The Somme, March 1916

He got two letters during the mail call – one from Miss Swire and one from Mary.

He told himself that he wanted to open Mary's first to make sure everything was alright with Downton, but this time he was unsuccessful in deceiving himself. He still started with Miss Swire's letter, on principle.

Miss Swire's letter was nice, chatty and charming. Her previous ones cheered him up to no end and made him truly look forward to spending his nearest leave in London, getting to know her better. He was well on the way of convincing himself that he was over Mary and ready for a new relationship – and Miss Swire was lovely and sweet and didn't leave him in any doubts of her affections for him whatsoever. He had started toying with the thought of proposing to her.

But then he saw Mary, for the first time since that blasted garden party, and he knew that he was nowhere close to getting over her. He knew that she didn't love him back – he reluctantly accepted it, however painful it was to contemplate – but that visit showed him plainly that it did nothing to lessen his own love for her.

He put Miss Swire's letter down. He would answer her later, but he would have to start thinking how to let her down gently. She did not deserve to be led on by him. He was clearly not yet ready to move on.

Putting Miss Swire out of his mind for the time being, he impatiently opened Mary's letter.

"Dearest Matthew,

I hope that you are as well as you can be. The papers say that the weather is quite mild in France now, so I hope you are not cold at least. If there is anything which we might send you to make you more comfortable, you just have to ask.

I am quite pleased to tell you that things are well at Downton, although not without challenges. With the conscription in full swing, we lost several more servants, tenants and farm labourers to the army. Edith, of all people, decided to learn how to drive and offered to drive a tractor to help. I think she is mad, but we do need somebody to do it and the last qualified man enlisted just last week. Well, if she insists, better her than me, and at least the work will be done.

Sybil is bemoaning being useless. I try to give her more responsibility helping me out with the estate or Mama with organising fundraisers, but it doesn't seem to help much. I'm truly afraid what kind of mad scheme she will think of. You know Sybil. She is well capable of overdoing even Edith's tractor.

I have to say Jarvis is frustrating me to no end. He has been working for my grandfather and then for Papa for forty years and he clearly finds it insulting to answer to a woman now. I will clearly admit I do not know much about farming yet, but he seems bent on proving it to me anyway and dismisses any of my ideas, however small. I requested the books for the last decade. I am determined to prove to him that some of the old ways just do not work.

It was a very hard pill to swallow, the conclusion that Papa was not omnipotent and necessarily knowing best. Jarvis keeps telling me that it's just because I am completely ignorant, and Papa knew what he was doing but looking at the numbers I just cannot agree completely. I am ignorant about those matters – although I'm doing my best to learn – but it's obvious that Downton is not self-sufficient, and it never truly was. If we didn't have Mama's fortune, we would have lost it years ago. There must be some way we can improve the way we are doing things. I am determined that you will come back to find your estate in better condition than you left it to me.

Please let me know if you prefer receiving more detailed reports about the estate or if they are too much of a distraction. The last thing I want is for you to worry about anything other than your safety. Let me know if more or less information is best for your peace of mind.

Your affectionate cousin,

Mary"

To his surprise, Matthew found himself smiling all the way through the letter. He even chuckled out loud when he imagined Edith on top of the tractor, with Mary, Carson and Cousin Violet visibly disapproving in the background. He eagerly reached for a pen and sheet of paper to immediately write his answer.

Downton Abbey, April 1916

Mary noted gloomily that breakfast was rather a dismal affair now. To be truthful, lunches and dinners were hardly better, but there was something especially awful in starting the day just in the company of Edith and Sybil, all dressed in unforgiving black and staring mournfully at Papa's empty chair at the head of the table.

Matthew's chair now, come to think of it. As was everything else now.

It was still rather hard to fathom. To realise that her home did not belong to her or her family anymore, that they were just guests of Matthew for an extended stay; that everything but their personal possessions was not theirs anymore. They were hardly poor of course – Mama had her dower portion and each of the girls received their settlement, which, if they wanted or needed, could easily buy them a comfortable house and maintain them for life. In fact, Mary never had so much money in her own name in her life. But it was still surreal to contemplate that the very chair she was sitting on did not belong to her family anymore.

