Chapter 15: Cracks and Traces

July-September 1920

Tally went off to do her chores as Miss Patmore, though she felt overheated, sat by the stove and would check it and damp it every so often. She must have nodded off. Before she knew Daniel was running through the back door, opening the oven. As he took out the cake with oven mitts, Jimmie, Daniel's cousin fanned the smoke.

Daniel set the cake on the table, the edges blackened and the middle sunken in.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"Baking."

"Baking? More like burning the place to the ground!" Jimmie shouted.

"Matthew. Matthew!" She shook his shoulder. He was still where she had left him, in their bed. He had fallen asleep.

His eyes snapped open. Once they found her, he broke into a smile. Didn't he smell it?

"Miss Patmore burnt the cake."

"What..." He sounded drowsy, half awake. Slowly he sat up, leaning back against the pillows.

"Didn't you smell it?"

He shook his head. "I thought it was my dream." He caught the worry in her eyes. "It wasn't a nightmare. I was with the guys, sitting around the bond fire." He still smiled at the fond memory, one of very few they had in a world of hell.

"I thought the house was on fire. Papa told us when we came in." Robert had been worried about where Edith had been.

"We?"

"I went out looking for Edith."

"She still brooding then?"

"We were talking and...I don't know if it fixed things but..." She couldn't hide her worry anymore. If he couldn't smell the burning cake, caught up in his nightmares or memories of war, if the house had been actually on fire... She had worn him out, how would he have gotten himself out if he had? "She told me if it came down to it in the end, I'd always choose you. If something were to happen...

"If something were to happen, if you were in danger, I would want you to save yourself."

"No. I wouldn't leave you. I'd come back for you."

"I'd just slow you down."

"I wouldn't leave you." She repeated again. "I'd stay with you. Oh, Matthew, you know I couldn't live without you."

"Like Romeo and Juliet." She nodded against his chest. Mary, if we ever have children, and you're in danger, I'd want you to save yourself and the children first. Promise me..." She raised her head. He knew she was going to protest.

"Mary..." He closed his eyes tightly.

"I promise." She laid her head back down and he kissed the top of it.

She wondered if she believed him. That he hadn't had a nightmare. She didn't want to approach it. Right now she just wanted to stay in his arms, where she felt safe. Did he feel safe?

A few nights ago, she had held him after he had awoken, still in the throws of a nightmare. It had been about Patrick. They had just read his letter.

Would he ever be free of them? A little voice answered, it will always stay with him. He'd always have the nightmares. But she had discovered that with her by his side they had lessened.

September 1920

They had been married three months and still nothing yet. He wanted to voice his concern to Robert, it would be less uncomfortable than discussing it with his mother. She would be thrilled to be a grandmother, but knowing the possibility that he might not be able to give her that, give Robert the heir he needed, the child he and Mary needed, the pain of it was overwhelming. He felt there was an empty hole in his life. He could not think of a life where he and Mary were without children, but the fact remained that they just might never have them.

"I don't think I can give you an heir."

"The doctor you've been seeing, what does he say on the matter? He did say that there's a chance. Or has anything changed?" It was evident that Robert was trying to hide his desperation.

"It will be harder for us. When Mary and I had found out that it was going to be a struggle to have children, but not an impossibility, there was no clear-cut option available in terms of talking about all of this. She tells me it doesn't matter to her. But I know she wants to be a mother." He thought back to when Sybil had sent a letter from her and Tom in Dublin, announcing her pregnancy. They would be arriving back to Downton in November, a month before her due date.

The news had bothered Mary, though she had expressed how delighted and thrilled, there had been a sense of longing. Or when the time she was at a social gathering with the ladies about her age, already with children, talking about them. He had walked in on it. Mary had to just sit there awkwardly, having nothing to contribute to the conversation.

"I try more than anything to make her laugh as much as possible. I was always good at that, but it seems more important than ever. I also try to remind the both of us that we can only control what is directly in front of us."

