After the strange dinner where Tom came and went with the soup, Matthew went upstairs to turn in, as he often did. He'd stay up for a few hours. Mary went up with him. She even stayed through his routine with Bates. Matthew would take a bath before bed and he needed help getting out of the tub. They had installed bars on the walls on either side of the tub to make it sufficient for him to pull himself up but it was stepping over the rim that proved difficult. It took only one person now. Bates and Daniel would often alternate. Then he would lay Matthew's pajamas out. Matthew still had a thing about people dressing him and he was more than glad when he regained most of his mobility back and could do it himself. Once he was dried off and changed, he wanted to have a word with Tom, to see if he was alright. Mary was quick to thwart him.
"Sybil is probably having a word with him now." Mary replied. She wanted to have this special time with him. Tom was Sybil's husband after all.
"What do you mean?"
"My darling, he wasn't ill. He was obviously up to something. Though no one else noticed."
"Speaking of noticing things, I couldn't help noticing something between your father and Lady Sinderby."
"They've been seeing a lot of each other. Since New Years."
"Why didn't you tell me?" It was loud enough that if someone were to walk by the door they could have heard.
She shushed him. "This is exactly why I don't tell you anything." Or he didn't listen, unless it was about something he was interested in. Typical male. She loved him none the less. "We couldn't be sure."
"We?"
"Granny, Aunt Rosamund and I."
He nodded, his guess confirmed.
"This remains between us."
"Your secret is safe with me." He leaned in and gave her a kiss. "You women make fools of us men." He glanced over to the bedside table where their wedding photo was. "I don't know why you had to chose that one. I look like a fool." In the photo he had his head turned toward her, oblivious to the camera. To her he was looking at her loving, taking no notice of anything else in the world but her. That was what she loved about it.
"But you're my fool." She said gladly. He kissed her again and lied back.
"I want to try." She said after a long moment.
His eyes fluttered over her. "If you want to."
"I want you to want to, too. It won't be as enjoyable." She was already making her way over to him, slinking her arm around him.
He could only think of their last failed attempt.
"I'm sorry." He had whispered to her. As she had realized what was happening, he had felt utterly livid. She had seen it written all over his face and wished she could do something so that he would never have to have that expression again, anything to make him feel like a man, convince him he didn't need that side of things to be one.
"It'll take time to adjust." She had repeated the doctor's words.
"Maybe I was right the first time. To send you away. Though it had been indecently cruel of me."
"What would have been the decent way?"
"I didn't think I had the right to ruin your life, Mary. You deserve so much more than I can offer. You need someone wonderful in your life. Someone whole."
"You are whole." She wouldn't listen to his excuses. She had listened to them all. Even long before their marriage. Even when she had told him, after he told her the possible complications.
"I'm not a blessing, Mary." He had said. "Life with a man in a wheelchair is not a blessing by any you were to seek your...attentions elsewhere, I wouldn't fault you."
She had been angry and rightfully so. "How dare you suggest something like that. I promised to be faithful to you, to be with you, for better or for worse. I don't see this as the worst. How could you think I would..."
"I don't know what to say to you." He had hardly ever did anymore. But she would put that behind her. There would be other attempts, they just had to keep trying. "Other than I'm sorry." He had added.
"You have given me the only real love I've ever had. You don't own me an apology."
She leaned down to kiss him. And he had gently pulled her toward him, returning her kiss. As he had held her, her hand went down to his trousers, finding what she was looking for, though not able to feel her but the heat of the passion; he had forgotten his lost manhood.
Now, thinking of that memory, he felt desire race through him. There was no question what was happening. Both of them burned with passion, never making love quite like this. She could make him feel like a man again. He felt whole and he was.
On the 26th of October, the King of Greece, died the night before of septicemia from the monkey bite. Mary had felt guilty for laughing about it.
"We have to be able to laugh in the moment." He said. It was his way of telling her that she ought not to feel that way.
"If you say so." She turned away from the rainy window to where he sat. He was staring blankly. She feared that he had gone away. Then she realized, he was. It lasted only a few seconds. As soon as she went over to him, bending down in front of him, he snapped out of it.
"What were you saying, dear?" He asked. He hadn't seen her come over to him. He had lost a few seconds. There had been no warning. Or had it latest longer, and she had just brought him out of it?
"Oh, nothing. Just how devastatingly handsome you are."
"Sorry, I missed that." Yes, that must be what she said. Mary had no reason to lie. There was something before that. Something about being able to laugh. They had to back in the trenches or they'd go mad. No, he's come this far, he can't go back again. He doesn't remember what he had seen when he had 'gone away' He had to hide the trace of worry and so he gave her his brightest smile.
"How are things?" He was smiling too big, it seemed. Any bigger it would crack his face. How are we, really? She wanted to ask but he would avoid her question and immediately shut down. They were doing so great. The nightmares were no longer that terrible.
"You mean with us? I'd say great. More than good, actually."
She wasn't buying his cluelessness. "You went away."
"Did I?" He shook his head, playing it off.
"Where did you go off to?"
"Just daydreaming, dear. I think there will be more of it in my old age."
"You're not old yet. And don't distract me."
"I'm your husband, I'm supposed to distract you. Perhaps that's where my mind went." He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap, "Get over here!" He kissed her full on the lips.
"You'll make me untidy." She said, protesting as he started to caress her, running his fingers through the back of her hair.
"So?"
"So? I'll have to straighten up again before dinner."
"I'll straighten you up." He responded flirtatiously. She could hear the grovel in his throat.
"What if someone comes in?"
He nearly had to choke back a laugh. It wasn't like Mary to be nervous like she was new to such things. "My dear, we are married. And it wouldn't be anything Anna hasn't seen. She is married herself you know."
"I know but..."
"But, it would still make for an awkward few days." I want to ravish you my darling! He buried his face in her neck, so that she could feel his stubble, the roughness against her, that she loved so much. She seemed to be pulling away from him. His only connection, his only anchor to the real world. Please.
He grabbed her wrist as she started to get up. It was so sudden, she almost lost her balance. She turned slowly to look at him. He could feel his eyes moisten. Her expression was peculiar, it bore into him. He must look pathetic.
As she looked back to him, he quickly snapped his head away.
He was so . She could not deny that. She couldn't continue to help him if he didn't talk to her about it. They can't go on like everything is fine when it's not. He can try to fill it with this desire (there had been many times they had failed to make love but last night had been successful and wonderful. So wonderful.) but they needed to get to the root of the matter. It was like he didn't want to be here at times. He was distracted.
"We need to talk about this."
"What?"
"You know what!"
"I blanked out for a moment. This lawyer brain of mine thinks too much."
"Oh, would you just stop?" She felt like she was scolding a child but it had to be done. "Stop making excuses and just tell me."
"I was just thinking about them." He said, calmly. "We had this saying, we'd find a way to laugh, in spite of everything."
She pictured him in the trenches, talking to his fellow soldiers, joking, to keep themselves from going insane. It did not seem to work for most. He's not insane. Just 's only just starting to mend.
She slowly nodded, apologizing. "I'm so sorry. Thank you. For telling me." His eyes flickered up. She leaned forward. He fell into her kiss. They fell into each other.
"I'd like to have dinner up here." He said, pulling away.
"I could join up."
"No. I'm quite tired. I won't be much fun afterwards."
"Alright."
"Could you have Tally bring it up?"
She raised her eyebrow for a fraction of a second before nodding. She sent the girl, well, young woman, she should say now.
Once Mary left the room and Tally had brought up the tray, Matthew apologized to the young maid for his behavior last time. He'd been in a bad place. Last year around Christmas he had shouted at her when he had been in one of his moods. He had demanded Miss Hughes to 'send the insolent girl away'. When he had asked where she was the next morning, Miss Hughes told him she did what he had said for her to do. That wasn't what he had meant and felt frustrated with himself. He asked Miss Hughes to find her and get her back.
"An Irish orphan in London? It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack."
Tom had gone out to look for her and had found her, though he had never said where. He could only make a horrified guess, the old workhouse. She was back and safe, that's what mattered. Her return had been a welcoming Christmas present for the staff, and for him.
"It's alright, sir." It really was. She felt awkward because she felt he was going to tell her off again. He would never do that. She had caught him in a vulnerable moment and it had ashamed him. She had only left because Miss Hughes had sent her.
"No, it wasn't. If there's anything you need, anything you want me to do for you."
"No thank you, sir."
"You can call me Mr. Matthew, when it's just us." She nodded. "I hope I haven't upset you, that we can't fix things."
"Oh no, it isn't that, sir. Mr. Matthew. I just feel lonely since Ethel left. I have no one to talk to. I haven't got any other friends. Well, I got Daniel but it ain't the same."
It was his turn to nod. He felt a tear stream down his face. He didn't know where it came from. She had noticed and he tried to recover, hiding his embarrassment. "Sorry, I don't know why..."
"You miss your friends too." He could only nod again. "If there's anything you want me to do for you, Mr. Matthew, I'll do it. I do still care for you a great deal."
