field of psychology is quite new but there have been some great advancements made in the past few years."
Matthew shakes his head. "I'm not so sure; no doctors who I have spoken with so far have been able to help at all. In fact, most of them have made things worse. Especially in fields like this, where there is so much guess work, I feel if it might have equal chance to harm as it would to help."
"I'd like you to consider it at least," Clarkson says, with a sympathetic smile. He half expected this resistance, but he knows how he might combat it. "Now, if you'll go down the hall to the examination room, one of the nurses will be there in just a minute to assist you in preparing for the physical exam." He stands up and opens the door. "I'll be there once you are ready, and we can speak more afterward."
Matthew nods and smiles, after wiping his eyes to try and dry them. "Thank you, Dr. Clarkson."
Clarkson nods and pats Matthew's back before walking down to the opposite end of the hallway. "Lady Mary," he says, "would you come into my office for a moment. I'd like to speak with you."
"Of course," Mary says, her voice and face belying no emotion.
Clarkson closes the door again and sits down. "I just spoke with Mr. Crawley quite a bit about his mental state."
"And what is your assessment?" she asks, as cooly as ever. Clarkson has a difficult time believing that the Mary Matthew was speaking of and this Mary are one and the same.
"I have not yet gathered enough information to make a full assessment, and in all honestly, I do not have the expertise necessary to know with perfect accuracy. Which is part of why I would like to speak with you. Matthew told me some about your time together while in Scotland, and made it clear how he came to depend on you."
Mary nods. "We spent much time together. I came to depend on him as well, really."
This is something that Clarkson was not expecting to hear. "I believe you have very much aided him in his recovery. However, it appears that now he is struggling with separation. While what you have helped him achieve is wonderful, the goal would be for him to be fully recovered in his own right and comfortable alone as well as with others."
"I agree," Mary says. "I am glad to be by his side and I will be glad to be for a long time yet, but I know it is not healthy for him to need me so much as he does. But what do you propose to help him with this?"
"I'd like him to see a psychologist. I'm in the process of making inquiries, but there is someone in York who specializes in shellshock, as well as quite a few more in London, although of course that is further afield. I'm afraid the scope of my knowledge and abilities is limited in the realm."
Mary nods. "And what did he say to that?"
"He said that he did not trust a doctor to be able to help him, and he thinks it may do more harm," Clarkson says.
"That does not surprise me." Mary presses her lips together. "He had some difficult experiences with doctors in Scotland, and while he has not seen a psychologist, I think he is having a difficult time with trust in general."
Clarkson opens up the file again and looks over it. Yes, the lack of notes about mental health in this file make more and more sense. "He trusts you, though."
"He does," Mary says, "perhaps too much." She chuckles a little bit, although there is sadness in it.
"Would you try to convince him? That seeing a psychologist would be beneficial to his health?" Clarkson asks. "I don't normally like to ask this of people, but considering the situation, I believe it may work."
Mary looks at her lap and them up again. "Of course I will," she says firmly. "I've spent much of the last few months convincing him of his own worth; in comparison to that, this is a much simpler request."
"Very good. I will go and perform the physical examination now. Find a time to speak with him, and once you obtain a positive answer, please let me know and I will set up an appointment."
Mary stands up and nods. "Yes, of course. I hope your positive answer will not be too long in coming."
"Would you like some company this afternoon?" Mary asks, as they walk out the from door of the hospital to the waiting car.
"If you've the time," Matthew says, "I would never turn down your company."
She takes his arm and grins. "I've nothing but time," she says. "Although I'm not sure I can get away with staying for dinner… although if you'd like to join us, I'm sure you'd be welcome."
"After what happened last night…" Matthew trails off as they get into the car. "After last night, I think I might need at least another week to be up for one of those again."
Mary frowns and squeezes his hand as the car starts up. "I'm sorry about that. And you must know Papa is sorry as well. He was not malicious, but ignorant."
