February 9, 1915

William Mason had lived all his life before coming to Downton as a child in a happy family. His father worked hard and was a good, honest man. His mother had been sweet and took perfect care of everyone around her. And William had always known that he was loved.

The farm where William grew up could not have been more different from the life the Crawleys led at Downton Abbey, but serving tea today, William could not help but see reflections of his own family at play here. He was a good footman and served properly, but he did so with a small smile on his face today.

Lady Grantham sat on the settee looking tired but happy with her baby son in her arms. The little viscount was nearly two months old now, and Lady Grantham seemed to always have him around whenever she could. Beside her was Lady Sybil, talking excitedly about something she'd read in the newspaper. Lady Edith poured the tea for everyone from the tray. She was still subdued and in black from her mourning over Sir Anthony, but she at least was coming out of her bedroom now. Lady Mary was a bit quiet today, but pleasant. Likely she was missing her husband, as Mr. Crawley was off doing his officer's training. Lord Grantham left his tea to grow cold because he sat on the carpet by the fireplace with his new puppy. And though there were varying degrees of it, everyone was happy.

"Mama, why don't I hold John for a little while? That way you can have your tea," Lady Sybil suggested.

"Or we could have Nanny take him back to the nursery so he isn't in anyone's way," Lady Mary countered dryly.

Lady Edith scoffed, "Mary, don't you like our baby brother?"

"I like him fine. He's a good baby, as far as they go, but it is difficult to enjoy tea with an infant around," Lady Mary answered.

Lady Grantham sighed, carefully passing the baby to Lady Sybil. "You're just like your grandmother. When you girls were babies, she was constantly ushering you back to Nanny, and I dreaded it every time."

"Your mother's always been very attached to you all," Lord Grantham said.

"Yes, of course I am! You're all my children, whether you're married or newly born or anywhere in between, and I love you all dearly," Lady Grantham insisted with a bright little laugh. She took a sip of tea and turned to her husband on the floor. "Robert, I think Isis has had enough training for the time being. You've neglected your tea and your son."

"And your daughters," Lady Edith added bitterly.

Lord and Lady Grantham both glanced to their middle daughter with furrowed brow and then at each other. Neither said anything, however.

"William, we've run out of milk," Lord Grantham announced.

"Right away, My Lord," William answered. He took the empty dish and hurried down to the kitchen to get a refill from Daisy, leaving the family to themselves for a moment.

March 17, 1915

Robert Crawley sat in the library at his writing desk, staring at the blank page in front of him. He knew he needed to write this letter, only he wasn't quite sure how.

"There you are, Papa!"

He looked up to see Sybil enter the library with a determined look on her face. Her distraction was welcome. "Were you looking for me?" he asked.

"I was, actually. I was hoping I could speak with you about some things."

"Of course," Robert answered. He stood up from the desk and guided Sybil to the settee. "Would you like some tea?"

"Not just now," she answered.

They both sat. Isis, Robert's new dog, came trotting over. She was at that silly stage of being a puppy where her legs were a bit too long for her body, but she was adorable. Robert gave her a scratch behind the ears. She then followed his command to lie down at his feet. Her training was going quite well so far.

"I remember when Pharaoh was small like that," Sybil remarked.

Robert smiled. "They're fun at this age, though quite a lot of work. Far too much energy. Your mama and I used to take Pharaoh out to run around outside. He had a tendency to jump on her when he got excited. I'd scold him and then she would scold me. Terrible way to train a dog, laughing and snuggling it when it does something it's not supposed to."

"But you and Mama haven't taken Isis out on walks yet, have you?"

The light feeling that came from talking about his dogs went away at mention of Cora. "No, she's been busy," he said flatly.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, one of the things," Sybil said.

Robert sighed. Her heart was in the right place, of course, but his youngest daughter could be exhausting sometimes with this habit of putting her nose where it did not belong. "Your Mama should not be your concern, Sybil," Robert chided.