"Why thanks for that Tally." He raised his glass to her. "You can stay if you like." Tally looked flattered and at the same time uncertain. "Go on, you can sit." Tally hesitates, hovering over the chair and off it again as if the chair cushion was about to catch fire.
"Is there something that's bothering you Tally?"
She uncomfortably sits down. "I'm not used to sitting on such fine furniture, much less given permission." He gave her a glance that said he didn't quite believe it. After a short silence she suddenly burst out, it's about Mr. Molesley."
"Is he ill?"
"Oh, no. Nothing like that. I noticed Christmas before last, he was hovering over the bottles like he needed glasses. But I noticed that he couldn't read. He was embarrassed by it for a while, and I told him I could help. I know you two were close and I was wondering if you could prefer any books."
"Yes. I do believe I have some in mind already. I should let you know when I've put a few together."
"Thank you, Mr. Matthew. I really shouldn't stay much longer. Miss Hughes will tan me hide."
"Don't let me keep you then." As the young maid turned to go, Mary was coming back to the room. He called after Tally, addressing her by last name, "oh and Miss Stevens, I might have a book for you later."
"Thanks very much, sir." She curtsied to Mary on her way out.
"Everything alright here?" Mary asked.
"Yes, of course." Matthew replied, beaming far too brightly. Mary knew that smile. He was up to something.
Downstairs, Tally was teased for how much time she'd been up in Mr. Matthew's room by one of the new maids. "He's a married man you know." It was meant as a joke and no malicious intent.
"Everyone knows how sweet on Mr. Matthew she is." Chimed Mrs. Bates.
"Ai, I think of him as a father. Never had one of those as far back as I can remember."
After Tally had left, Matthew informed Mary what Tally had told him in confidence. He didn't want her to go repeating it to anyone; he trusted that she wouldn't.
"Poor ol' mister Molesley." Mary gave a sigh. It seemed that man could never catch a break.
"Poor ol' mister Molesley nothing. I have confidence in the man."
"I was referring to having to drink all that liquor at Christmas when he couldn't tell which was for what."
"Oh, yes, that." He motioned her over to him so that he could give her a kiss. "What would you want for Christmas, Mrs. Crawley?" He asked as they pulled away from each other.
"Hmm. Don't know Mr. Crawley. All I know is what I want right now!" She ruffled his hair, one hand going to his shirt.
November 1920
There was one more month till Christmas, till Sybil and Tom's baby would arrive. Mary hoped that she and Matthew wouldn't be far behind, considering a few weeks ago, she was pretty sure they had made a baby. Matthew had been very confident in it too. Though his interest was more focused toward his niece or nephew. For the moment she looked forward to looking after the baby, taking it for walks in its little pram, through the trails of fresh autumn leaves. Of course, the baby would be a year old by that time next year (and they're own baby could be born by then) and they'd probably have a nanny looking after it, but she would spend time as much as she could with her sister's baby. It could help them prepare for their first child. Mary thought.
For the next several weeks her main focus seemed to be babies and love making. Matthew complained about her tiring him out but in actuality he was enjoying the attention. It got his mind off the second anniversary of the armistice. Or at least it did not bother him as it had last year.
"We'll have enough practice before we have our own."
"It'll be quite different. You don't treat your own children the same way. You can hand them back over to their parents when you need a break."
"Are you having any doubts?"
"About what?"
"Having children. That you think we won't have any."
"No! Of course not! You know I've always wanted to be a father. I still think there's a possibility but..." He stopped to ponder. "I want to look into adoption. Just in case."
Early December 1920
They filled out the application at the adoption agency. They only had two girls available. One of them had a daisy attached to the cot. It was to identify the recently orphaned. The other child, about nine months old didn't have a daisy. She had been at the agency for that long. Her mother had been too young and unwed. Matthew had immediately focused his sights on her. Mary told him that they could wait till they had boys. He replied that they could always adopt a boy next. He just couldn't leave this child, he thought as he held her. She barley squirmed or cried while she sat on his lap. He couldn't feel her as she climbed and bounced on his legs, his arms wrapped around her. As she sat on his lap, resting against his abdomen, he could feel her warmth. She turned her head back and forth, looking up at him. He turned her to face him, the infant looking up at him with wander and content, blue eyes meeting blue. It was like she was saying, take me home. Something about it felt right.
He turned his attention toward the other little girl at the other end of the room. He'd adopt both of them if he could. Though he kept that thought to himself.
They weren't the only couple there. There was a soldier and his wife, hovered over the cot with the daisy. Mary briefly noticed his attention drifting toward the man in uniform. Why did they still wear them when they came home? Mary wondered. The war was long over but there were some who still served in the army as a living. It was perhaps all they knew. Not thinking much of him being distracted, she patted his shoulder, while the social worker asked to speak with her.
The atmosphere changed when Mary and Matthew returned home. Either of them barley said a word.
"How'd it go with the adoption agency?" Robert seemed the only one bold enough to ask or he was oblivious.
"The application fell through." Mary blurred out when she could barely contain it.
"What? So soon? How is that possible?"
"They only had girls anyway." Matthew said, as if it hadn't phased him.
"There's plenty of other agencies." Robert began but Matthew was already exiting the room.
"It isn't because Matthew is in a wheelchair?" Edith prompted.
"Not the majority of the problem." Mary said. "We weren't the only couple there. There was a soldier and his wife. Matthew saw them and he must have blanked out. It was only for a moment. I didn't think much of it at first, then the social worker called me into the room. I think I made things worse when I let her have it. I asked her how she knew that the soldier didn't have nightmares. She asked me if Matthew did and I said, not as much as he used to. She still denied us."
"What? That isn't fair. Surely, that can't be legal." Mary wasn't expecting Edith to come to her defense. Alright, maybe it was more for Matthew's sake. "After all Matthew has been through." Point proven. "You and Matthew have been trying so hard. They can't do that."
Sybil, who had seemed to have been holding her breath since they had come in, finally let it out, "Unfortunately...they can."
"I ruined things for us." Mary said, trying not to fall into despair, more towards how Matthew would take this. "I always ruin everything."
"No. You didn't. You didn't ruin this." Her father tried to soften the blow but it was no use.
"You don't always. You did the best that you could." Her youngest sister's reply helped very little. Shortly after Sybil had left the room, Robert dismissed Edith so that he could talk to Mary alone. Edith was clearly disappointed but respectful. When they had the room to themselves, Robert angrily said that he would deal with them. That he would have their licenses.
"Oh, please papa, leave it." Mary said, her anger nearly matching. Her father was taken aback, appalled that this didn't bother her. "I've missed this month." She always had her cycle at the start of each month, unless she was a week off. Her father's eyes went big for a moment, mixed with embarrassment that she'd speak of such things with him. It was quickly replaced with joy.
"My darling girl, are you sure?"
She began fiddling with her necklace as always when she was nervous or something deeply troubling her. "I don't want to tell Matthew yet. It's far too early to be entirely sure." She would never forgive herself if something happened to it after, if she told him. Nothing was certain.
"I won't say a word."
One of the worst days of his life had been the early days after he had come home in 1917. Clarkson informed him of the complications, of the so many things that could kill him, and the conditions of his injury.
"You are aware how sexual reproduction works? The sexual function is controlled below the waist, so is the ability to relieve oneself. Meaning you won't have control over your bladder."
"I see." He had gone blank for a few seconds there, he must have had. That had been the finale ripping away of his manhood. He couldn't bare the thought of anyone changing him, certainly not Mary. It was just too much.
"The catheter will take care of the rest. " Was what he heard Clarkson say next. "You'd need to be flushed out, at least two times a day." He then responded to Matthew's quizzical look. "An enema."
Matthew closed his eyes and gave a nod, knowing what an enema was. He had never felt more humiliated, not for himself but for those who would have to care for him. He couldn't tie Mary or anyone to such grueling existence. That was the day he finally decided to let her go.
Sybil had come with the instruments for the procedure. His eyes widened, catching hers.
"Nurse Crawley won't be the one to carry it out. Since she's family I think that would be highly inappropriate."
Relief washed through Matthew. At least he was spared that humiliation but a part of him wanted her to stay. She had been there for him in ways that Mary hadn't, had treated him like a human being when the others of the medical staff had treated him like he was less than.
She must have sensed it for she said, "I'll be around the corner if you need me." She stepped out, pulling the certain closed.
"Nurse Anderson will be assisting me today." The doctor started to sound far away. The rest of it went by in a blur. He vaguely recalled the sensation of floating, that could have been the paralysis, as they turned him over.
He had held it all in until Mary had come to visit him shortly after. His voice kept breaking as he told her they could no longer be together. It wasn't his incontinence or the loss of his manhood. It was killing him to say goodbye to the woman he loved. There would never be anyone else. She would end up hating him. He could give her nothing. He had the courage to tell her that they couldn't be lovers but could not tell her that he would shit and piss himself the rest of his life and have people change him like he was an infant. He'd at least spare her that detail. He couldn't, wouldn't subject her to a life like that. She should be able to enjoy life, not be stuck with a husband that would depend on her for everything, even the simplest of tasks. He might not even live that long. He wouldn't want to make her a widow early either. It was better this way.