"That's the ticket. Stay optimistic, but also take it one step at a time."

Matthew nodded. "I worry about the odds."

"You mustn't do that either. If nothing else...Have you and Mary considered adoption?"

"Yes, of course. That's not all I'm worried about. I don't think I'd make an efficient earl."

""You and Mary have discussed this. I thought..."

"I still have nightmares. I suppose I will always have them. It could have an effect."

"I'm sure that there is no doubt that Mary can handle her share of affairs."

"Yes, but..." Anticipation and frustration coursed through Matthew. When she is wakened by my nightmares, having to comfort me like an infant, she losses sleep. Compromising us both. He buried the anger that tried to boil to the surface. He still had bouts of anger or crying, but now he was getting very good at hiding it. Not knowing why was still infuriating. "I have bad days and good days. Bad days, I'm angry or, a bad day like today, I cry or feel like crying. And I don't know why." He didn't even know why he was telling Robert all this. He supposed of all people he would be the only person who'd come close to understanding.

Robert took a moment, considering, choosing the right words to say. "Because every day or year that passes, is a reminder that you're alive. They're not. You're feeling both guilty and happy, and feeling guilty about being happy. That's human."

Matthew didn't know if that could be it. That is was something so simple as that. To error is human. To war is human. A war that was still seared in his brain, that will never loosen its grip, just when it's about to, it takes hold again, with its smoke like tendrils, traveling through the crevices like trailing it's way through trenches.

"You know one of the most terrifying thing was when they blew the whistle to go over to the top. The first wave went and the second, and the third, had to go through the dying and the dead." He stopped, couldn't continue. He looked down at the pattern of the rug, till the pattern didn't make sense anymore.

"You had to survive and fight for your family. There should be no shame in that. All I ever wanted was happiness for you and my daughter. And if you have to adopt, that child will be loved and cared for as if it were your own." Robert continued before he could start to doubt himself. "You've been an incredible husband to Mary. I have no doubt you'd make an incredible father." Matthew was deeply touched but before he could think of anything else to say, Robert changed the subject. "I know you still have your doubts but you'll be an exceptional earl someday as well. There's no one else I'd rather trust this place to."

"Thanks, Robert. You have so much faith in me." He smiled meekly, thinking that his faith was wasted on him and misplaced.

"I think that within itself is cause for celebration." Robert turned to the drinks cabinet and poured two glasses for them, instead of having them brought up.

"And what is the cause for this celebration?" Mary was now standing in the doorway. Her ears must have been burning and if she had known they had been talking about her.

"About how great an Earl I'll be someday." Matthew turned his gaze to her and smiled. Though the smile was false, Mary didn't seem to see through it. She accepted it and joined them for a drink, while Robert discussed the birthday dinner he had planned for Edith.

Which reminded Mary that she had yet to give her sister a gift. Later when she and Matthew were walking back to their rooms, she asked him what type of music Edith liked.

"Anything that I like, she will." Was his response.

"You don't think It'll be trying too hard?"

"No, not at all."

"Or do you think she'd accuse me of it?"

"I think she'll understand...that you're just trying to be her sister."

Mary gave Edith her gift before luncheon. It was just her, Mary and Matthew in the sitting room.

"Oh, Mary! Where ever did you get this?" She was overly excited to wait for an answer. She said she would put it on later. Matthew insisted that she could put it on now.

It took him back to a simpler time. It had mostly been listened to during the war. Mary had been perplexed, thinking she could have liked something newer, as was her usual taste, according to Matthew.

After the birthday dinner, which was mostly spent in silence, (though they did joke about Miss Patmore having burnt the birthday cake) they joined Edith in the drawing room. She was reading a letter.

"What is that you're so glued to?" Mary asked.

"This weeks column. I have to send it in tomorrow."

"What's it about?" Matthew immediately sat down in the arm chair. He would always sit down after entering a room. Mary was quite used to it. She stood beside him, her hand on top of the head rest.