"Of course she's my concern!" Sybil protested. "Papa, ever since Mama gave birth, she's not been herself. She's been in bed more of the day than not. She's lost all of the pregnancy weight and then some. She's drawn and even haggard looking. Doesn't she sleep at night?"

He faltered. It really wasn't any of Sybil's business, but being asked so pointedly made it difficult to evade the subject. Robert did not want to talk about this at all. "Your mother's sleeping habits are her own affair and none of yours."

But Sybil would not relent. "You don't know, do you? It's because you aren't sleeping in her room anymore, isn't that right? I asked Nanny, and she said that Mama doesn't feed John during the night anymore. But you're still in your dressing room, aren't you?"

"Sybil," he warned.

"Papa, don't you love her anymore? You stayed by her side all through her pregnancy and she gave you a son, the one thing you've always wanted in this world, and now you've abandoned her? How could you?!"

Robert's anger overtook him, and he snapped, "Sybil, that is enough!"

Leave it to Sybil, of course, to stand tall against his temper. "No! It is not enough! Mama is not well, and you need to look after her! And what of Edith and Mary? You're not looking after them either!"

"What about Edith and Mary?" Robert asked, shocked by the sudden change in subject and worried that something had happened that he hadn't realized.

"Edith is a widow who never got to have a wedding, and Mary is a wife whose husband has now been away longer than he was living with her as her husband!" Sybil exclaimed.

"And you?" Robert inquired. "Are you suffering in some manner I've neglected as well?"

She lifted her chin in a defiant manner that instantly reminded him of Mary and of Cora when she was cross. "I am not suffering in the least. I am volunteering with a charity in York to help provide for women whose husbands are enlisted. And I am spending my spare time with my baby brother."

Her words softened his heart. Sybil had that effect on him. Much more so than Mary or Edith ever did. "I'm sorry you think I'm neglecting my family," he said, his voice quieting significantly.

Sybil sighed in a somewhat patronizing manner. "That isn't what I said."

"You have claimed I am not looking after Mama or Edith or Mary. Is that not your way of accusing me of neglect?"

"It just isn't like you, Papa," she said with a furrowed brow. "I know the war is starting in earnest for Britain now, but I am just surprised that you seem so distant from us. I would have thought that you'd be with Mama, helping her cope. Or trying to get Edith out of her room. Or finding something for Mary to do. I don't really understand what you've been doing that's keeping you away from them."

"Well, now that you mention it, I was about to write a letter about it now."

"Oh?"

Robert hesitated. This was not how—or who—he wanted to reveal this information. "I need to do my part. I need to send inquiries to the generals about where they want me. As you said, the war is starting in earnest, and it isn't right for me to not step up and do my part."

Sybil's eyes went wide. "You're going to return to active duty?"

"I don't see what alternative there is. If I am called up, I cannot refuse," Robert explained.

"But you don't have to offer yourself before you're called!"

"I cannot be a man of honor and do anything else," he told her.

"Papa, you have a wife who is suffering. A son barely four months old. A daughter grieving and a daughter worrying and a daughter trying desperately to hold everyone else together. As a man of honor, can you turn your back on all of that?"

Robert's stomach flipped at her condemning words. He opened his mouth to answer her, but no sound came out.

Sybil took his hand and implored, "Please, Papa, I beg you to at least try to fix what's happening here before you go off to war. I understand what you're saying, I really do, but please, please don't just leave us like this."

"Nothing is certain yet," he told her. And that was the truth. But he could not promise her that he would not fight for his country. He was already a decorated army officer, and he'd not shirk that duty.

As for his duty to his wife and children, well, Robert hardly knew where to start with that. Sybil was correct with everything she'd hurled against him about Cora. He'd been sleeping in his dressing room ever since John was born because he did not want to be in her way when she was recovering and he could not even begin to imagine the discomfort of Nanny standing there staring at him while Cora fed the baby and Robert trying to sleep. And the way Cora had behaved with this baby was so unlike the others. He loved their son dearly and had bonded with him quite well, he thought. But Cora felt like a stranger to him now. She was distant and quiet more often than not. She was hardly around, it seemed. He saw her at tea and mealtimes and found her detached. Sybil was upset that he wasn't taking care of her, and perhaps she was right, but Robert did not know what he was supposed to do. What sort of care or comfort could he possibly provide? Cora had always been the one to care for and comfort him and the rest of the family.

