They were moving Matthew from the London hospital to Downton. There would be another soldier that would be transferred along with him. Sybil and Doctor Clarkson brought the soldier in, his head bandaged. After they got him settled, it was time to bring Matthew in.
"How can I help?" She asked. She wanted to be by his side.
Major Clarkson took her to the side, "Lady Mary, I'm afraid Captain Crawley's condition might be distressing for you."
Her mind immediately pictured grievous injuries, missing limbs...She stopped herself, when she felt her younger sister brush her hand.
She's waited all this time and she wasn't going to take no for an answer. "I'm sure I can handle it. You need volunteers, right? I'm a volunteer."
As soon as she said the words Clarkson motioned toward the door. Two officers made their way in, bearing a stretcher. They were carrying him.
Clarkson cautioned them, "Gently. Gently."
Her breath almost caught at the sight of him. He wasn't awake, like the other man. His face had cuts and scratches, bruising under his eyes.
No matter how many times patients were often brought in and out of here, never had she imagined him being one of them. Her strong, unbreakable Matthew, looked as though he was made out of porcelain.
She could not describe what she was feeling.
"He's breathing at least." One of the officers said.
"Cousin Matthew, can you hear me?" Sybil asked, placing a gentle hand on his arm. He didn't stir.
"Hasn't been conscious since we had him." The other officer said. "They have 'im shot up full of morphine. He's gonna need it."
"Thank you." Sybil said. Their words barley registered to Mary, except for one.
Breathing. He was alive. But how dreadfully pale and close to death he looked. He would be fine. They said. She couldn't help but scan him over, to make sure all his limbs were there. All four present and accounted for. There didn't appear to be anything wrong. Then she noticed the tag tied to his pajamas. Scribbled in fine elegant scroll were the words,
Possible spinal damage. She said it out loud.
Her heart sunk in her chest, going all the way to her stomach. No they had to be wrong. A flash of memory of him walking, riding that bicycle of his, which he had a queer opposition about, keeping it when he had first come here, a staple of his freedom. What if he couldn't do either of those things again?
He's here. He's here alive. That's all that matters now.
"It could mean anything." Sybil said, hurriedly adjusting the pillows and linens to distract herself. "I think he needs a wash to prevent the risk of infection."
"What do we need to do first?"
"First thing, we'll disinfect the wounds with hot water before we change the bandages." The disinfectant in the open wounds would be excruciating if he hadn't been on morphine, or in some cases it wore off. And she didn't know how well her sister could handle the sight of blood, no matter the quantity. "This part can tend to be a bit grim."
"How hot does it need to be?"
Sybil smiled, respecting her sister's will not to back down. "Warm more than hot." He didn't wake up as Mary cleaned his wounds, and nor did she flinch or gasp at the gashes and abrasions, the dark blue and black bruise on his lower back, below his waist. She did feel momentary anger, at what they would leave behind. His body would forever carry the reminders.
She was memorized as she washed him (not by how still he was or how unnatural it all was for him to be so still, unable to feel or react); his thin but frail body was still muscular from his training and three years of war. She was thinking of all the times she had dreamed about touching him, she had never imagined it like this.
He didn't feel pain. Come to think of it he could feel nothing at all. Was he dead?
No. He couldn't be.
His mind was fuzzy. He did, as it happens did feel something. He felt like he was floating.
He could hear her calling his name. He was lying on the ground, in the garden at Downton, not on the grass less landscape of the battlefield. He almost panicked till she saw her face. Mary was hovering over him. Her beautiful face.
This must be a dream.
He did not want to wake up. He did not want to wake up back there. I can't go through all that again. Go through what? What had happened to him? He couldn't remember. All that mattered was that she was here. He prayed that she really was. And that his mind hadn't conjured her up.
Please, let this be real.
He struggled to open his eyes. At first it proved difficult. They felt heavy as if they were weighed down. He could sense her presence. She was close by. This had to be real.
Finally he managed to open them half way.
He could make out a blurry outline of a figure but he could tell that it was her.
"My darling." His own voice he didn't recognize. It was filled with unbounded joy but it sounded far away, slurred. He felt drowsy and found it hard to keep his eyes open. Before he closed them, he took in his surroundings.
They didn't look familiar. It wasn't a field hospital. He was in doors. And it wasn't a hospital in France. She wouldn't be here. He must be at Downton. But what was he doing here? Was he injured? He didn't feel any pain. He felt like he was floating. How had he gotten here? Where was William? Before he could panic, she grabbed his hand. He squeezed it back, albeit weakly.