"The poor soldiers. How many of them are reduced to begging on the streets and some officers are working as dance partners in night clubs.

"After the trenches even the Embassy Club must seem an improvement." Matthew said.

"You shouldn't make fun of them!" Edith wore a distasteful expression.

"She forgets that it was you in the trenches, not her." Mary said, patting her husband on her shoulder. "Well, I'll be going off to bed." She whispered in his ear, hinting.

"I'll be along in a bit."

Edith sat up straight, as Mary left the room, as if waiting for an apology. As his eyes met hers, she found herself shifting her gaze elsewhere, when she saw a darkness in his eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry. Sometimes...I thought joking about it would help."

Edith raised her chin for a moment, a jester that said, that's no excuse. And she was right.

"I was thinking of starting a workshop, with your mother, at the old workhouses." She continued. "to help the soldiers re-build the necessary skills. I wonder if you'd like to tag along some time. Talking to them might..."

"No." He immediately got up from the sofa. "I must be going. I mustn't keep Mary waiting." He promptly left the room as fast as what was possibe for him, but it wasn't very.

He took Sunday afternoon tea with his mother at Crawley house. It was beginning to become a habit, a routine he was coming to enjoy. He got a sense that she quite enjoyed it compared to taking tea at the Dower House with Cousin Violet. The old Dowager Countess had become some what of a grandmother figure to him. Violet had her own soft spot for Matthew. He could just imagine how that would play out if the three of them ever had tea together. He was smiling about it as he pictured it more clearly, when his mother came in to join him.

Immediately he could sense and aura about her reminiscent of the day she had broken the news that their old neighbor died, two months ago.

No, wait. There was something slightly different. This was a bit deeper. He hoped that these teas wouldn't always bring bad news.

She wasn't holding a letter or the paper in her hand like she usually did. But she was holding her stationary and parchment.

"Matthew, I need to have a word with you." She said. As she sat them aside, she sat down opposite of him. Her hand rested on the table, making a slight movement, if she didn't know if she touch his hand.

"Is it serious? It's not bad news?"

"You recall when I was in France with the Red Cross."

"Yes, you volunteered there when Cora got on your nerves when you couldn't decide on how to run things with the convalescence but in truth, mother, we both know it was to be closer to me."

"Yes. Everyday I feared that you would end up in the field hospital where I was working or be taken to one where I couldn't reach you."

"I'm doing fine, mother, if you're worried about me." He unfolded a napkin and put it on this lap, taking a biscuit. He examined it. Raisins or blueberries? He liked neither. He set it back down on a separate napkin so that the crumbs wouldn't get on the table.

"I'm not."

"Well, thanks."

"I only meant that you're doing well."

"I am."

"That wasn't the only reason that I was there. Before you were injured I was staying with my cousin Marguerite."

"I remember you telling me about her once. Her husband died before the start of the war and you've been in contact with her."

"Yes." Isobel nodded, "we've been in correspondence ever since. Remember her son Thomas and his sister Sarah? Tommy is ten years older than you and he has a son about eighteen."

"Yes. You mentioned that as well. How is it we're related to them again?"

"My mother's sister's side. She was a Roux, Marguerite's maiden name. She married a Werner."

German. She had pronounced it with the V. There was a shiver in the air and disdain in his posture even though rationally he knew he shouldn't feel that way, or think that way. Many Germans had been duped into the war just as their own troops had been.

"They used to live near Alsace Lorraine, near the border."

"Did they fight for France?"

"Germany." His mother said. "Many families have fought on opposite sides since the beginning of time, Matthew."

"Since the days of Cain and Able, I know." He said sarcastically, then more serious, "There's no need to lecture me, mother. I don't feel that way. It's not their fault they got brainwashed into that mess just as our own men. They were fighting in their father's name, as I was mine." He ate in silence. "I'm afraid I'm a little rusty on the family history when it comes to your side. I'd like to know more."

"As you know, my mother's name was Elise. She was born in England."

"I always thought she was French."