Since then, he had regained some of his continence, not having to use the catheter anymore, since the first year and a half of recovering. But he would still have the occasional accident, which he could take care of himself.
When he had finally gathered the courage to tell her about it, before they were married, she had offered that she would help him. He had been stern with her that she would never change him. He didn't have to worry about that anymore. He could do that himself now. Had he still tied her to this life that he had tried to save her from? No. He didn't regret marrying her. But he still felt like he had let her down. Had they hoped too much?
When he had sent her away, everything had gone blank. The next thing he had known was that it was night. His thoughts came back to him once more, remembering he was paralyzed, thinking about his whole ordeal, the half-life he would live. Not an existence he was prepared for. A lifetime of humiliation and pain. Alone with his thoughts, he had begun to wonder if things would be better if he had died. He didn't have to rethink the answer. He had wished he was dead. He had turned his head toward the light of the candle on the nightstand beside the bed. The flicker of the flame glinted off something shiny. Someone had left a letter opener there. It was like it was calling his name. He could grab it, slit his wrists. He'd be gone by the time they found him in the morning.
Who would find him? What if it was mother or Mary? He couldn't do that to them, allow them to witness that horrific sight. He had pictured the blood dripping on the floor, the imagine starting to turn into a blood-filled rain mixed with flesh. He had managed to keep them at bay when he had heard the cheerful, calm voices, one of them Sybil's. She would have been the one to have found him if he had carried through with it, maybe even saved him. He couldn't be saved, he had thought, no matter how any of them tried, no matter how Mary tried.
He had thought the concept of letting her go had been the worst, the thought of killing himself, then feeling guilty to ever have thought about it. Being denied able to adopt, this was the worst of all. Now, he began to mourn for the children that will never be. He's got his life, his loving wife. That should be enough.
He heard the door squeak open. He expected it to be Mary, but it was Sybil. He made no attempt to wipe his tears, to hide them. Sybil had seen him at his worst, during his bouts of unexplained tears or when Clarkson had explained things she had been there for support.
"I wanted her so bad." He gave a weak smile. He could use her wise words now. "I don't know if there will ever be a chance for Mary and I."
"There will." She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I believe in God but... " He wasn't listening closely to the rest of her words, until "I want the baby to be Catholic."
It took him by surprise, at first because he wondered why she was telling him this, then he teased what Robert would think. They both laughed.
Sybil suddenly stopped, wincing.
"Are you alright? Is it the baby?"
"Just kicking up a storm. I think he or she might be a rugby player."
"Or a journalist or a lawyer." He said playfully, a little bit of hope that he or she would be more like their uncle than her aunt. "Can I?" He nodded awkwardly to her stomach.
"You don't have to." He didn't have to torture himself.
"I want to." But when he made no move, she took his hand and placed it on the side of her abdomen. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine it was his baby he was trying to feel for. At first, he wasn't feeling anything. He sent positive thoughts to his niece or nephew. I will love you like my own. Then suddenly he could feel the slight kick, marveling at it. "Does it hurt?"
"No." She had to keep herself from laughing. "There's just enough room for baby." She ran her hands over her stomach, looking down at it, where her child still grew within, "although, it is getting a bit tight."
"He or she will have the best Uncle ever."
"Only because you'll be the only Uncle." She was having him on now, before she said reassuringly, "You and Mary will make remarkable parents one day."
One day, not someday. He wondered if it was still foolish to hope.
The twentieth of December was one of the worst days of Mary's life. The blizzard had come through the village of Yorkshire like a bad omen. When it had appeared that the worst of the storm had passed, they went out to see a show at the theatre. They couldn't get Matthew out with the snow on the ground, not to mention he develop a cold. It got his spirits down that he couldn't go out, discovering that he would be a shut in during the cold long winters. They were the hardest on him, psychically. His legs would stiffen, and they would be hard to move when they got too cold, even though he couldn't feel it. It was like lugging around heavy sticks. He had explained to her. Hopefully that would ease with time. They would try to keep the fireplaces lit in every room he had frequented, to keep the house warm, but it was a daunting task. But this particular day, it was warm enough in the house. He could move around just fine. That didn't stop her from worrying. The longer she had sat through the show, she had a growing sense that something was wrong. She felt it in the pit of her stomach. A cold, hard lump. The same feeling, she had gotten when Matthew had been declared missing in action. But somehow this was different. It's not him. Then it must be...
Sybil.
Maybe she had gone into labor. What if there were complications and Matthew couldn't get through to anyone or couldn't get to Sybil? What if his legs were stiff or were to suddenly give out? She had to get to a phone, call Clarkson, then the house, before the weather got worse and she was trapped here.
Just as she expected, she herself couldn't get through to anyone. She could only pray in this dire need, that he had already or was calling for help.
She still had to get to them. It was fruitless to have even tried the phone. She had wasted what could have been precious time. They should have never gone out.
The calm before the storm.
You're a storm braver than I ever saw one. Matthew's words rung in her head. It made her stronger in that moment. She wasn't going to be trapped here and she wasn't going to let anyone stop her.
She hadn't noticed his distress as he rested on the bottom of the stairs. His legs probably couldn't carry him back up them and he had come to rest there. He seemed fine; not like he had fallen.
Her main concern now was her sister. He'd be fine. Anna was with him. She had to get to Sybil. The rest of their party arrived shortly after.
The family, minus Matthew, went to be with her. All they could do was stand by, while Clarkson worked, taking in the horrid scene. The bed seemed saturated with blood. Unbeknownst to anyone, seeing it had sent Matthew into a flashback, causing him to lose his footing and slip on the stairs as he forced his body to try to run to get Sybil help; only just able to grab the railing to catch his fall.
Clarkson delivered the baby safety. He couldn't save both her and the baby. There was nothing he could have done for Sybil. She had hemorrhaged to death. Tom looked as if someone had ripped his heart out, thrown it on the floor and stomped on it. Robert stood still, in blank disbelief. He had lost his wife and now his youngest daughter. Just with-in a year of each other.
Slowly she made her way down the stairs, like a machine and not a human being, to inform them. She felt disconnected from everything, from herself. Is this how Matthew had felt, after waking from the nightmares of war, of all the death and dying? Seeing the blood?
Her sister was dead. Matthew had been with her, unable to help her. It wasn't rational to blame him but part of her wanted to. Her glances at him must have showed it.
It was her blame that caused this downward spiral, she had thought at first, it made him feel guilty. She had partially been right.
"The stress caused a relapse." Dr. Clarkson told Mary and Robert. "And he was forcing his body to do something it can't quite no longer do. It overwhelmed his system."
"He will get back to where he was?" Mary wondered, full of worry, a bit of weariness from her grief.
"Yes. It might take a few days. But for right now he's almost completely lacking mobility in the lower extremities. Once his nerves have settled, everything else will have settled."
"What do you mean by that?" Robert's eyes hooded. How was it possible that Sybil's death had affected his son in-law more than himself, her own father? His nerves, that's another term for... But he was better now, surely. And this was just a shock to his system like Clarkson said.
Clarkson didn't answer Lord Grantham. When he had checked on Matthew, after he had been brought up to his room, the young man hadn't been aware of his presence, unresponsive. He doubted that anything would have changed. He wanted to look as if though he was doing something as not to alarm them. "I'll go check on him now to see how things have progressed."
"I'll come with you." Mary said.
"Lady Mary, it might be distressing for you."
"I can handle it. As I told you before, when he was first injured." Doctor Clarkson wasn't convinced. "I'll stay out of your way."
"She needs to go be with her husband." Robert stood by his daughter.
Clarkson nodded and went into the dressing room. Mary stayed by the door.
Matthew was lying on the bed, inert, his eyes expressionless, unfocused like before, she noticed as she got a bit closer, after he had been informed of his spinal injury, after he had pushed her away. Hours, days, almost two months, he had laid in that catatonic state. How long would he be away now? Don't go away, please.
"Mr. Crawley, can you hear me? It's Doctor Clarkson."
"What do you want with me?" He grumbled in frustration.
Doctor Clarkson wasn't too quick to make any assumptions that he was yet fully back with them. "I came to check on you, as I said I would." He cracked a friendly smile to indicated to his patient that he was in a safe place.
"I went back there. I was back." He had been sure of it. He didn't know where he was. It was Clarkson's voice. He can't understand or remember what's happened but if Clarkson is here, that must mean...Mary. She must be here. Unless this was a dream and he had never come home at all. It was hard to think. It was still so loud, he could hear the shells and gun fire, smell it. It slowly faded. Far off now. Must be safe.
Unless he was dreaming.
He wanted to get up so that he could see where he was, but it seemed he didn't have any energy to move. Instead, he decided to lie still, to reserve his strength.
"It's alright. You're not now. You're here."
"Where's here?" His voice filled with uncertainty, cracked slightly. He couldn't be. He couldn't be at Downton. He had to hear it, to make sure it was real.
"You're safe. You're here at Downton."
"I wasn't?" It had been so real.
"No."
Of course, he hadn't been. It all came back to him. It feels as if it had just happened. It was fresh in his mind. They all died, just mere seconds ago. He hadn't been able to save them. It had been so real.