Sybil was right, too, about Mary and Edith. He knew Cora had done what she could for their elder daughters, and Robert had left it to her. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. But again, what could he do? Something was better than nothing unless the something made things worse. Robert did not want to make things worse. He did not have a way to make anything better so he was left with doing nothing.

"Papa," Sybil said, interrupting his thoughts, "do you promise you'll not go with the army until things are sorted here?"

That was not a promise he could make. "I'll do what I can," he answered weakly.

April 23, 1915

Richard Clarkson climbed the stairs to Lady Grantham's bedroom, following behind Miss Baxter. It had been about nine months since Miss Baxter started, and Doctor Clarkson could not help but feel as though she were a great improvement over Miss O'Brien as a lady's maid for the Countess of Grantham.

Before Baxter opened the door to announce the doctor, he stopped her. "I wonder if I might hear from you, Miss Baxter, what all has been going on. You have the benefit of being closer to Her Ladyship than anyone."

Baxter hesitated, obviously not wanting to tell tales about her mistress out of turn. But Baxter did not have the conniving ways of Miss O'Brien, and she knew it was important that the doctor know the full picture so that he could help Lady Grantham as best he could. She explained, "She is tired all the time. She puts on a brave face in the mornings, but I can tell its agony for her to get out of bed some days. And she…well, I worry that feeding the baby as she does is starting to wear on her more than it should. I haven't got any experience at all with things like that, but surely it shouldn't be as difficult as it's been for Her Ladyship? I will confess that I don't know her well, Doctor Clarkson, but My Lady seems so defeated, and that isn't the sense I have of her from the staff who have known her for longer."

Doctor Clarkson nodded. He had an idea of what was going on, but he would need to examine Lady Grantham to be sure. "How long has this been going on?"

"Some days are better than others. But I think it's been since she recovered from the birth. Maybe it's her age, I don't know. It seems, sometimes, that she hasn't recovered at all," Baxter said sadly.

The baby was five months old now. Even at her age, Lady Grantham should have fully recovered long before now. But if this had been going on for so long, it left the doctor with one important question. "Why has she only contacted me now?"

Baxter cast her gaze downward. "I'm afraid I rather insisted, though I certainly wouldn't have if she'd protested at all. I went to get her clothes while she was in the bath yesterday and heard her cry out and ran to see—I know she was in the bath when she had that seizure while she was pregnant, I never go further than the bedroom while she's in the bath—and I found her crying. Uncontrollably. It took quite some time for me to calm her, and that's when I said we ought to send for the doctor. She wanted to wait until today because the Dowager Countess was here for dinner last night, and Her Ladyship didn't want to alarm anyone by having you come late in the day."

Well, he could hardly blame Lady Grantham for that. "I'm glad you called for me. I hope I can be of some help. What does Lord Grantham say?"

"Not much," Baxter answered evasively. She turned and knocked on the door before opening it. "Doctor Clarkson, My Lady," she announced, allowing the doctor to enter behind her. "I'll leave you. Please ring if there's anything I can get for you."

"Thank you, Baxter." Lady Grantham's voice was quiet and weak.

Doctor Clarkson thanked Baxter as well and waited until she closed the door behind her before he went to Lady Grantham's bedside. He had expected to find her on the chaise, but she was in bed and in her nightgown. "I think you ought to tell me what's been happening, Lady Grantham," he said. Just as he'd done during the months when she was pregnant, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed.