"Goodness, no. That's where she met your grandfather, Jonathan. My grandmother wanted her to marry a nice Parisian man. Do you remember her, your great grandmother, Jean-Marie? The two of you were very close."

"No. I don't recall."

"No. I thought not. She died when you were four. She held out her hopes that it would fall to me, that I'd be the one to marry a Frenchman. But she liked your father and absolutely adored you."

Matthew had never met his maternal grandparents, both had died before he was born, his paternal grandfather as well. He had only known his paternal grandmother, Eleanor. That had relationship had always been a tumultuous. Isobel was never good enough for her son. No one would have been good enough but she had been a bit softer on Matthew because he was part of him.

"I hadn't heard from Marguerite since 1917. I just received the news a few days ago. That's when Tommy and his son, Peter were killed." They had both fallen at Passchendaele. Peter had run straight into enemy fire, leading the charge. His father probably ran after him to bring him out but it had been too late. Peter was already dead. Tommy had been severely wounded and taken to hospital but died a week later. She looked up at her son, slowly, hoping to read his expression but he was looking down.

"People are still being claimed by this war, long after it's end." He supposed it would in the several years to come. They were still recovering bodies. He had heard it in the pub. Rumors were floating around that it could take up to three years before they were done. At least for Patrick, his remains had been brought home to them. So many others that would be recovered would go into unmarked graves. There was a moment of silence, intentional or not.

"I was thinking of taking a trip."

His head shot up. "Not to France?!" It was filled with strong disapproval and equal parts shock. "Why on earth would you want to go back there?"

"She lost her son and grandson Matthew. Sarah lost a brother, and a nephew, and her children an Uncle."

"It's been years. These people...you don't really know them. You don't owe them a thing. " She was going to go to another part of the world, alone, to stay with people that probably didn't really care about her. Things were just starting to go right between them. "Why would she tell you about this now?"

"These wounds take a long time to heal, Matthew." She rested her hand on his. "You should know..." He flinched away. "I want to go see their graves, to pay my respects. It's not that I would be alone. You and Mary could come...

"No. Absolutely not." He was on his feet. "I can't ever go back. At least...not to those places. It's no place for a woman to go...to know of those things. I will not subject Mary to that."

"He's frightened. Isobel thought. That's why he's objecting. This has nothing to do with Mary, at least probably not entirely. What was he so afraid of? What did he not want them to know?

"I don't doubt that she can handle it, " He was trying not to bit his lower lip, a habit she had broken him of in childhood.

"Some of those places, " She spoke softly to him, "won't look the same. They're starting to rebuild."

"No."

"Many women are going to visit where their loved ones are buried. You can go see your friends."

"I said no." His eyes darkened, his voice matched, menacing. He then saw his mother's expression, the fear and worry in her eyes. He took a step back, as well as mentally.

Calmly he spoke. It was as if a switched had been flipped and her son was back. "Maybe I can talk about it. Someday. I just can't...I can't ever go back." He repeated and left the room.

He's afraid it would set something off. She hadn't thought. She had been focused on how it could help him, not harm him. She wanted to follow him and tell him, tell him what? She found that she couldn't move from her chair. All Isobel could do was stare at the space he had been, tears trailing down her face. For the first time she felt so lost. She didn't know how to help him, her own child. She hadn't since his return.

Mary and Matthew took lunch in their rooms that following day, where they had also had breakfast in bed. Matthew had been mostly silent through both meals.

She had recently been thinking about the day he left, six years ago, August of 1914. There had been an awkward silence between them, the day he departed, as they had decided just to be cousins. Then the first time he had come back home on leave in 1915 she had began noticing some changes.

He'd sit in from the fire without saying a word, worlds away. She wondered what he had seen in those flames. At dinner, he had had the same far away look in his eyes, even though he had turned his head away, she had seen it, when she had asked him what it was like. She had been young and foolish then for asking. The rain had been pelting against the windows. Had he imagined that they were bullets, the lightening and thunder, as shells exploding? It was so far away now to ask.