"I saw...There was so much...I couldn't help." His voice is almost a whisper but was loud enough for Mary and Robert to hear.
There was no way of knowing if he was talking about Sybil or what he had experienced on the battlefield. It was best just to go along. "But you did. You did very well." Clarkson said.
How could he think he had been back there? Mary asked herself, horrified. Matthew's eyes found her. There was something in them, she couldn't explain it. They looked more...haunted. Yes, that was it, more haunted than she had ever seen them, looking upon her if it were she that were the ghost. What was wrong with him? She saw his eyes start to gloss over again. He couldn't do this to her, not again.
He isn't doing this on purpose. She scolded herself. He's ill.
She can't get that glazed stare out of her head. He wasn't really looking at me. There's no way of knowing what he is really seeing, if he is seeing anything at all.
Clarkson stepped out into the hall.
"What...what was that?" Robert asked. Mary stayed where she was. Unsure of what she should do.
"That." Dr. Clarkson paused for a moment, he had hoped he had been wrong, that he could delay the inevitable, "was shell shock."
"It's been two years since the war." Robert began, puzzled. He had only ever witnessed it once. That had been in 1919 on the anniversary of the armistice.
Surely not, not now.
"Shell shock is still a relatively new field." As Clarkson said it, a wave of fresh grief washed over Robert, even guilt that he was more worried about his son in-law than his daughter, that had just died. "We don't know for certain what causes it, why it affects the mind differently than others. How long the effects will last."
"You were sure he didn't have it." Mary was confused and becoming angry.
"With some soldiers it's difficult to tell..."
"He isn't a soldier anymore!" Her anger boiled over, masking her pain.
"Lady Mary, I must have you refrain from shouting. It could further worsen your husband's current state."
Her father gently squeezed her shoulders, trying to calm her. It worked. "Yes. Sorry."
"I think the shell shock also contributed to his current condition. Why his legs suddenly gave out."
"You think this is all in his head?" Mary asked.
"Partially. Emotions affect one's health, we now know that. I believe they have an effect on one's mental health as well."
"How do we help him?" Mary had desperation in her voice.
"Is there anything we can do?" Robert asked.
"He needs to be surrounded by people who care about him. He needs all the positive support he can get. That's the best thing for the road to recovery. We'll need to find out what his triggers are, how to assess them, try to avoid them, if we can and to help him cope. I would like to keep a close eye on him for tonight. I would move him to the hospital for observation but with the roads..."
"Of course. I'll have Carson prepare a room for you." Her father was saying to Clarkson.
"Thank you." Clarkson said.
"Why would he need to be put under observation?" Mary questioned.
"A precaution, to make sure he's not a danger to himself or others. If it worse than it is, he may have to undergo treatment, which I hope doesn't happen. I'll try everything in my power to make sure it doesn't come to that." He had been studying cases that were way worse than Matthew, some who had no faculties about them at all. He had witnessed the brutality and inhumanity of how the patients were treated. He believed that they were sick just as any other psychically ill person. It had made him psychically ill. The distressing event of Lady Sybil's death had been a shock to his entire system, including his mind. If they kept the stress to a minimum, he prayed that it would get back to normal, that this current state of his mind would subside by morning.
"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson." Mary waited till they all left.
She went into his dressing room, lying next to him. She whispered in his ear, softly, "Please, come back to me, my darling." He didn't respond. Was he even still in there? Was he afraid and was avoiding her? He didn't even re-act when she touched his hair and stroked his face. She slid off the bed and went downstairs.
A half hour later, she heard the cries of distress. They only seemed to get louder. Matthew! It sounded as if he was in agonizing pain. She made her way to the dressing room, utterly frightened at what she saw. Thomas was holding Matthew down, who was thrashing about as much as he could. O'Brien was on the other side of him, trying to calm him. Carson and Doctor Clarkson were in the room too. It suddenly felt overcrowded.
"What's going on? What's happening?" Mary tried to hide the panic in her voice. She already knew. He was re-living it all over again. She shouldn't have left him.
"Mr. Barrow, if you please, this is no longer a request." Dr. Clarkson was growing impatient.
Thomas relinquished his grip. Matthew sat up, grabbing him by the shirt.
"Don't leave...in case they come back...Cover me. My gun won't work..." It's almost a plea. He puts a hand to cheek and makes a motion as if to wipe something off his face.
Dirt, mud or blood, Mary morbidly thinks.
Then he grabs Thomas with both hands again, shouting, "you bloody coward."
Thomas stiffens in his grip and stares back at Matthew's own frightened eyes. No one notices, or so he thinks, apart from Mary. Matthew lets go of him and slowly lies back.
"Why is he talking like that?" Mary was still frantic. She had lost her sister. It felt like he was dying as well. When he'd been thrashing around it had been like he was having some sort of fit.
"He's just having a nightmare." Clarkson stated. He went around to the end of the bed. "Mr. Crawley."
"No." He flinches as Dr. Clarkson touches his foot. The movement is not because he can feel it. There would be no feeling there. He's looking at Clarkson as if he's seeing someone else. "Don't send me back."
"No one is going to send you back. It's alright. You're home. Here. Safe. You just had a bad dream."
Mary shook her head, sensing that something was wrong. As she got a better glance, she could see that his eyes were open, and they were looking directly at her. "But he isn't sleeping. He's awake." She was almost begging him, to do something, anything to help him.
"Sometimes the nightmares can bleed into reality." Mary knew this but it would usually dissipate. "It's best if somebody close to him tries to talk to him, tries to calm him."
Mary nods, going over to his side, "Matthew. It's me, Mary."
He relaxes a bit. His eyes dart around the room before finding her. She smiles at him, but she quickly realizes that he's not there. The normal expression he would have, between sleep and waking from the horrible images that his mind still clung to, wasn't there. Instead of the cloudy, glazed look, his pupils were huge, his eyes still darting around like a madman's.
He can't be losing his mind. Not now. Not her Matthew. Could it be a fever making him see things? She wanted to correct Clarkson, that this might be something more, but she didn't have time to argue.
It should be subsiding. Why isn't it subsiding. She doesn't know what she would do if her presence, her calming voice no longer could bring him out of it.
He turns his head to one side, "I smell burning."
"I don't smell anything." Mary desperately looks at Doctor Clarkson, "What does that mean? That can't mean anything good, can it?"
"Phantom smells could be a sign of a sinus infection. Nothing too serious. We should keep a close eye on..."
"Mary." He seems to be coming back to reality. His voice was pained as well as filled with panic.
She grabs his hand. "I'm here."
"No." He suddenly closes his eyes tightly.
"This isn't the shell shock. Something's wrong, Doctor Clarkson. Look at him. Can't you do something? He's in... pain." She choked on the last word as if she was feeling it herself.
"He is a bit warm. I can give him a Acriflavine and a sedative but first I'd need someone to go fetch me a torch so I can do a further examination."
Carson leaves to go grab one and comes back shortly. Matthew was calm but his breathing was still heavy. His eyes fixed on an empty space, at something only he could see. Clarkson shines the light in Matthew's eyes. "His pupils are dilated. This isn't a nightmare. He's hallucinating. He's taken something."
"Matthew." Mary tries to get his attention.
He turned his head away from her, shaking it back and forth, "No. No. No. No." He said, over and over, curling up, trying to cover his ears.
"Matthew what did you take? Tell Doctor Clarkson what you took."
His eyes slowly found Thomas. She lost it then. She had never liked him or even trusted him. Making trouble for everyone downstairs. Why hadn't he been thrown out by now? Sybil had been far too trusting of him. This is how he repays her kindness? She didn't care if he had meant good intentions. He had put her husband's life in danger. Before she knew it she had the footman almost backed up against the wall. "What did you give him?"
"I..I was only trying to help. He wanted something to help him sleep."
"You best hope when Mr. Crawley recovers, he confirms your story."
Carson had a word with Thomas. Wondering what he was doing wandering around the houses so late.
"I was going to check on him, when I heard him."
The butler turned to O'Brien. "I was tending to Lady Edith."
"Daisy?"
"I went to start the fire for Mr. Crawley. I thought he'd be cold."
"Never mind all that now." Miss Hughes stepped in. "If it weren't for Daisy, things probably could have had a drastically different outcome."
"I'd say." Mary had entered the servant's hall. She thanked Daisy, honorably. "Carson, can I have a word with you a moment?"
They went into his office.
"I don't doubt that Mr. Barrow had good intentions." Carson said. "But it is up to you if you want to press charges or not."
Downtown was paralyzed by the death of Sybil. Everything, including everyone, seemed to stop, even the servants. Carson and Miss Hughes had a silent breakfast, commanding none of them to speak. It wasn't an issue however, none of them could say anything at all.
The sweetest soul of Downton was gone. That's what most have thought of her. Including Matthew. He thought of himself to be a kind, caring man, not passing judgment on anyone, a gentleman, before the war. But now? Was he still a good man? He had left him there. No. I left to get help. The other man, he had deserted them. If that man was ever caught, he'd be court marshalled, imprisoned or shot. No one deserved that.
Then a flash of memory. He puts his hand to his face, as if to stop it. But it's not necessarily a bad one.