"Yes, yes, of course, but it still concerns me that… all it took to set me off was that," he says, with a frown, recalling the night before. He had escaped the room, almost in a state of panic, his mind back to the war and the horror of it all, and so much anger consumed him, anger toward those who perpetrated the lie that war was good, toward those who thought it could be normal again, toward the war itself. He couldn't have said any of this, or even identified the thoughts separately, but he was simply full of twisted memories and hurt and hatred. He could not even have said where he was, whether he was in the trenches again or in Scotland or at Downton, until Mary grabbed him and led him to a chair in the small library and held him, kissing his forehead and whispering everything and nothing to him. He found himself again, but not without shuddering tears and a deep sense of unease. And all because Robert had made a senseless comment.
Mary shakes her head and touches his face gently. "I know, I know. It's hard to be back where we can't avoid what's haunting us."
"Yes, yes. And Mary, what Cora said… was that bothering you?"
Mary shrugs. "Of course it bothered me. I don't think it ever could not bother me. But… last night, I spoke with Edith. And she told me about how she regretted sending my story to the Turkish ambassador and begged me for forgiveness. Of course, I couldn't do anything else, and it made me realize that perhaps… I can be forgiven too. Not just by you, not just by my parents, but by anyone who I am close to. And… somehow, now, that includes Edith."
Matthew squeezes her hand and smiles. "Oh Mary, I'm so very glad to hear that."
"Sometimes I still think that was a dream; can you imagine, before the war, Edith apologizing to me like that? So genuinely and openly? And me accepting such an apology? The war certainly changed both of us for the better I think." Mary realizes as soon as it comes out of her mouth that it was not the right thing to say, not at all.
Matthew's eyes seem to glaze over. "Not true for all of us."
She rubs the back of his hand with her thumb. "Perhaps not, but still, I see the positive changes in everyone, even in you." The car pulls up in front of the house and they step out, heading in toward the sitting room. "I see a man who is caring and loving and understanding and loyal and true despite what he has done through, and perhaps all the stronger for it."
He frowns, not quite believing what she says. "Mary, I…"
"No no, don't argue with me, because you know you'll never win."
This, much to Mary's relief, causes him to crack a smile. "Excuse me, I think I am perfectly able to hold my own against you in argument. Otherwise, you wouldn't have fallen in love with me. You could never respect a man who wouldn't stand up for what he believed," Matthew says.
"I do appreciate a good argument, where both parties are evenly matched," Mary says. "Speaking of which, I have another argument which I'm afraid I intend to win."
Matthew raises an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"
"I agree with Clarkson. You need to see a psychologist," Mary replies firmly. She sits beside him on the sofa and takes both of his hands in hers. "Look, I know you've had bad experiences, but you need to see a professional."
Matthew shakes his head. "I think… you've helped me so much already, and I don't want to shift that delicate balance with trying to…"
"Matthew. I'm of course doing all I can, because I care for you very much and I want to spend time with you, but Clarkson is right. You cannot solely depend on me for your recovery. I know that is hard for you to hear, and frankly it's hard for me to say that you should need me less, because this has been the first time in my life I've felt truly useful and I savor the sensation. But the truth is, I'm no expert and I have nothing to offer you but comfort and kisses, and now that we are back, I cannot be there for you all time. And I know you're already having difficulty sleeping…"
"What if we eloped? Then we wouldn't have to…"
Mary puts a finger to his lips, trying not to show her shock at his drastic solution. It is so unlike Matthew to suggest something like this, and it concerns her. "No, no. Believe me, darling, I want to marry you. But you said it yourself; you are not ready for a marriage yet. And trying to rush into something like that would cause more harm than good. This is what you need, to recover in your own right, without my interference."
He shakes his head. "Mary, I can't…" he whispers, his voice raspy. "I… you see, my brain has been so filled with the war and all of the horror of the war and for so long, that was all I could think of. And then there was you, and suddenly, if there was you, there was nothing but you in my mind, and that was good, because it meant there was no space for the war. I want you to fill my brain, not the war, and I don't want to go to some man who thinks that they understand what I've got through because they've got a few years of training in a brand new science and tell me that I can't cope the way that I'm coping. I'm so afraid that all of this that I worked so hard for, that it will all fall apart again if I try to change things. You help me, Mary, and I can live with that."