He had left the next day, after the church service. She had given him that stuffed old dog. She wondered what would have happened if she had done more. If she had told him that she had loved him then, would he not be like this now? In 1916, there had been a little bit of silence here and there. He had always seemed quite anxious to leave. He had rather been back over there than here, sometimes. He had said. It didn't feel right that he was here and so many were still dying.

"You forget for one second that it's still going on. It doesn't seem real." He hadn't explained to her what he had meant by that, maybe that had been when he first started to break with reality. She hadn't seen it or hadn't wanted to.

Then in 1917 after his injury, there had just been silence. She had convinced herself that he was still the same man. He still was but there was no denying that sometimes, he was a far cry from the man that he was.

During 1916, they had continued to write as cousins but as the months had gone on, their letters had begun to have deeper meaning. Or they had both imagined it, they had both thought, because of the war? But Matthew had written that he couldn't go on like this, just being friends. That's when he had invited her up to London when he was on leave, where he proposed to her on the balcony of his hotel room. He had gone missing after that for several weeks, almost a month. Now he was lapsing back into that silence, retreating. He still is missing in a way.

He always gets this way when something is troubling him. It doesn't mean that it's always the war.

"You've been awfully quiet today." She said as she put a teaspoon of sugar into her mug. Miss Patmore had some left over from the cake. That would mean no sugar till next month. They would have to do without desert.

"My mother and I were talking. She wants to go to France and suggested that you and I join her."

"Why would she want to go there? I know she has relatives there."

"Yes. Relatives of ours died."

"What did you say?"

"No worse than I had to Edith the other day."

She wondered where Edith came into this and a bit disappointed that she hadn't seen it. "Why, what did you say to poor Edith?"

"I said no and stormed out. She and my mother were thinking of using the workhouses for soldiers, to teach them skills to go back into the workforce. I don't know why she would give that up just to go to France. Mother never backs out of her projects. I suppose she thought she was trying to help."

There was a knock at the door and Mary got up to answer. It was Carson.

"Mr. Crawley, your mother wishes to see you."

"Shall I send her away?" Mary asked Matthew, teasing, as she could see that he was inwardly brooding.

"Send her in Carson."

Mary left the two of them alone to talk.

"Matthew about yesterday, I shouldn't have pressured you."

"No, not at all. There's no need to apologize. You were only trying to help."

"You're as stubborn as me. You'd rather help people than ask for it yourself."

"I don't need any help, mother. Mary and I are handling it. We're getting through it."

"Are you?"

Matthew slightly glowered over his tea cup. "I know tensions got a little high yesterday. I forgot to ask about the workshop you and Edith were planning, for the soldiers, how willing you were to give that up."

"Ah, yes. And I wasn't going to give that up. I was going to talk to you about that. I won't be going to France."

"Mother, I'm not stopping you from going..."

"I'll write to Marguerite and her family. You were right. I have an obligation to uphold. Obligations should be for the living, not the dead."

"Mother, that's not what I..."

"You could come talk with the soldiers, if you'd want to. When you're ready. If not to help yourself, to help them. It would help boost their morale."

"I'll think about it." In other words mean, he wouldn't.

As he watched his mother go, he wondered what it was that he was feeling. He felt crowded out of his own mind. These men had suffered more than he could imagine, more than he had. Isn't it self indulgent to continue to think this way, to think about nothing than his own feeling, his own suffering? He had no one to talk to about such things and managed to just blunder his way through. He could try to not to feel anything, like before. To feel nothing at all seemed sufficient. Certainly would be less painful. It would be selfish to, to do that to Mary after all they'd been through.

He thought of the list he had made, the promises he had made to himself in order to get better. One of them he had been avoiding. Being around others like him. He could just listen to them. Just by being there, his presence could help them. His mother probably would tell them about him. He owed it to them.