I don't want to wake up from this. Please don't let me fall asleep and wake up.
She then gripped his hand tightly as if to let him know. That he was here. That this was real. He decided that she was. All that mattered now was that she was here.
Everything went dark again.
When he came round, he found that the drowsiness was almost gone but not by much. He was still a little hazy. But he was aware what was happening, even if it was a dream.
There were people surrounding him, his mind still in a fog. He didn't know if this was even real. Their hands touched his back, asking if he could feel, in some parts he couldn't.
"No." He managed to get out.
"Nothing at all." It sounded like Clarkson. He was talking to someone.
He was so tired.
"Sleep now, Captain. You earned it." An unfamiliar voice.
He felt himself drifting off.
The third time he awakened, she was there. He had hoped she would be. It was as if his thoughts had summoned her.
"Are you feeling a little less groggy?" She asked, smiling at him warmly. He didn't speak or couldn't. Was he even fully awake? Surely the morphine should have worn off by now.
His mind slowly processed her words. It was hard to think and he didn't know where he was at first. Then it all came back to him.
A shell had exploded near him and William. Then blackness. He recalled going in and out of consciousness, hands on his back, asking if he could feel. Feel what?
He couldn't feel. Why couldn't he feel? Well his upper body. It felt a bit chilled. Maybe he's still lying in the cold, wet trenches...
No.
He had thought he'd been lying in the warm sunshine, Mary hovering over him. Like she was now. He tried to think of what was wrong with him.
If this was a dream, he had to get back to William. To be sure he had to ask.
"How's William?" His voice was still slurred from the effects of the morphine. It was an effort for him to speak.
Mary waited patiently as he struggled to speak. It sounded like he was calling out for William.
Mary swallowed. Did he still think he was back there? She was about to correct him, tell him that he was here, safe. But would he be able to understand her?
Then finally, with more clarity, albeit still a little slurred and drowsy, "How's William?"
Mary hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should tell him.
"I know he tried to save me." He still couldn't remember it, all of it at least. They had been under heavy shelling. He had heard someone say how William had dove in front of him.
"Not good I'm afraid."
"Any sign of mother?"
"Not yet, but I'm sure she's making her way back by now."
"There seems to be something funny about my legs. I can't seem to feel them or move them. Did Dr. Clarkson say what that could be?"
He looked up at her. She was smiling, trying to be brave, trying to avoid the truth. "Why don't we wait for your mother, then we can all talk about it."
"Tell me."
"You haven't been here nearly twenty-four hours. Nothing would have settled yet."
"Please, tell me."
"Doctor Clarkson says...you might have damage to your spine."
"How long did he say it will take to repair?" He wanted to sound hopeful, but there was doubt in his voice, at the same time longing, that he would wake up from this nightmare. But he had to be ready to face the reality. But he wasn't.
"We can't expect to put timing on this sort of thing. The first thing is to focus on is regaining your health."
His eyes wondered to the ceiling, the worst of his thoughts confirmed. A part of him refused to believe it, that this couldn't be his life now, that this was all some dream. "I see." His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. He knows what is coming, but does not want to believe it.
"He says there's no reason you won't be able to live a full and normal life."
"Just not a very mobile one." He said, bitterly.
"We'll wait for your mother. Then we can start to make plans."
"Thanks for telling me. I know I'm blubbing, but I'd much rather much know."
"Oh, darling, blub all you like. You would like me to get you some tea? I know I would." She walked away, glad he couldn't see her face, and let the tears flow.
He lets himself feel nothing. After he breaks down, as his mother held him. Crying for his death. Because that's what it feels like. Like he had died.
He has to let Mary go. He could never be that man again. "Think of me as dead." He tells her.
He blocks out what is going on around him, what is being said. He knows he's being talked to but he says nothing. Then days and nights slip into each other.
He thinks about taking his life, only once. Someone had carelessly left a letter opener on his nightstand. He didn't need to use his legs to reach it.
But he can't.
He hears her voice pulling him back. He vaguely remembers her reading to him.
He couldn't do that to her, to his mother. It would be a cowards way out. It would do William no favors. It would be an insult to his memory. His sacrifice would have been for nothing.
He was Matthew Crawley. He always found a way to adapt.