The third time he proposed to her was on Christmas Eve. She had found it even more romantic than when he had proposed to her on the balcony of his hotel room in London. The first time they had been young and foolish. He had been twenty-eight and she had been twenty-two. It had been on the spot and impulsive, after he had rescued Sybil. Her sister's hero. The second time, (a war hero, a soldier) they had been fueled by emotions that ran high in wartime, the most prevalent being fear, of losing a loved one, of there not being a tomorrow.
They had come so far since then, in so many ways. It had taken him a year to move on from his crutches to a stick, just in time for their wedding. They were married in the summer, June of 1920. They could start where they should have, all those years ago. Now it was finally here. They had both been anxious, laying together for the first time. She had to be on top. She would have to help him, guide him. It was different, than it had with Pumak. This had a special meaning. It wasn't lust. It was love.
He couldn't feel her, but he could feel the pressure, her cries of pleasure, shuttering through him. He was done before she could finish. She could sense his embarrassment and devastation. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Doctor Jacobson had explained that it would difficult. They had plenty of time to practice. She had said to him.
He was pleased with that. "God, I hope so." He gave her a kiss on her forehead and rolled over on his side, his back to her. The sheet slipped off his shoulders revealing a road map of scars. She could almost forget. She moved in closer, tracing them with her fingers. As she did so, he took in a sharp intake of breath.
"Does it hurt?" She asked, wanting to kiss every one of them, but she knew he would not be ready for it.
"Mmm, no." He replied, almost lost in her touch. He couldn't believe that she was. When he reached his lower back, he couldn't feel her, just as he hadn't been able to feel himself inside her. "Does it disgust you?"
"No." How could he think that?
"Good, you're stuck with me." He said, teasingly.
When she had woken in the middle of the night, he wasn't bedside her. She instantly panicked, wondering where he had gone. She found him on the sofa, in the throws on a nightmare, calling out for his dead friends. Names she didn't recognise. Then he was calling out for Patrick, to William. Was he trying to save them in his dream? Or was he reliving the horrors that he had seen done to them?
"Matthew, it's alright. It's me, Mary. We're in Scotland."
He just stared at her, wordlessly as the confusion faded.
After his nightmare, she had yet to see that the worst was yet to come, she helped him back into bed. They laid and talked for almost the rest of the night, not discussing what had just happened. They spoke of common day things, beautiful things. She saw saw the moisture in his eyes. She wasn't niave to see that he was still a broken man. They were taking small steps at a time.
She spoke of how she felt when he had proposed to her in the snow. She had felt cold at first but when he had asked her, she hadn't felt cold at all.
"All I kept thinking was, he's going to propose. He's going to propose!"
"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away."
She looked up at him, surprised, wondering where this had come from. He bent his head down to kiss her. They stayed laying in each other's arms.
He was sitting with his mother in the day room at Crawley house. It had been a few weeks since he had returned from the honeymoon. He'd been waiting for her to surprise her. She was ecstatic when she had seen him upon entering, a letter in her hand. He could tell instantly that it's contents had bothered her.
"Mother, what is it?"
"Mr. Besler died last night." She said, joining him at the table. "His funeral is on Wednesday."
Memories flashed through his mind like a newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days and as a young adult. At least they weren't the usual torments of war. Mr. Besler had been their neighbor back in Manchester, for as far back as Matthew could remember.
"Matthew, did you hear me?" Fearing, perhaps he had gone off to the war again.
"Oh, sorry, Mother. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I thought he died years ago," Matthew said. He had always seemed an ancient man, even back then, when he'd been a small child.
"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it.
"I loved that old house he lived in."
"You know, after your father died, Mr. Besler stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.
"I was twenty-one."
"You still needed your father."
Matthew didn't say anything to this. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he pretended to look at the newspaper, skimming through it. He didn't find anything that peaked his interest.. There was something about American Woman getting the right to vote. He'd have to show that to Edith and Sybil later.
"He's the one who taught me how to be a lawyer ," he said, neatly folding the paper. Most of the people who had inspired him had been. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important." Though he did rebel against his parents wishes, becoming a doctor, and decided to be a lawyer instead, Mr. Besler, had a big part in that decision. He thought of all the times the old man had been there instead of his parents. "Mother, I'd like to attend the funeral."
"Are you sure? That you'd be up for it? You just got back."
"I know. It wasn't what I had in mind for my second trip."
"I meant, if it's too much for you..."
"I'm perfectly well rested. I want to get out as much as I can." The train ride he was dreading again. It was the thought of being packed in with all those bodies. Claustrophobia. A result of a man being buried under ruble and with no company but dead bodies for hours. He had to get out more often or keep busy in order to keep what was left of his mind. He mustn't let his limitations get in the way.
"I was starting to think I would never go back. I want to go. To say my goodbyes." He had never been able to say goodbye to so many.
"Do you think Mary will be on board with the plan?" Her daughter in-law was always making a fuss over him, over his health. She should be thankful at times but Isobel still felt that was her job too, she should be allowed to. And they had recently just gotten back from their honeymoon, having spent only a week as husband and wife and now he was going away.
"She'll understand, it's something I need to do. Alone, with you."
"I hired a nurse and Molesley with be coming with us."
Mary was understanding and let him go, though she hated to be without him. Mr. Besler's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.
The night before they had to return home, they stopped by to see the old house next door one more time. Wheeling through the doorway, he paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. Like H.G Well's Time Machine. The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture. Matthew then stopped suddenly at his desk.
"Matthew, is something wrong?"
"The box is gone," he said
"What box?"
"There was a small box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most.' He figured someone from the Besler family had taken it.
"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Matthew said, giving a sigh. "I better get some sleep. We have an early train ride home."
It had been about two weeks since Mr. Besler died. Returning home from the office, he had managed to make it out today. He wasn't quite used to the stares yet, he was unsure if he ever would, Carson had his post waiting for him.
The package was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.
"Mr. Harold Besler" it read.
Matthew took the box and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope. His hands shook as he read the note inside. This was why he'd been inclined to read Patrick's letter. It would hurt much worse.
"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Matthew Crawley. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, he carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.
Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover. Inside he found these words engraved: "Thanks for your time!"
He held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.
"Why?" Janet, his secretary asked.
"I need some time to spend with the people I love and say care for," he said. "Oh, by the way, Janet, thanks for your time!"
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away.
He had to read Patrick's letter now. It was the only way he could lay him to rest. And to finally start to move on.