January 16, 1915
Cora Crawley woke up with a smile for the first time in a very long while. For today was a special day. Her son was one month old. The most miraculous gift she could have ever hoped for had been out in the world and in her arms for a whole month. And what was just as miraculous, Cora had been feeding him for a whole month as well. It was an honor and a privilege for someone in her position. For all that Mama and Robert and even Mary and Edith thought that it was common and inappropriate, Cora had insisted that she be allowed to be a proper mother to her son.
And she hated it. Oh she loved the closeness of being with her baby, she loved the knowledge that she was nourishing him from her own body the way a mother should, she loved the bond that she had developed with her son as a result of their time together. But she did not know, really, how much constant care and attention babies need. There had been nannies and nurses for the girls, and Cora was kept away from it for the most part. Even when she'd wanted to be there, she wasn't really allowed to be, and the staff all sheltered her from the less pleasant aspects of having babies. Cora got all the good that came from the choices she'd made with John, but she was starting to feel like she might be paying for it with her very soul.
She shook her head, trying to banish the morose thoughts. She was just fine. The baby was a month old, and he was already starting to sleep through the night more. That meant Cora was being woken up less. And hopefully she would be able to regain some strength and some sanity.
Normalcy was too much to ask for, of course. With baby John in the house and war outside their doors, things would not be normal for a long time. But maybe as John grew, Cora could sleep through the night. Maybe Robert would come back to her bed. Maybe they could take their walks in the mornings, and in the warmer weather, they might even take John in the pram. Maybe Cora might someday soon be able to get out of bed and get dressed without pressing her lips closed in order to keep from begging Baxter to let her go back to bed.
A soft knock sounded at the door. "Come in," Cora called gently.
Nanny appeared with the baby in her arms. "It's time, My Lady," she said.
Cora sat up, repressing a groan of discomfort. She undid her nightgown as she always did and opened her arms to take hold of her son. "Good morning, my darling boy. Time for your breakfast. Time to start a very special day, John," she cooed to the baby.
He was a happy baby, for the most part. Sybil had been like that, quiet and cheery and easy-going. Neither Mary nor Edith were, but Cora hadn't spent as much time with them as she would have liked, so perhaps she'd just always missed Sybil's bad moods and lucked upon Edith and Mary's squalling more often than not. Either way, regardless of what baby John needed from her, he hardly ever cried or fussed when he was in her arms.
The baby latched on and suckled, causing Cora to sigh at the sensation. "It's been a whole month of this sweetheart," she murmured. "I think we're starting to get used to things, hmm?"
It was strange, talking to the baby like this. He couldn't answer back, but she got the feeling that he understood a bit of what she was saying. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps this was how Robert felt about his dogs.
Cora sighed, shifting the baby slightly as she did. Despite the joy of the baby and of Mary and Matthew's marriage, the house was still mired by grief. Edith had lost her fiancé. Robert had lost his faithful Labrador. Certainly the two thing were not on the same level of loss, but both events nevertheless had broken the hearts of people Cora loved dearly. Edith barely ever left her room in three weeks since she learned of Sir Anthony's death. Robert had spent the last week since they'd buried Pharaoh moping about the house.
At least, as far as Cora knew, that's what they were doing. Sybil would sit with her sometimes and tell her what was going on. Cora struggled to do much most days, and she had taken to lying down in the afternoons. Sometimes in the mornings, too.
This was all she did now, it seemed. She fed the baby, and she laid in bed. It was just that she was so tired all the time, and the reasons to be up and about seemed trivial and far less appealing than just going back to bed
"My Lady, are you alright?" Nanny asked suddenly.
Cora had not realized that she'd started crying. Nor had she realized that John had finished eating. She readjusted herself and wiped her face before kissing her son's little head and giving him back to Nanny. "I'm just fine, I'm terribly sorry," she said, her voice cracking.
And Cora was sorry that she'd lost hold of herself in front of Nanny. That must have been terribly uncomfortable for the woman, and it wasn't right for Cora to subject her to that.
She was sorry, indeed, but Cora had to start coming to terms that she was not just fine. She wasn't fine at all.
January 19, 1915
Mary Crawley absolutely hated this. She hated that she was backed into a corner with no other option. She hated that she had run out of time to come up with something else. But more than anything, she hated that she would have to be brave and confess her feelings. She may have been married for six whole weeks by now, but she still wasn't comfortable with all of that.
She dismissed Anna early that night, and paced back and forth in her bedroom, wringing her hands nervously. And after what felt like an age, Matthew appeared.
"There you are!"
"Were you waiting up for me?" he asked.
"Of course I was," she replied. "Tomorrow's your last day here."
Matthew nodded. "And tomorrow night is my last night in this bed with you until I'm given leave."
"Yes," she said, nodding in return. "Which is why we need to talk tonight."
His brow furrowed over those brilliant blue eyes of his. "Talk about what?"
Mary took a deep breath, steeling herself. "You have asked me why I insisted on us being married before Mama gave birth. And I haven't wanted to give you an answer."
"You said it was because you love me and wanted to marry me before the chaos of the baby and the war and all that," Matthew responded, parroting back the excuses she's used for months.
"And that's not inaccurate. But it's more than that. And before you leave to go off to war, I think you deserve the real answer."
Matthew sat down on the edge of the bed, his expression grave. "Alright."
"The truth is that I do love you. I love you so much that it frightens me. I love you in a way that makes me feel that I won't be able to live a single day without you."
He smiled at that, reaching out for her hands. She took them and sat beside him. "I feel the same way, Mary," he told her leaning in to kiss her gently.
"Please," she said, pulling away from him. "Let me finish."
"Alright," he answered with concern filling his face once more.