Lady Grantham's face was drawn and gaunt. The sparkle he'd always known to be in her eyes had gone dull indeed. And she could not even look directly at him. She stared at her hands fidgeting in her lap. She paused, thinking of her words, before she finally asked, "Have you ever read a story called The Yellow Wallpaper?" She did not look at him as she spoke.

"I don't recall anything by that title," Doctor Clarkson answered patiently. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. "It was published in a magazine in America around the time Edith was born, I think. My mother sent it to me. It was about a woman who had just given birth to a child and was having trouble recovering. Her husband was a doctor and diagnosed her with hysteria brought on by childbirth. To treat her, he kept her lying in bed without moving, having nurses feed her by hand so she would not get up, and all she could do was stare at the yellow paper on the walls as she slowly went mad."

She swallowed hard, clenching her hands anxiously.

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately," she continued. "I worry that I might be going mad. But that is why I get up every day and have tea with my family and see my daughters at luncheon and dress for dinner. I think if I allowed myself to stay in bed all the time, I really would lose my mind. But all I want to do is sleep. I can sleep all through the night and wake up as though I never rested at all. John deserves for me to be his mother and to do my best for him, and I am trying. I never did things this way with my girls, but other women feed their babies without trouble, so perhaps I just don't have what it takes to do things properly." She ended with a sigh and looked up expectantly. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Doctor Clarkson was not an unfeeling man, but he was a trained physician and knew better than to be too emotional about his patients. But seeing Lady Grantham like this absolutely broke his heart. Still, he knew he had to put his sympathies aside and treat her gently and help her as best he could. "Lady Grantham, what do you mean when you say you don't have what it takes to do things properly?"

"I have never breastfed before this baby. I didn't realize how painful it would be," she answered.

He frowned. "It shouldn't be painful. May I?" he asked, gesturing to her body so he could examine her.

She nodded and undid her clothing. Immediately, the problem was apparent. The baby obviously wasn't latching properly, and Her Ladyship was suffering the consequences.

"How long have you had this pain?"

"Only the last month or so, I think. It was easier when he was smaller. But Nanny lets me sleep through the night so there aren't as many interruptions. I just assumed it was more difficult because the feedings were less frequent," she said.

"I know how important it was to you that you breastfeed your baby, Lady Grantham, but I think your health would improve if you stopped. He is old enough now that he can be bottle fed. I can provide powder formulas developed by doctors for the right nutrition. The kitchen can prepare it for you and put in a bottle with a rubber nipple, and Nanny or you can feed him that," Doctor Clarkson told her.

Her face betrayed the panic that washed over her. "He'll be alright with that?"

"He will," the doctor assured her. "He'll get everything he needs until he can start eating solid foods. And I think it is equally important that your body recover. Given your age and the other things you've described, I think this will go a long way to helping you feel more like yourself again."

She looked at him imploringly. "Is it my age? Is that why I'm not able to…"

"No," he said, interrupting that line of thought. "Your age does not help matters, that is for certain, but mothers have troubles like this all the time. I have seen these exact same pains and mental anguish in mothers at age nineteen. It's far more common than you might think. And I'm terribly sorry that you've been suffering for so long."

Lady Grantham looked as though she were about to cry. Doctor Clarkson put propriety to the side for a moment and took her hand.

"You are a wonderful mother, Lady Grantham. You love your son, and you have cared for him well. I'll look in on him in the nursery before I leave, but I know Nanny would have noticed if there were anything of concern. No, I have no doubt at all that he's a perfect baby boy, and you have brought him into this world and done everything you possibly could for him. But he also deserves to have you as his mother, and not the woman sitting before me who can hardly get out of bed. I'll not have you waste away and sacrifice yourself when there are other options. Besides, I rather think Lord Grantham would have my head if I let that happen," he added with a small smile.

Her lips twitched at that, but she shook his head. "I don't think His Lordship has noticed anything."

"I find that hard to believe."

She shrugged. "The baby has changed things." She did not elaborate, and he would not press the issue.