A man with black hair, a familiar face hovering over him. Hovering over his bed, then frantically looking at him down in the trenches. The familiar face of Thomas Barrow. He turns and retreats, running away from them, leaving him without protection and leaving Patrick to die.
He could never give the man up. The war was over. No one else deserved to die or claimed because of it. They deserved a second chance.
Even asking himself if he was a good man, meant he still was, wasn't he?
Tom, Edith, and Mary had taken breakfast in the dining room, but none of them ate. Lord Grantham and Matthew were the only ones who didn't come down.
Sybil's death and her concern for Matthew wasn't the only reason Mary couldn't bring herself to eat. She had Thomas arrested that morning. No one else knew about it yet, except for few servants.
She tried to tell herself it had been the right thing. Then why didn't it feel right? She was miles away while Tom was talking to them.
Tom said he would be leaving once he could find a job. Edith told him there was no rush. "Have you thought of a name for her?"
"Sybil."
"Wouldn't that be painful?" Mary asked.
"At first. How's Matthew doing?"
"A bit better but not by much. I had Anna send him up a tray."
"He blames himself." Tom said. "His health shouldn't suffer for it."
It was a few days before Isobel could come up to the house to see her son, how he was fairing.
"I should have been there to help."
"You could have fallen and broken something." He told her. "You could have lied there, and it would have been hours before someone found you. Then where would we be?"
"You're right." She had said it more for his comfort. She wanted to talk about what had happened, the night of Sybil's death. He had had an episode in the middle of trying to get her help.
"It was a bad one, mother." He spoke softly. "Mary's never...seen me like that."
"She handled it very well from my understanding."
Just how much had she been told? Robert had slept through his worst of it, probably with the assistance of alcohol, to help him sleep. Just as he had. He had asked Thomas, before the wedding to see if he could find him something to help him fall asleep, so he wouldn't have the nightmares. He hadn't explained the last bit to Thomas, he hadn't needed to. He had been managing the nightmares and hadn't needed it, until now. He knew that Thomas had connections. The footman had witnessed the same many horrors and had to have the same torments that he had to face at night. Thomas had been reluctant and hesitant before he had said, "I'll see what I can do." He had come to him with a bottle of Absinthe, basically alcohol, with a few other ingredients that were supposed to help. It had been banned in France and the only way to get it was through illegal means, the black market. Thomas had handed it to him the night he had spoken to Mary about their future, he had carried it on him, even as he'd spoken to Tom, you won't be happy with anyone else as long as Lady Mary walks this earth. He had felt as if it could burn a hole in his pocket, as he talked to her about their future.
He had needed her to kiss him, pull him back to reality, that he was really going to marry her. In that instant, it had reminded him that all he needed was her. And he would be alright. As long as he had her. But sometimes she wouldn't be enough as had been evident with Sybil's death. He didn't have use for it until a few nights ago. He now knew how incredibly stupid it had been. It could have been mixed with other illegal drugs that could have killed him.
"I was thinking of spending more time here." His mother was saying. "I'll be staying in the room next door just for the night."
"Mother, you don't have to..."
"It will set my mind at ease to know you're alright."
He gave a sign, seeing no way out of it and pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Can you bring me my chair and my crutches? I can't very well stay in bed all day. It will set me back farther, which I cannot afford. I have to use my legs, keep them strong."
"Yes, you should. It's good that you're showing initiative. Do you need any help?"
"I'll have Bates do it. I'm just going down to the library."
"Are you sure it can't wait, that you're up to it? I don't want you to overexert yourself. The weather will be warmer in a few days, so you will be able to attend the funeral." She thought she saw his face shadowed with distress. She then quickly added, "the paths will be clear by then."
But he hadn't heard or wasn't listening. "I have someone to meet in an hour." They wouldn't be able to bury her until the ground thawed but they would still have a service. It would be months before they could have a grave ready for her. He fought the images of rotting corpses.
He had to get his mind off it. Murray was coming and it was the best excuse as any. The world must go on.
Mary came into the library to get a peace of mind, only to find Matthew and her father's lawyer, talking about the estate. That upset her more than how quickly he appeared to have recovered, the fact that he was moving on as if nothing had happened. Just not long ago he was literally and figuratively crippled by the loss. "What is this?"
"Mr. Crawley and I were discussing the future of the estate." Murray said.
"My sister's body has just been removed from the house." Sybil's body had lied in the bedroom where she died for two days. Tom hadn't left her until the men from Graspie's arrived, even then it was harder for him to budge, if she and Edith hadn't convinced him. And poor Papa hadn't left his room. Matthew, taking charge of things, without him, it felt like a betrayal. "Papa cannot see or speak to anyone at the moment."
"I'm sorry. If I'd known..." Murray began.
"No. That's understandable." She threw an accusing gaze at Matthew. He had to look away. He couldn't bring himself to look at her.
"I must be going. I have other business to attend to in York. Give your father and the rest of the family my condolences." The lawyer left the room.
Mary turned to Matthew with a steely look. "My father just lost his youngest daughter. Is that enough, that he has to lose control over his estate in the same day?"
"Doesn't it concern you that he went behind your back?"
"Matthew had good intentions. That's exactly what we need, if I were ever incapacitated, he would have to make these decisions."
"Yes. It's always Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. He's the perfect child you never had. He can do no wrong. You never thought of Patrick as a son. Your youngest child has died, and it doesn't even seem to matter. Is he to take Sybil's place now as your favorite child?"
"Mary, that is quite enough. You're a grown married woman!"
"You're right. I'm so sorry, Papa." She put her hand to her mouth. "It's all been too hard to process." She was losing control. She couldn't do anything for Sybil now. She wanted to take care of Matthew, but she did not know how to help him. How could she even try if he didn't allow her to? It feels as if I'm losing him too.
"I know, my darling girl." He told her about the columns in the newspaper that Sybil would have laughed at, how he had wanted to show her and then he had remembered.
Both father and daughter embraced and wept for their losses. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, and husband. But Matthew was not dead. It felt like he was only half living. She would try to find a way to make him feel alive again.
Matthew was still in the library, when she came looking for him.
"How long have you been keeping this from me?" She asked.
"I forgot he was coming. It would have seemed awfully rude to send him away."
"I'm sure he would have understood. But that's not what I meant."
"They saw me, Mary. Everyone saw..." He could never be an Earl now. They knew how weak his mind was.
"It wasn't something you could control. You were under the influence of a drug."
"But before then...it's not very different."
"Why didn't you tell me? Have you been hiding them from me? When I hardly see you during the day..." She trails off. That's when they happen.
"I didn't want to put more of a burden on you. The nightmares were more than enough for you to handle. I didn't want to put more of a burden on you than I already have."
"Do you have little faith in me, that I couldn't take this on as well?" She sat down on the couch next to him, where he had wheeled himself over. She grabbed his hand. "Can you explain it to me? How...what it feels like."
"It feels like something takes over, like I'm losing control over my mind. It feels like I'm slipping. It seems so easy sometimes, how it would be to let it. But I can't because you won't let me."
"And rightfully so."
"But however briefly that I can, it's a relief."
"When else...the night we announced our engagement, the gun fire in the drawing room and when that servant dropped the tray."
"It startled me is all."
"It made you feel unwell. I should have known..." She looked up from her kerchief, coming to a startling realization, "I'm a terrible wife. How could I have not known?"
"My darling, you are a wonderful wife. And as you said, I was hiding it from you. I didn't want you to have to see. And you weren't my wife yet."
"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to get out of it."
"See you do read me so well, when you want to. Subconsciously you knew what was going on. It's like a waiting game, waiting for the ghosts to come back. Sometimes I get these flashes of memory...when I saw her, saw the blood, I went back there." Things came back. Things I'd forgotten..."I don't know how long it lasted. I couldn't save her."
"It didn't last for long. You were able to get help." She rested her hand on his. "You're not to blame for this." Then why did it feel like he was? She was dead. Nothing was going to change that. They sat in silence for a moment. "It will feel strange, our first Christmas without her." Sybil had been the epitome of Christmas cheer. He nods in agreement. "Clarkson will be coming later to see how you are."
Daniel had been out walking. It was early in the morning, though the sun had not yet risen. It would appear he was out all night, up to nefarious means, while he was in secret, feeding a stray dog he had found. You must be a royal dog. He joked as the dog wolfed down the scraps, he had given him. He enjoyed the Lordships fine dining. Afterwards he would cut across the cemetery to avoid going through the main village. He could make an outline of a figure, a man, standing near one of the graves. It must be the grounds keeper was his first initial thought.
Perhaps a mourner. As he got closer, he saw that the man was by the row of white crosses.
He then recognized the man at once. Mr. Matthew. He was in his pajamas.
He looked down. At least he wasn't barefoot, but the poor man had put on his army boots. His heart lurched to his throat. He thought of his father, how he would re-enact the actual combat. Mr. Matthew hadn't so far.
A car pulled up at the end of the path. Daniel recognized the man as Downton's chauffer, Hornsby. This is how he had gotten here. Daniel got Mr. Matthew, who remained silent, into the back seat and got in beside him. Reaching over to shut the door, Daniel ordered to the chauffer,
"Not a word."