He took out his army trunk and valise. He hadn't opened them since his return. His belongings had arrived weeks before he had been found, when he was presumed missing. Far as he knew no one had opened it since then. But his uniform had gotten there somehow, eventually. Someone had to have had retrieved his red jacket from it. He couldn't imagine Mary going through these things. Mary had instructed to Miss Hughes to get rid of it. What possibly had gone through her mind, it was the war office telling them he was dead. He had learned this information from the housekeeper herself, when she had returned his belongings to him. "I feared, she was making a mistake. That she'd want them someday. " He hadn't wanted it either, though he sensed that Miss Hughes would make the same statement , he took it. Since then he had hid it away, without mentioning it to anyone.

His father's service bible rested on top, issued to every service man, even medics. The picture or Mary he had kept between the pages, wasn't there. He had kept two. One in a frame he had kept on his desk in his bunker, probably now buried under rubble. The other he kept in the good book, not just as a bookmark, marking each passage, it was his inspiration to keep going, not just the good word. It was probably blasphemy but God's words of comfort hadn't been enough to keep him going. He wouldn't have gotten out of it on His Word alone. It was thinking of her. It was hearing from Mary in her letters, writing to her, and looking at her picture, hoping to return to her. It could have fallen out and gone to the bottom of the case, but that would mean he'd have to take out everything.

He set the bible aside. He turned back to the open trunk, hesitating for what seemed like ages. His fingers grazed over the uniform fabric, barely touching it. It was as if he feared it would burst into flames if he touched it if he picked it up or cause a spark and sear his flesh. He held his breath as he took it out. He unfolded the jacket, only letting out a sharp breath when he saw the state of it. It was more like rags than an uniform. The back of it hang in ribbons from where it had been cut from him. It looked as if it had belonged to a dead man, not to him. He really had been close. He folded it neatly at set it where he had placed the bible. There nothing else but his service revolver. He could feel the corner of his mouth involuntarily pull into a grimace. Disgust at the thing that had taken so many lives. Only he had been responsible.

How could he keep these things, that harbored so much darkness?

He'd pack it all up and never look at it again. That's all he could decide to do at the moment. Still he thought of Mary's picture and her still had his valise to check. They could be in there. It felt like a heavy weight, getting heavier by the second every time he went through the contents that tied to the darkest stain in his past. He had to keep going. His hand wrapped around something thick. Withdrawing them he saw that they were a stack of letters. He untied the string that held them together, taking the one from the top.

You say you don't want to burden me with the horrors but you mustn't hold back because of me. Why should I be sheltered?

There was no date on the top but he estimated it had to be about the time he had told her about the rats, how big they were and how the men had used them for target practice when they were bored. He knew she wouldn't be squeamish about it because he had pointed out what a good avid hunter she was. He smiled but slightly shivered when he pictured them. Crawling over you in the trenches, getting as much sleep as you can, the foul creatures staring at you with their dark beady eyes as if they were waiting for you to die, as they feasted on the men that were already dead. He had left the previous part out of course. It wasn't because he feared that she couldn't handle, even the small things like that, it was still hard to talk about it. It still hurt too much. What would happen if he did? Had lain all of it out in the open, all the horrible things he had done? Would she still be able to look at the same way, love him? She can never know that deepest darkest part of him.

He continued to read.

I feel the same kind of guilt when I speak of the goings on here at Downton, the dinners and parties in Garden Square, when you're over there, going through all that. Compared to where you are, this must seem like a far off fairyland. I will try to think of you safe and that you will safely return to me, Cousin. But I can't help but imagine with all that noise above your head, that you feel anything but, and it would be hard to rest. How alone you must feel, with that new promotion, demanding more of your time. You have so little time and energy at the end of the day to talk to anyone about the things that matter and I have all of those things, and I choose to talk about parties. I suppose it helps that I'd like to think you're just away and not in the face of danger. I suppose now, in that little bunker of yours, you're as safe as you could ever be. I carry your photograph everywhere I go. What I mean by everywhere, I mean at home. I keep it by my bedside. I hide it when mother or Edith come in.