This was the difficult part to admit, and she knew it. "I have spent my life being told what to do and what to be. I was always supposed to marry the heir so that I could be Countess of Grantham after Mama. But after James and Patrick died, after I met you, I started to wonder what life could be, what else could be out there. Sybil always talks of change and freedom, and maybe she isn't wrong. I started to think about what life could be like for me if I were to marry you. You have this bravery, Matthew, and this utter goodness. You asked me to marry you, and I had Aunt Rosamund telling me disparagingly that I could never live as the wife of a country solicitor. And you know how I feel about people telling me what I can and cannot do."
Matthew smiled affectionately. "Yes, I do know."
Mary continued, "And I decided that I wanted the life that we could share together, whether it was here as the Earl and Countess of Grantham or whether it was a house of our own with you as a lawyer and me as…whatever I might be able to be as your wife. After I told you the truth about Kemal, after you still wanted me anyway, that was when I knew that I wanted you no matter what your station. I will never be Countess of Grantham, and I don't mind at all. I wanted to marry you before we knew because I didn't want anyone to try and sway me otherwise if Mama did have a boy. I was certain and I am certain, Matthew, that I want to be your wife, and I have no doubt that whatever the future brings to us, we will have a good life together."
After her speech, Mary took a breath. She felt herself shaking but tried to hold her head up proudly. For she was proud of these words, of her feelings, of being able to finally tell Matthew what truly lived in her heart.
"I wanted you to know all of that before you go away to war. I wanted you to know that I will be here waiting for your return so that we may make a life together, and I wanted you to know that I truly want this life with you. So please do take care to come home to me." Mary's voice faltered in her last sentence, betraying the worry that lingered for any wife whose husband goes to fight for King and country.
Matthew gazed at her with a look of pure adoration. "Oh Mary, I do love you. I love you, and I promise that we will have a future together, a future not dictated by any accident of birth but a future of our choosing, of our own creation."
Mary threw her arms around her husband and held him tight. And a small part of her felt at peace.
January 28, 1915
Phyllis Baxter heard the bell ring for the Mercia bedroom and quickly folded the letter she'd been reading in the servant's hall. It was still on her mind, however, as she brought Lady Grantham's tray up to her for breakfast.
"Good morning, My Lady," Baxter greeted gently.
The countess sat up and gave a tired smile. "Good morning, Baxter. Thank you so much." Lady Grantham was always looking tired, ever since the baby came. Baxter worried for her.
Baxter put the tray on Her Ladyship's lap and looked at it for the first time. "Oh, I've forgotten your orange juice!" she realized. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Ladyship, I'll fetch it now."
But Lady Grantham stopped her. "Is everything alright, Baxter? You seem a bit distracted."
She didn't know why she'd said anything, but Baxter found herself telling Lady Grantham, "I received a letter this morning from Thomas."
"Oh, that's right, you two knew each other as children," Her Ladyship recalled.
"We did, yes. And I don't think it would surprise you to know that Thomas did not have many friends here, but I'm glad he's kept in touch with me," Baxter said.
"Is he doing well with his medical studies?"
"He is," Baxter confirmed, "But he is being sent to France next week, and he's worried. And I'm worried for him. The stories they're telling of the war…the trenches and the gas…I am in Thomas's debt for putting me forward for this position, and I can't help but worry that he may die with that debt unpaid."
Lady Grantham frowned. The drawn, almost gaunt look in her exhausted face was more prominent when she frowned. Yet another thing for Baxter to worry about.
"I know there isn't anything to be done," Baxter added. "But I still worry."
"I'll write to Matthew and to Doctor Clarkson. I can't guarantee that either of them will be able to do anything, but we may be able to see that Thomas is stationed somewhere safe or else with people we know who can help look after him?" Lady Grantham offered.
A flicker of hope came to Baxter's heart. "Oh, thank you, Your Ladyship. I know we can't expect much, but I'd like to feel as though I've tried."
"And we will try, Baxter. There isn't much we can do in the world today, but we can at least try to help those we care about. Even if we don't succeed."
Baxter got the sinking feeling that there was a greater depth to Lady Grantham's words there. But that was more worry for another day. For now, Baxter felt she could respond to Thomas's letter and tell him that Lady Grantham was going to try and help.
February 2, 1915
John Bates was the happiest of men. He hardly had any right to be with war raging and with the knowledge that he had lived a life as a drunkard, a bad husband, a criminal prisoner, and now a divorced man. He was no pauper, but his prospects were hardly impressive. What could a cripple like him ever offer to a good, kind, beautiful woman like Anna?
But Anna insisted she didn't mind. Anna loved him, Anna wanted to marry him. And by god, he loved her, too.
They stood together in the little church in the village. Downton had become his home these last three years for many reasons, not the least of which was due to Anna. But Lord Grantham, who had always been a friend to him, was almost something of a brother. As much of one as an Earl can be with his valet. And he had made such dear friends among the staff. Mrs. Hughes and Gwen and Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and William. The fiends, Thomas and Miss O'Brien were long gone. All that was left in Downton was comfort and love. Which was what brought them to the church that day.
Try as he might to remember every single word that the minister said, Bates found the words melting away from his conscience. He held Anna's warm, small hand in his large, worn one. Her very presence beside him was an enchantment.
By the time they repeated the words of the marriage vows, John thought his heart would flutter right out of his chest. But then it was done. The ring was on Anna's finger. Their lips pressed together in a kiss to seal their union.
"I love you, Mrs. Bates," Bates whispered.
The brilliant giddy grin on Anna's face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She told him in return, "I love you, Mr. Bates. I'm ever so proud to be your wife."
"Not half as proud as I am to be your husband," he assured her. But it certainly wasn't a competition. After all, the world was full of such things. Here and now, he and Anna were happy and married at last.