Chapter Twenty-Four
A/N: Oh, boy. To quote Matthew: "I'm so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?" I honestly don't know if you'll like this chapter and the next one, but I'd want to know your thoughts on it anyway. Here goes …
Epilogue: Part One
January 12, 1971
The night feels familiar, somehow, as indeed it is; the sky painted a glistening, shining black, sprinkled with quivering wintertime stars. Rippling winds sigh and murmur through the rough brown branches shorn of leaves; lilting with undeniable, tangible tenderness. In the silence something is sacred, even eerie.
The big house is quiet, the snowflakes floating like millions of diamonds, travelling in aimless, waving patterns, white ash burning cold, the daughters of the stars; carpeting the ground as it has countless times before, and will again.
The hall is dark, and empty; fifty-one years ago, merry golden light had been spilling out of its spacious interiors upon the celebration of a new decade to come, tuneful violinic music riding upon the air, to the lively dancing of both aged and youthful feet. But no one is playing the violins now; they stand in their cases, old and quiet. Holding their breath; waiting.
The eighth Earl of Grantham lies in their great double bed, resting against the soft pillows, the warm red duvet drawn up to his thin chest; upstairs in the bedroom that is their very own, and has been for so long. The old love lights up his dear face at the sight of his wife as she turns from the window to settle back down in the little red chair at his side.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to draw the curtains, darling?" Mary asks, her fingers tenderly threaded together with his.
"Quite sure. I like looking at the snow," Matthew smiles softly.
She kisses his forehead. Their eyes turn to the window, sapphire and chocolate; watching the ivory flakes swish in the frosty breeze, borne upon the breast of the wind.
"It was the best night of my life," Matthew whispers, turning his eyes to meet hers. Mary grips his hand a little tighter. "My darling, it's … the happiest, happiest memory I have."
Emotion chokes her throat, the words unable to come. She lingeringly kisses his dry, cracked lips and he understands what she cannot articulate. Their matching, mirrored smiles echo one another; united in reminiscence. Many years ago on this very night, a young woman had stood coatless in that chill upon Downton's doorstep, her smile lighting up the world, when the man who held her heart beyond belief knelt down in the snow for her, never minding his soaking wet trousers. The rich cranberry red of her dress a striking contrast to the white of her freckled arms as they were thrown about his neck, his golden hair pure as sunbeams, as he took her in his loving arms, light-headed with joy.
Fifty-one years; fifty-one beautiful years.
That young woman is aged now; the deep brown of her hair now a withered, wispy white, the once creamy skin hanging in loose folds. But the lips that kiss his are the same pink; the lips of the woman who had been pledged in love on this very magical night. Matthew's hair is gold no longer; the face that has been covered with kisses more times than he can count is now pale and papery; the dignified wrinkles that life has carved upon his darling face a mark of how long he's lived, the smile-lines at the corners of his mouth a proof of fifty-one golden years with her. But his eyes are still the same blue; perhaps a little paler, perhaps a little more faded; but still the same eyes that flooded in adoration when the love of his life had accepted his proffered hand; of friendship and trust and his utter, devoted love, five decades' worth of it.
Two pairs of lovers' eyes, jewelled with pain on a long-ago summer's day, born of both their broken hearts.
It takes him an effort to speak again; his throat raw, and dry, and scratched; still sore from the series of chills and fevers that have so recently plagued him and wrecked his increasingly frail body—His Lordship must be confined to bed, the doctor had pronounced solemnly just over a week ago, taking off his horn-rimmed spectacles and shaking his head regretfully. She'd never left his bedside since then.
But he must tell this to her. To his darling, for it is crucial that she knows.
He grips her hand tenderly, a loving smile adorning his lips. His shadowed eyes creased in adoration.
Still in love with her after all these years.
His heart swells with admiration at how brave she is. His Mary. His storm-braver.
"When you walked into my life all those years ago at Crawley House, in your grey riding habit … I knew—that I wouldn't ever be the same man again. Because … you are—the best thing that's ever happened to me, my darling. My one and only love."
If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy.
Mary is incapable of any response, except to caress his cheek with affectionate familiarity, insidious tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She adjusts the hot water bottle beneath his back, shifting it, even though it is well in place. She holds his hand against her face, against her cheek. She cannot look away from those beautiful cerulean eyes that alone have the power to arrest her, as nothing else can.
Gazing down at him, her heart contracting at the injuries he has sustained, waiting by his hospital bed, willing him to open his darling eyes. Probable spinal damage … never walk again … his face white, scarred, bruised and bleeding all over …
"You see, I …" he begins, but a fit of coughing seizes him; fiery hot, tearing through his lungs, each wracking spasm cutting into her soul like a cruel saw. Feeling his pain. Wishing it was her body that it assaulted, not his. Mary cradles the back of his head in her hand, lifting a glass of warm water to his lips, kissing his discomfort away—or trying to. Her fingers never leave his. They cannot bear to. They are inextricably linked together, forever.