That was very generous of Sybil, sending the socks, any way she can help the war effort, she does it. And you giving away your extra pair. I am so sorry to hear about your friend. I know you wanted justice for him, but running after that German, Matthew, do be more careful. Don't do anything careless like that again. I won't forget what you said to me last time, but I believe that you will come home. Just have hope. If not for me, for your mother's sake. If there's anyway you can avoid putting yourself in danger, in a situation you have control over, please do so. If my words don't get across to you, even though I had a chance to prevent it in someway and you still do something foolish, I will never forgive myself. Please come back in one piece. Promise me.

Your darling cousin,

Mary.

He set it down without looking at it. Tears threatened to fall. He hadn't come back in one piece. In no way he could have promised...but that wasn't what she had meant. She had wanted him to take precaution and not do anything foolish. Too much pain and memories. So many things had transpired since then. They had become more than just cousins again. He had suggested that she stop calling him cousin and Captain, a promotion he didn't deserve. It hadn't been handed to him because of his status of future Earl or how many men he had killed, too many of the old ones were dying. A title earned by blood either way.

Would it have been easier, if they had remained cousins? No. They had come this far. They were married and happily so, weren't they? Of course they were. He wouldn't change a thing. One could not live without the other. Out of all the mistakes he had made, Mary was not one of them. Any struggle they could take on together. Even if most of them were his inner battles. He could not take it on all on his own. These handwritten words were a testament of that, including how she had stayed by his side, took a vow for better or for worse. Of all the triumphs and obstacles they had so far overcome, the could overcome anything, couldn't they? But she had yet to see the worst. It was a matter of time, how long he could hide it from her. He tucked the letters back. Maybe he could bring himself to read the rest some other time. He couldn't find her other picture. It was someone else's to cherish now.

Hearing her voice, mesmerized by it, he stood frozen. He wouldn't be able to put it all back in time. Yet a part of him didn't want to. He wanted her to see. See what? That he was doing alright? That everything will be fine after all?

She came into the room, after speaking to Isobel. Well, it had been more of an argument. What had she been thinking? Asking Matthew go to France. Mary hadn't been just worried about what it could undo, but what it could do to his health. When the weather got cold it was suggested he stay inside and quarantine him from people who were sick. Chest infections and pneumonia were high risks for paralytics,(even partial ones) and the leading causes of death.

"You should know that. You're a nurse. And you wanted him to go all the way across the world."

He wasn't expected to live past his forties. He would be lucky to make it to fifty. She wanted to spend much time as she could and cherish it. Whatever time he had left.

What good would come of him traveling all the way to the other side of the world. that part of hell he lived through for three years?

"Doctors can be wrong. Clarkson was wrong." Isobel had said.

Mary wanted to believe that herself.

When she saw the suitcase, lying on the bed, she herself became frozen, looking down at the contents, neatly packed away. "I..." She began choking on her words. It was like seeing a ghost, seeing that suitcase back. "I asked Miss Hughes to get rid of it."

"I'm glad she didn't." He reached out his hand and placed it on her shoulder. She looked up into those impossible blue eyes. For the first time, in a long time, it seemed, she was truly looking at her Matthew. She drew up her hand to touch his face, to see if she hadn't imagined it.

He nodded in response, that said, "I'm here." The lines around his eyes appeared as he smiled. She put her arms around his shoulders and leaned into a deep passionate kiss, as if they had been away from each other for so long. There was something that was also new. A passion, she hadn't known. A strong passionate fire that burned with intensity, underneath her skin. She wondered if he felt it too.

"I needed this." He whispered against her. "I'll be alright. It'll be alright now. I just..." I just need you to love me. "I need to..." His hand traveled down to her blouse.

"Oh, Matthew!"

He pulled away for a moment, looking into her eyes. And in that moment she saw, or thought she saw his start to get that far off gaze.

No. Please stay. Come back. Come back.

And for the first time in a long time, he stayed.