Doctor Clarkson got the information he needed and would start immediately on arranging treatment. He stood and moved the chair back to where he'd taken it from. "Lady Grantham, I'm going to have some medicated salve sent to the house for you to clear up those sores. I'll stop by the nursery and speak to Nanny about the milk formula, which I'll send today as well. I think getting back into your usual routine will help. I'd be happy to speak to Lord Grantham, if you'd like."

"No, you don't need to bother him," she answered.

That was a concerning change, to his mind. In the past, anything to do with Lady Grantham's health had been met by clinging panic by Lord Grantham and always ended with instructions from Lady Grantham on what the doctor should tell her husband. He had never encountered anything yet where she told him not to inform Lord Grantham at all. "Very well," Doctor Clarkson answered.

And with that, he left Her Ladyship's room and made his way down to the nursery to see the little viscount.

May 8, 1915

Isobel Crawley folded the newspaper and placed it upside down. She read the article in its entirety, but it was hard to look at that headline. RMS LUSITANIA SUNK BY GERMAN U-BOATS, MORE THAN HALF PERISH

All those dead. It was one thing, getting news of the dead from battle. Soldiers went to war to sacrifice their lives for King and country. But civilian deaths were so brutal. So vile. The raids in Scarborough and up the eastern coast of England in December had been senseless and terrifying. Sir Anthony Strallen had been killed. The attack of a passenger ship in the Atlantic was even worse. It had happened just yesterday and people were still being accounted for, but if the reports were accurate, more than a thousand people aboard that ship were now dead. It was just awful to contemplate.

A single knock at the door to the sitting room came and Molesley walked in. "Pardon me, ma'am, but a letter's just arrived for you. I think it's from Mr. Crawley."

"Thank you, Molesley," Isobel said, immediately taking the letter and tearing it open. She was desperate for news from her son. It was a comfort, too, having Molesley here with her again as well. A part of Matthew, in a way, remained in the house when her beloved son was so far away.

Dear Mother,

I have sent a letter to Mary at the same time, and I ask you not to share with her the contents of this letter. I do not want either of you to worry, and while I know that you are both quite strong women, I feel that you, as my mother, can withstand a small part of my burden that I do not wish to put on my wife. I hope you can understand.

I will tell you, as I have told Mary, that my training has been hard but very good overall. I shall be deployed soon as Lieutenant Crawley. I cannot share where I will be going or what I will be doing, but I feel confident that my training shall serve me well.

What I did not share with Mary is this: I am frightened. The reports we receive may be more detailed than the news reports you receive back home. But things are worsening. The navy is suffering at the hands of the U-Boats. The army is not equipped for what the Germans are bringing to this war. Trench warfare seems to be the way of things now, men crawling through mud to gain inches over the enemy, living in tunnels amidst bombs and bullets littering the ground above. And now we have learned that the Germans are using poison gas, too. Just yesterday, we did training drills with gas masks. Perhaps it will be different when I get there. Perhaps my focus will take away my fear. But I somehow don't think it will.

I fear for myself, that I might not ever return to the wife I love so dearly, that I might not be able to create the life that she and I have only begun together. I fear that I might not return home to you, that I will leave you all on your own. I also fear for all the young men who have enthusiastically enlisted and joined this fight against this enemy and for the protection of our realm. How many of them will never return to their farms and factories and village homes?

The world I enter now is not the world I left behind. I fear that world is gone forever. I fear a lot of things, I suppose. I hope you will not begrudge me for sharing that with you. I did not think you would, but I apologize if it has worsened your worry. But know that I, too, am worried, and I will do everything I can to ensure my fears never come true.

I must close now, and I will say only that I miss you and I love you, and I hope that you will give me news of you and of Downton soon. I'll write again when I can.

Your loving son,

Matthew

Isobel shut her eyes tight to fight off her tears. Her son, her only child, was afraid. How could anyone not be? He was not alone, as he had his regiment, and they were all in the same circumstance together. But that he needed to share his fears with someone and chose his mother…it was more than Isobel could bear.