Daniel brought him back inside the house using the servant's entrance. Miss Hughes had been understanding of it. The housekeeper had heard the servant's door open and close.
"I'm not going to ask what you were doing out at this ungodly hour...Good heavens!" Her eyes widened at the sight of them.
"I found him like this." He looked pleadingly at Miss Hughes. "Please, Miss Hughes, don't tell anyone!"
Miss Hughes nodded sympathetically. While Daniel sat with him, she came over with a tea pot, and two mugs. "A nice spot of tea will warm you right up, Mr. Crawley."
"Thanks." They were both surprised that he had said anything at all, and even proceeded to drink it.
Once he had finished, Daniel offered to take him up to bed.
"Take him up the back way. That way, no one sees."
"You look a bit unsteady, sir. Maybe you should lean against me."
He did what Daniel told him, not inquiring about it, while staying close to the wall.
The young lad was right. He didn't know what was wrong, but he was having trouble with his legs. Perhaps it was the fear that was gripping him. He remembered what happened last time he had hesitated because of his fear. Bertie had lost half his face, dying two days later. He wouldn't let that happen again. They needed to stay close to the wall of the trench, so they couldn't be shot at or shelled. He could hear them in the distance. His heart began to pound as the explosions began to sound like they were getting closer.
He suddenly stopped.
"Do you hear it?"
"Hear what, sir?"
In the candlelight Daniel watched his face. It was making flinching, spasmatic movements. They were happening between the claps of thunder. Then his face changed, seemed to darken a bit, "you, what are you doing here? I shall have to report you for this. And put that light out."
It was too dark to tell who it was beside him but from the outline he could tell it was a young boy. Probably didn't know any better. He would have to learn to grow up fast. There is no time for mistakes out here.
"It's me, sir." He stopped himself from saying his name. Let him think that I'm one of his. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to pull him out right in the middle of the illusion. It would be more distressing and humiliating for Mr. Matthew. He'd have to come up with an explanation that he wasn't prepared to give. It was better to go along till he was out of it. At least till he could get him to his bed, where he'd hopefully fall asleep. He wondered how he would manage to get him into it. He couldn't take him to his and Lady Mary's bedroom.
His dressing room.
But then Mr. Matthew replied, "Mason?"
"That's right."
"What were you thinking? Put that light out. They'll see where we are."
His delayed responses gave Daniel enough time to come up with a believable answer.
"I have a message for you, sir."
Another roll of thunder started.
"Do you hear that?" He tensed and Daniel gently touched his arm. That probably wasn't a good idea, but luck was working with him, it didn't further startle him or cause a violent reaction.
Mr. Matthew had never been violent but if anyone saw them, there was no telling how he would react. Daniel's father had almost hurt Daniel's mother before he was sent away to an asylum where he had died when Daniel had been sixteen. Auntie had told Lord Grantham that they had sent him back to the front, probably because of the humiliation of the truth or she had convinced herself because it was far less painful.
"It's a long way off. Nowhere near here." Daniel said gently. He had to get him to move along. "I'm a messenger. They want you at...headquarters. I'll show you the way." He immediately realized his mistake. Hopefully he's forgotten who he said he was before and doesn't think that it's a rouse, that he's a spy or worse, an enemy soldier.
Apparently, he hadn't, as he continued to walk with Daniel, steadily, not speaking.
Things can change in an instant. He might become suspicious of you. Only when they stopped outside the dressing room door, did he look a little weary. He must be tiring out. He'll want to go to sleep.
"I think I need to go to the infirmary. I..." He wasn't injured but his legs felt tired, like he was going to collapse, if he wasn't being supported.
"You just need to rest, sir."
Yes. That must be it.
He stopped in the doorway; the room lit by dim candlelight.
Daniel saw what he was staring at. The light from the candle and the red glow from the fireplace were distorting the furniture and the branches of the trees, visible from the window, that could be perceived as ghosts, in his current state. Or enemy soldiers. He grabbed Daniel's wrist, his fingers ice cold.
Daniel started talking so he wouldn't make a vice like grip. "It's alright, sir. We're safe now." They stopped in the doorway. Daniel didn't know what he should say next. He tried figuring out a way to get him into bed, not sure how much longer he could take Mr. Matthew's weight. He was as tall as his cousin Alfred but even he had his limits.
"I'm going to turn in, Mason. Wake me up in a half hour. Stand to."
"You get your rest sir, I'll keep watch." Mason. He thinks I'm William.
"Do you hear the guns?"
"They've stopped now. That's just the thunder."
There was movement from the lounge chair. It wasn't the trick of the shadows.
"Hello? Who's there?" It was an older woman's voice. "Matthew?"
Isobel peered around the high-backed chair. She saw a young man, dressed in civilian clothes but she recognized him immediately. The footman. She had heard voices whispering. One of them had been Matthew's, she had been sure. But his voice had been uncertain, frightened like a child's.
"Sorry, Mrs. Isobel. I didn't know you were here."
She blinked sleepily. Her son came into view. He was wearing a blank expression, there was nothing in his eyes.
"Matthew?!"
"I found him outside. By William's grave. I brought him through the back way so no one would see."
She had already gotten up and gone over to her son, examining him, her hands shaking as she reached up to touch his face, but hesitated, before putting them back down beside her. She looked into his eyes, but he wasn't looking back. Even when she brushed a strand of his hair from his face. "Thank you." She searched for a name. "Daniel, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you, Daniel. I'll take it from here."
The young man still remained with one arm around Matthew, hesitant to leave for a moment but then she gave him a look of assurance. Daniel nodded, taking his arm off Matthew and left, ducking out the door.
She tried to lead Matthew to the bed. She almost got him there when she started feeling the resistance. He remained stationary; his feet firmly planted. He was wearing his army boots, covered in grass and dirt. It must have been a mud field earlier; the cemetery always was after a heavy rain. It must have reminded him. She looked up into his eyes once more, as much as she didn't want to. His eyes were not completely expressionless this time. There was a little bit of awareness but the wrong kind. There was no word that Isobel could use to explain it.
"I have to go back..." As he said the words, she could detect the trepidation and panic. Her mind doesn't want to go there, think of the place where his mind thinks he is, or what he thinks is happening, if he's even aware of her.
"Back to your own room? You wouldn't want to wake Mary." He can't be referring to the battlefield. She doesn't want to believe it.
She helped him into bed, to where he was sitting on the edge. Then he scooted himself back. While he lifted his legs up, she took off his boots and placed them by the bed, out of sight, almost underneath it. When she straightened up, he was already lying back on the bed, head resting on the propped-up pillows, staring blankly. She pulled the sheets up to his waist, leaving them untucked. He'd been unable to sleep that way since he came back.
When she woke, he wasn't in his bed. Light was starting to catch through the window. The servants would be starting to wake up. She had to find him before anyone else did. Where had he gone off to? In a near panic, she got up. She checked the hall before descending the staircase. There he was, at the bottom landing, leaning against the banister.
"Matthew, what are you doing?" She didn't mean for her voice to startle him.
"I have to go back...I have to...William. I have to get to..."
Her worst fear is confirmed. He thinks he's back. He needs to be reminded, that he's not in that horror, just reliving it. He needs to know he's home, that he's safe. There was no need to worry about his young friend. He was where he couldn't feel pain anymore. "Darling, William's...He's at peace now."
"No." He responds with a sharp anger. She knows the reason behind it. They couldn't feel pain anymore and he still could. Her son was still in pain. Then his voice wavers, almost breaking. "No. He isn't..." He had just been speaking to him. He said he would keep watch. He wouldn't have gone off with the others, leaving him behind.
He wasn't alone. Someone was speaking to him. The voice had called him darling, a woman's voice. It wasn't Mary's. Mother! He must be back home. Or this is a dream. An imposter, not his mother. They wouldn't fool him. His mother would never tell him such a cruel lie. Let her try to stop me. I have to get to William.
Isobel walked down the rest of the steps, putting a hand to his face, shaking her head. She didn't hesitate to touch him this time. Felling her touch would bring him back to reality.
"No. It isn't..." It isn't real. It isn't real. He wanted to shout. You're not real. He didn't want to believe it, even though he felt her touch. He didn't want to go through all of it again. Losing Patrick, so many...…
"Shh..." She stroked his hair. Couldn't he feel it, that she was real, that he wasn't where he thought he was? She closed her eyes, willing herself not to give into the tears. Her heart felt like it was breaking because she feared that his mind was breaking, that it was on the precipice of no return, finally unraveling. And she could do nothing to stop it, to bring him back. No. I can't give up. I'm his mother.
He had to leave the bunker. Find his men. He couldn't stay here and be a coward. But as he threw open the door, he sensed something immediately wasn't right. It was not the narrow dirt walls of the trench that he saw. But gravel, a wide-open space, fresh air and fresh green grass. A garden. Downton's front garden. That can't be right.
"This can't be right."
He made it to the heavy double doors, opening them, but instead of walking out, he just stood against the archway. She couldn't chase after him if he decided to walk out, or help him up if he were to fall, though he wouldn't make it far. She silently prayed he wouldn't. Then something happened. He took a step back, shaking his head, as if he was confused. Because he is. He's half in a dream.