"But I can't," Mary whispers, biting her lip. "If I were capable, I'd be constantly by your side in a heartbeat. I love to help you, and I love to feel as if I'm of use, as if my life has value for someone else. But Matthew, this isn't healthy in the long run for either of us. I cannot be your only lifeline, your only comfort. You need to find these things within yourself, and I know you can. But you will need help, help that I cannot give." She buries her head in his shoulder and pulls him closer. "I love what we have, and I love how we've grown together, but I can't do anything more for you, at least not in that way. You must take charge of your own health now."
He frowns. "And you think a psychologist would help me do that?"
"Yes. Because even if they do not understand what you have been through, they know how the brain responds to trauma, and how to cure the brain of that trauma. They can help you recover in and of yourself, and not be dependent on others. And Matthew, you're the most independent person I know. You could never be happy to be dependent on someone else forever, and I would hate to see that from you."
He sighs and squeezes her hand tighter. "I hear you and I understand you, but… it's still so hard to believe. I'm not sure I can possibly…"
"One session. That's all I ask. Meet with someone, discuss things with them, and if they don't listen to you or dismiss how you feel, then we can look somewhere else. But if you feel like you have been heard, like there is the slightest possibility it may help, then keep working on it. Can you promise me that?"
"If… if you come with me," he says.
Mary closes her eyes and sighs. "Matthew, that's… that doesn't coincide with what we just discussed."
"I know," he says. "But I need to take small steps. And believe me," he pats his bad knee, "I know all about that."
Mary frowns, but slowly nods. "I will come with you to the appointment. I will greet the doctor with you, I can even provide him context if you want me to. But you have to talk to the doctor alone. Is that an appropriate compromise?"
He stares at his lap for a second, where their hands are intertwined. After what seems like forever, he raises his head and nods, smiling at her. "I think I can do that."
"And you're not… angry, about any of this. I hope you don't feel as if I'm trying to cast you off, I would never…"
He puts a finger to her lips and shushes her gently. "No, no, I understand. In my more rational moments, after what you said, I can see that… this isn't sustainable. I love you and I want to marry you, but I need to sort myself out first. That said, I might need reminders that you still…"
Mary doesn't let him say anything more, but leans over to kiss him, deeply and passionately, without hesitation.
"How's that for a reminder?" she asks, after a minute of nothing but each other.
He grins, his eyes shining. "I don't think after that, I could forget."
She scoots even closer to his on the sofa, placing both of her hands on top of his. "You know, everyone has already figured us out. Edith asked me, point blank, what was going on between us. You're quite obvious, I'm afraid."
"Who's to say you're not the obvious one?" Matthew jokes, pretending to be incredulous.
"I'm an expert at hiding my emotions and being discreet, and you… are not. Which never fear, I find rather charming, but… clearly, you've given us away."
Matthew rolls his eyes. "Well, Molesley implied to me this morning that he could sneak you in at night if I needed him too, so apparently we weren't quite so discreet in Scotland either."
"Did we need to be?" "I suppose not," he says. "I miss it, already. Being back under the rules and restrictions of living here is already proving to be difficult. But it was a step I needed to take, and I'm sure I'll be glad of it in the end."
Mary kisses his cheek. "Yes, you will. And you'll be glad of seeing someone else, and every day will bring new improvements. Scotland was a chance for us to refresh, and now this is the start of the rest of our lives."
"The start of the rest of my life will be when I finally can marry you," he whispers into her ear.
Mary feels chills from his touch, and she is just as excited for the prospect as he is. "Yes, I suppose we might have to wait for that. But let's make the most of the time in between. Can you do that?"
"I want nothing more than to be better for you," he says.
She squeezes his hand. "Remember who this is for. You want to be better for yourself. Otherwise there's no way to improve."
"Of course, of course," he murmurs. "Yes I want to be better for myself. But also for us. For our future."
They gaze out the window together, so close they feel as one. Mary leans her head on his shoulder again. "I think our future is getting brighter every day."
Honestly, I didn't think I was going to get another chapter done until I got home from my study abroad program in December, but somehow inspiration hit and I accidentally turned this into a 10,000 word monster of a chapter... so, surprise! They're finally home and finding their way back to normal life again! Thanks so much for sticking with this story and making it all the way through this chapter. It may be a little while again until the next chapter, but in about a month I'm going to Scotland so... ideally, inspiration will strike me again. I hope you enjoyed and if you care to, a review would really make my day!