Matthew takes her hand and guides it to his lips, caressing her white knuckles with soft kisses.
"You see, I loved you then … and I love you now … and I will love you always."
"I know, my darling," she whispers to him. A promise that she will remember. "And I you."
Another sweet kiss; a resealing of body and soul.
Her gaze is overflowing with devotion, warming her breast. Behind the hooded eyes and the loose skin and the wrecked body, she can only see Matthew.
Her beautiful Matthew.
The middle-class country solicitor who had won her heart.
Their shared memories flood the space between them as Mary strokes his cheek over and over, her hands crowned with kisses. A desperate, impassioned kiss at a dining table a long time ago. Hurtful words flung at each other in bitter ignorance, eyes hot with tears, in bright summer sunshine. Years of pain and regret and love and longing. Their blissful wedding day in a blur of flowers and lace and snatched moments together. The night that followed, when she had felt her body connect with his in that deepest possible level, for the very first time. Their nights in the sunny south of France, their heads sharing the same pillow, their naked bodies entangled after their lovemaking, and their intimate conversations, deep and quiet, into the darkness; when he had told her about his past, his thoughts and dreams … murmured to her over and over again that he loved her. Hardly able to believe this was real.
Their arguments and disagreements, and kisses of forgiveness. Laughs and giggles over private jokes. Their longing for a child, for a family, and their fears that this tender dream might never be reality. The helpless, teary love in his eyes when he saw her and their firstborn baby for the first time. His daily visits to the hospital in the days that followed, unable to stay away from his family.
Do you have any idea how much I miss you both every waking second?
Conversations that embroidered together the tapestry of their lives with gold thread. Rescuing Downton's pigs one midsummer night, kissing his lips in the midst of the sticky mud. The days she gave birth to their prince and princess. Whispered promises in the dead of night, sealed with kisses. Long walks through flaming autumn woods; crimson and brown leaves, speckled and spotted, crunching beneath their feet. Valentine's Days and birthdays and anniversaries. Ensconced in his arms, snuggled beneath the quilts on cold mornings. Her head cradled in his lap, his rich baritone washing over her while he read aloud. Holding each other through six years of war, praying every day only that their darling boy would come back to them in the end. Soft hands that had wiped away hot tears. Arms that had soothed nightmares. Lips that had conveyed undying love. Watching lines and wrinkles slowly appear on the smooth skin; watching silver threads twine through the well-loved hair, brunette and blonde. Feeling the years flow forwards, time rolling inevitably on. Dancing in the drawing room in the firelight, old age having done nothing to dim their love.
Matthew holds out his arms, his eyes shining as of old.
"My darling, will you …? I'd like to—hold you …" One last time.
His sentence is far from being completed when Mary has risen from the chair and slid beneath the sheets.
She nestles into his arms, her fingers caressing the soft curls of hair at the top of his chest that had once been gold, now burnished silver.
"I love you so much," she whispers into his neck, and she feels him smile against her hair as he repeats the simple words back to her. Her eyes blur with tears; she holds him tighter.
Her Matthew.
The snow falls quieter and quieter. The wind is silent, even the faint ripples of earlier subdued. A shaft of moonshine cuts through the window, slicing across the bed, across the two figures entwined in its centre.
They fall asleep, lulled by the sweet sense of safety. They meet each other in the land of dreams—blue and purple dreams woven of memories, stitched with time; stars of love coalescing like fireflies, their promised love binding them together.
You've lived your life and I've lived mine, he'd said to her once upon a time. Now it's time we live them together.
And they had. They'd lived their lives together to the very fullest. Just as he had asked her to, fifty-one years ago.
A faint glimmer of gold ripens the dark blue sky, blending gradually to a soft, dusty blue; the ceiling of a beautiful frozen world. The rosy light of dawn streams in through the bare windows; creeping slowly across the carpeted floor; kissing his beloved face with touching reverence; so painlessly peaceful, a serene smile of love still blessing his lips.
Mary's arms are still around him, and his around her; her ear still pressed to his silent chest.
I will love you, Matthew had whispered to her on a long-ago midsummer night, when they lay curled in very much the same position they were in now, until the last breath leaves my body.
He had kept his promise.
A/N: Once again, I am so sorry. To say that I'm sobbing would be a massive understatement. I wanted to complete their love story properly, give it a fitting ending. Matthew and Mary had a long and golden marriage and had many amazing years together, so that's what this chapter is about, really. I really would like to know what you thought of this. Part Two's on its way.