"No. This isn't...this isn't right...it can't...this isn't real." His voice was almost loud enough to echo throughout the great hall, with the wide-open space and the high ceiling. She had to quiet him. Calm him. "This can't be..."
"Yes. Yes, it is. Why don't you come back with me now..."
"It was real."
"Matthew, it was a only a dream. You're sleepwalking."
"No."
"Yes."
"It was real." He had just seen Mason. But no, no he hadn't. It had to be true, what his mother was saying. He started to sob.
She put a hand to his face, feeling the tears stream down her hand. With her free hand, she grabbed hold of his right. "Matthew." My dear sweet boy.
He wasn't a boy. He was a man, frightened like a child. She hated the war, hated God for doing this to her son. She hadn't spent enough time with him as a child, taken care of him as a mother should. This was like some cruel twist of fate that she was able to make up for that now, in this way. No. This wasn't God's doing, it was of man's own nature. A hell created by politicians who had sat and done nothing while sending all the young men off to die or left them to come back shells of their former selves. This is a different fear. An adult fear, when your world has been shattered, four years in a hell witnessing things that you can't un-see or wash your hands clean of. But that was the past. He has to know that. That he isn't back there, that he's home.
"Matthew, you were dreaming. You're still dreaming, sweetheart. Come on back to bed." She looked up at his face, desperate. He seemed unsure. His eyes sparkled with desperation, not wanting to let go of the William was alive. That he was back in the war? Why on earth would he want to be back there? Or he can't remember the last three years in this semi-sleeping state.
He's not sleeping. He's lost in his mind. A way to cope from young Sybil's death? Perhaps by acting out his failures is a way for his mind to accept what he couldn't change. She had no time to think of the answers. She had to get him back to his dressing room before the whole house woke up. They can't see him like this. Would they send her son away? No. They wouldn't. Robert was too desperate. Even if they did, they'd have to drag him out over her cold dead body.
She closed the front door, bolting it shut. As the bolt slid home, he sort of woke up in a sense, but he was still not here with her. He let her lead him back up the stairs. She got him back into bed.
"I couldn't save them. I couldn't save them." He muttered as she pulled the sheets up to his waist. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Matthew had been sound asleep for hours now, the sun barley just peeking over the clouds. Mary came into the room. "I wondered if this is where he'd gone off to." She said quietly.
"We mustn't wake him. He needs his sleep."
Mary agreed and came to sit next to her.
"He had a bad one this time." Isobel said even quieter, nearly croaking out the words. She had always thought Mary as the safe option for Matthew but in recent years she had proved to be much more. She could take care of her son, well, no better than herself. She was the qualified nurse after all and his mother.
"I know." Mary said. "I was able to calm him." She had no idea. She had assumed Isobel was talking about the one a few days ago.
"I'm his mother and I don't know how to help him."
"We'll take it slowly. He'll get back. At his own pace." Mary had such patients.
"I should have been there to help with Sybil." What else could she have done? She couldn't even do anything for him, and she was his mother. I'm his mother and I can't help him.
"You must stop that now." Mary demanded. "It won't do Matthew any good. What would have happened if you had slipped and fallen? Then where would we be?"
"That's what he said."
Mary nodded as if to say, well, there you go. Our dear Matthew does know best. "He's sleeping so soundly." He hadn't stirred while they had been talking. "He must have really needed it."
Isobel, who hadn't been looking at her the whole time, fearing the younger woman would have read her right off that something deeper and troubling was going on. "Does he sleepwalk by any chance?"
"No. Not that I know of. I'm usually a sound sleeper. I slept through an earthquake once..." Matthew usually wasn't. The slightest noise could wake him up. She wondered if it was a habit he had picked up, over there or had always been one? She had been wakened by his nightmares on occasion. That was because she wasn't fully asleep when they occurred. How many of them occurred without her knowledge? She doubted he remembered any of them. He rarely did. And she'd leave it at that. And she had never known him to sleepwalk or act out his nightmares, besides the tossing and turning and shouting (and apart from his drug induced nightmare, he had acted out. That had been the worst. She still couldn't get it out of her head. She feared that he had been dying.) She wondered what prompted Isobel to ask, so she asked, "Why?"
"Just thought I would ask."
Mary got up from her chair, turning to leave. She then turned back, clearly wanting to ask her something.
"I'll stay with him for a few more hours." Isobel answered. An hour passed before Matthew began to wake.
"Mother?" He asked, sleepily, sitting up in bed. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"
"You were sleepwalking last night. I was worried." She went over to the window and drew back the curtains.
"Hence why I'm in my dressing room." He looked around the room, sounding chipper, beginning to pull back the sheets. He stopped to think. "Sleepwalking?" A frown pulled at his lips, doubting that he'd ever do such a thing. He had no reason to. He put a hand to the back of his head, scratching it as if it would shake out the answer. "I vaguely recall." Isobel studied him, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He'd squint his eyes if he was lying or covering up for himself. It could be the light. "What?" He had a worried tone to his voice. "I hope I didn't do anything too embarrassing." He said it in a bit of a jovial manner.
"No. Just that you were calling out for William. And that you couldn't save them."
He nodded, turning his head toward the window, watching the sun on the horizon.
"What time is it by the way?"
"Eleven."
"You let me sleep in that long?"
She went over to the bed, gesturing him to lay back. "You needed the rest." She even pulled the blanket back over him, carefully, making sure it wasn't tight. "And Mary and I both agreed that you needed it."
"Mary was here?"
"She figured you must have wondered off to your dressing room. She didn't want to wake you."
"I really wish you two wouldn't discuss me without my knowledge. I should be spending less time in bed."
"Yes. And you'll do you exercises later." She could tell he was complaining inwardly like a child. He hated being confined. "I'll have your breakfast brought up."
"I'll be taking it in bed with my wife."
She sighed, having no choice but to let him. It was still hard to accept sometimes that he wasn't only hers anymore.
When he had reached their bedroom Anna was making the bed. He cleared his throat to announce himself. "Have you seen Lady Mary?"
"You just missed her, Mr. Matthew. She's already had her breakfast." She fluffed the pillow in her hand and placed it back on the bed.
"Ah." He was disappointed, hoping to have caught her, perhaps still eating. He'd have had his own tray brought up and when he'd finished, he would have liked to curl up with her. Maybe later then.
"She's downstairs with the others, sir. Would you be joining them, or shall I have a tray brought up?"
"I think I'll join them."
Robert had heard about the 'sleepwalking' incident, wondering how he had gotten to the cemetery in the first place. He couldn't have walked or driven the car. The chauffeur admitted driving him. Robert was furious, threatening to fire him.
"He seemed clear of mind when I took him, my lord. I was just doing my job."
"I think you're being too harsh Robert." Matthew came to his defense as he had with Tom, when he had threatened to fire him. "I asked him to."
Mary and Matthew's gazes met. She then looked at her father, indicating that she would like to speak with her husband alone. "Matthew, would you like to join me in the morning room?"
He simply nodded.
As he sat on the sofa, she wore a peculiar expression, her eyes and eyebrows lowered. "What?"
"It is true, then?"
"Yes. I had him drive me to the cemetery."
"What reason was there for you to go there?"
"Does there need to be a reason?" He was deflecting, avoiding the question. Perhaps stalling as long as he could.
Was he searching for something plausible for her to accept? He wouldn't do that to her, would he? He made a promise he wouldn't hide them from her anymore. Had he had some kind of episode without knowing?
"Your mother asked me if you sleepwalk. Is that what happened? Why she didn't tell me...I'll give her my mind, keeping something like this from me."
"Leave my mother out of this. This has nothing to do with her."
And he was right. She was looking for an excuse to blame someone. It was him she was truly worried about. She was always worried about him. She couldn't help but think of him all alone and cold out there. The chauffeur had to have taken him to the cemetery at his bequest. He couldn't have walked that far. But had he been aware when he had asked him? Could one do such an action in his sleep?
She didn't care about his rapid-fire responses. She was more concerned about how long he had spent out there. "You could have gotten pneumonia." She scolded, hiding her worry. Pneumonia could be fatal to him.
"But I didn't. I asked him to take me out there to visit William and the others." His voice was low. It always dropped an octave when he was speaking of something sad or feeling disappointed in himself or keeping something from her.
Stop that now. I have to believe him. If I can't trust him, then what do we have?
"I don't remember anything after, after..." His throat worked as if he had lost the ability to talk. He swallowed several times. "Perhaps I did fall asleep. I remember being tired." Tired. He was so tired. Tired of all this, these endless nightmares, these flashes of memory that were constantly disrupting their married life. Not just that. His other relationships as well, with Tom but partly that had been his guilt about Sybil, and his mother. Whatever he had put her through, he had to take a guess, she probably saw him ranting and raving. He remembers calling out for William, that he knew was the truth and muttering over and over, "I couldn't save them."
"I couldn't save them."
Everything went silent. He picks up a magazine off the end table, without realizing that it's Sybil's. She must had left it there weeks ago. No one had had the heart to remove it. It was unlikely that it had been forgotten about.
It's the stress getting to he stopped blaming himself for Sybil, for everything, perhaps there would be less. It had worked before. He needs to know. I need to tell him that I don't blame him. Mary gazed at him, lovingly, hoping he'd noticed and not be the clueless lawyer that he was when it came to such things. Thankfully he did when he turned to her with interest, waiting for her to say something.
"I don't blame you; you know. For Sybil." He would feel guilty about his men, perhaps forever but at least this would be off his conscience. And it would put a stop to the nightmares and episodes, at least the increasing severity of them.
"That's what it bloody well felt like." He said, snidely.
"I know. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"Course you did." He snapped, throwing the magazine at her feet. As soon as he did, he regretted it. He closed his eyes tightly, sitting back as he rubbed his face. "I'm sorry. I know that isn't true." How do I stop thinking? A thought gets in my head. It gets stuck like a splinter in the brain. Sometimes I just say things I don't mean.
She knew. He didn't have to tell her. He lashed out when he was scared, or he just blurted out what he thought or felt in the moment. She did the same thing. They were more alike than he knew. She bent down and picked up the magazine and placed it on the table and sat down beside him. "I know, darling. You don't have to tell me..."
"My dear, you must learn to not pay attention to the things I say." He echoed her words from the first night they had their first kiss, the first time he had proposed. They both smiled and laughed, and he pulled her into his arms.
Apparently, he did know. It wasn't a trait he'd always had. He felt everything more deeply now. Stress impacted him differently. She had given him the wrong impression that she blamed him for her sister. It had affected his health. If anyone should feel guilty, it should be her, she thought.
"It wasn't your fault. There wasn't anything you could have done. Anyone could have done." The baby was big, and she had been small. She had hemorrhaged. A cruel act of nature. A cruel act of nature had killed his father. She supposed he felt guilty about that too. Another topic he never discussed with her.
"I suppose there was nothing I could have done differently." She had a sense that he was not only talking about Sybil but everyone he had lost. "But I'm always going to feel guilty about something." His men, the men he had sent to their deaths, Patrick, for leaving him to go get help, only for him to die a few days later. For his father. He should have been there for the both of them. Mary always managed to pull him back, from that dark sinking feeling of the abyss. Is that how fallen angels felt? He was no fallen angel, but he was hers. Her fallen golden prince. Her fallen soldier. She had picked up the pieces over and over and over again. And yet he felt that it wasn't fair to her, that she should feel it was demanded of her. Now it was his turn. "We'll get through this. We'll..." He couldn't seem to continue.
He didn't have to say anything more. "Yes, we will." We must. She leaned over, curling into him. He kissed the top of her head, holding her close.
"You'd think we'd be used to young death, after four years of war." He said, later that night in bed. She climbed in next to him.
"I don't think we'll ever get used to it. If we did there'd be cause for concern. I don't think I'd be able to bear it if you did."
"I'm sorry about earlier. I forgot he was coming, and I wanted us to be prepared for the future."
"We can't. No one can be. Nothing can be certain. That's why we must never take anything for granted."
"The future of Downton."
"Not only Downton." She touched his face to get him to look at her. "Us. We must never take us for granted. We don't know what's coming."
"There's one thing I have to take for granted." She raised her head, glancing up at him, wondering what he could possibly mean. "I will love you till the last breath leaves my body."
Me too, my darling. She lowered her head onto his chest, closing her eyes tightly, wanting this to last, as she put her arms around him. Me too.
It was not long before everyone knew what happened to Thomas. Matthew was not happy about it. She had done most of the arguing about it. He didn't want to fight her on this and left the house for a while. When he came back it was as if it were the only thing they could talk about.
"This isn't who you are. Revenge is not a path you want to go down. You just find yourself in deeper, you dig yourself a hole you can't get out of."
"Why are you so concerned about it?"
"It wasn't his fault. I went to him. I knew he had...connections..."
"You could get in serious trouble."
"I know. That's why I wish you should have come to me."
"Didn't you think about it? Did you not care what happened to you? When you took those pills?"
"No. And it wasn't pills. I barely drank much of it. I thought it would help." He stopped a moment to think, before telling her. "I went to see him."
"See who? Thomas?"
"I had the charges dropped."
"How..."
"I am a lawyer. I know my way around things. I took it from him willingly. He didn't force me."
"What did you say to him?"
"That I didn't blame him. That you were in the wrong and you were only doing what you thought was right, protecting me."
"He's not coming back here?"
"I'll have your father put in a reference for him. He doesn't need to know about this."
"What else didn't you blame him for?"
"What do you mean?"
"What lengths you went to clear him. I suppose it's because you served in the war together."
Matthew's shoulders slumped.
"When you were having that dream, you said to Thomas, though I know it wasn't really him you were speaking to, you told somebody not to leave you."
"We were sent out there, the three of us. Patrick and I..." It still hurt to talk about him, even think about him. "I asked the third man to cover us, my gun wasn't working, and he just ran. He left us there."
"Do you know who the man was? What he looked like?"
He shook his head. "It's still a bit fuzzy."
"After all this time?" She didn't believe him. She was asking but she already knew who he was protecting, because he had seen so much death. Her honorable and humble Matthew, sometimes she thought she didn't deserve him.
"There are many things I chose to forget." She looked at him with watery eyes. "Let us please move on from this?" He begged. "We're stronger than this."
She agreed. She didn't have to say a word, just accepted it because, this was his secret, Pamuk had been hers. Her new secret was how painful it was to love him, and yet how painful it would be to live in a world where he didn't exist. Both their demons and their pain that they try to hide, they must carry it with them always. It was the hurt and the pain that made you who you were. Looking back on it, and how you let it affect you, and how you chose to act, was up to you. Your choice to rise above it and say, I survived. It was so much stronger than and made you prepared for love. So, you could love and live again.
The first episode she had actually witnessed they were out at a Jazz club.
I'm not sure what the sound was, Mary wrote in her journal, a car backfiring, a cat knocking over a rubbish bin, a wedding party firing celebratory shots into the air. But whatever it was, the sound caused him to jump in his seat. He gazed up at me, his eyes wet. He slowly took out a cigarette, careful to steady his shaking hands.
She has learned to handle these, his night terrors. She had to wait it out, how she wished she could comfort him through them, but she could afterwards.
One night, when he returned from London, he was jumpy and chain-smoking. Alright maybe he had one or two. The doctor, not Clarkson, said it would be good for his lungs and his nerves. It seemed to be helping very little with the nerves, for his voice shook, his words tumbling out between panicked breaths. His eyes roamed wildly in their sockets, never focusing on anything in particular. Even hours later, he still couldn't stand or speak properly.
I asked him if he wanted to talk about it. He said no. So I sat with him while he smoked, neither of us saying a word. I put a arm around him and curled up against him. He put his free arm around me. I wonder what he is thinking.
War is hell. It has an impact on the people who take part that never heals. War is.
"They don't like to talk about it." I inclined my head toward him, wondering where this had come from or what he had meant. For a moment I thought he was still talking gibberish, that he had finally gone mad. I lifted myself up further and just listened, while he went into lawyer mode. "In general, if you're a soldier and you've killed in war, you lie and say no. It tends to be the secret we have that we're not proud of. We want to fight bravely, but it's hard to be proud of killing another person." Many of his fellow soldiers didn't shoot. He said. He had shot. I didn't need to ask. "Killing in combat for a psychologically normal individual is bearable only if he is able to distance themselves from their own actions. I didn't at first. The first person I shot, I cried." That's all he says.
He must have felt weak and ashamed. But he mustn't. But I can't tell him. We don't drift into that same dreaded silence we had in the past, in the early days after he had first came home in 1915. A year since he had first proposed, since he had called it off. I had been furious that he wouldn't talk to me about it, about anything. I had asked him how things were.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"What can we talk about? It seems we have nothing to talk about these days."
"You're not the only one that is in pain. It was best that I called off the engagement." Looking back now, I believe he wasn't only talking about our broken hearts, but rather he was talking about something broken in him. As if he knew it was already there. But how could he?
Had whatever had wormed it's way into his mind, this dark abyss of torment, that always threatened to take him away from me, had it already taken root, even back then? That first glimpse of that far away stare at dinner in 1915, when I had asked him how the war was, I'll never forget it. It had twisted him into something unrecognizable after his injury, giving him unwanted and cruel thoughts that he had no control over. He never meant them.
Just as in that moment, in front of the fire, we both hadn't meant what we said. We were still in a painful place, and frightened. The whole world had been. He had lapsed into silence again, staring at the fire. What had he seen beyond those dancing flames?
This agonizing torment, when will it be gone from him? His silence I usually fear. It's usually signals that he's gone away. But now, in this moment, this kind of silence was relaxing, peaceful, as I curled back into him, listening to his gentle breathing. I feel the old him creeping back. And it's only a matter of time before it's torn away from me again.
There are still things he will choose not to tell me, and I am ok with that. I realize now that I have to trust him to fight his own battles. And, while his trauma is a language I can't speak, sometimes you don't need to translate the lyrics to share the emotions behind a song.