She refused to dwell on the fact that if not for her stupidity before the war she could have been the mistress of this very house now.

She absolutely refused to contemplate the fact that there was a very real chance she was going to be the mistress of this very house yet – if Matthew fell in battle.

That was not something she ever intended to consciously acknowledge. It was enough that this exact scenario played out nearly nightly in her nightmares, interceded with visions of Papa vomiting blood all over the table.

Mary noted dryly that her nights were quite fun now.

She poured herself more coffee. She preferred tea, but thanks to the hardly restive nights, she did not feel up to facing the day without something stronger and more stimulating. She sighed inwardly at the prospect of another meeting with Jarvis. That man was completely impossible. Mary was absolutely convinced that if it was Matthew he had been dealing with, he would not dare to be half as insolent as he was with her.

Although, who knew. Maybe Jarvis' feelings on middle class upstarts were similar to those he possessed on women running estates.

Sybil's voice torn her out of her musings, voicing what they were all feeling.

"It seems wrong to eat breakfast without Papa, doesn't it?"

Mary's throat tightened. She was doing everything in her power to keep busy, to be strong, like Granny, but it had been just three weeks since Papa died. She was nowhere near to being reconciled to it, however much she tried.

"It does," she said hoarsely, then steeled her spine and added. "But dwelling on it is not going to help."

Edith sent her a furious look through the tears gathered in her eyes.

"You really are heartless, you know? It's been just three weeks!"

Mary rolled her eyes, but before she could snipe back, Sybil jumped to her defence.

"Leave Mary alone, Edith! We all grieve in different ways. Or are you going to tell Granny that she is heartless as well, since she also prefers to do it in private?"

Edith looked like she would love to tell Granny exactly that, but she wasn't suicidal enough to try. Her chin trembled.

"I'm sorry, Mary," she said reluctantly, feeling Sybil's glare on her. "We shouldn't quarrel now."

Mary felt that a nice quarrel with Edith would do her a world of good, to be honest, but she also felt the power of Sybil's glare.

"We really shouldn't," she said grudgingly, searching for a topic suitable as a peace offering. "How are your driving lessons going?"

She must have chosen well, because Edith brightened up visibly.

"Branson says I'm getting quite good!" she announced proudly. "Although the tractor is much different from the Vauxhall. Then again, there isn't so much danger of running someone over in a field as there is in the village. But I will be able to take you around soon!"

Mary and Sybil exchanged slightly alarmed glances at the prospect. Mary decided that a change of topic might be prudent, before they were forced to commit to any life-threatening excursions.

"How is Mama?" she asked Sybil hastily. Of all of them, Mama seemed to tolerate Sybil's presence the most, so it was chiefly her youngest sister who kept her company.

Sybil shrugged uncertainly.

"Mostly the same," she said sadly. "If she leaves her bed at all, she spends the day on the chaise lounge. But she did write some letters for Lady Townshend's charity bazaar yesterday. She said Papa would have wanted her to help the war effort as much as possible."

"What is the bazaar for, exactly?" asked Edith, but Mary was barely listening to Sybil's answer. Carson was coming in with the morning post and she instantly spied the military issued envelope.

She nearly torn it with her bare hands in her haste to open Matthew's letter.

"Dearest Mary,

I am as well as can be expected. The weather is indeed mild and sunny, and it is a nice break between the miserable cold of winter and the scorching heat of summer – both of which can and do make life in the trenches equally hellish in their own way. We all appreciate the respite.

I was amazed to read the news about Edith helping out on the farms. I must admit, when I first imagined her driving a tractor, I did laugh, but it was most unfair of me. It sounds like she is really making a contribution, so please convey my thanks and admiration to her. Or maybe I should ask Mother to do that – knowing you two, I have great apprehension that my message might get lost in the heat of your usual style of discussion.

I was concerned about the complaints you have listed about Jarvis and his attitude to you. If he persists, please do not hesitate to replace him. I understand that he served the family well for forty years, but I cannot stand for you to be dismissed and belittled. I left you in charge and I expect it to be respected. I will write a letter to him myself reminding him of it but do know that if you decide it is impossible to work with him efficiently, you have my full support and permission to find someone more reasonable. Not that you need it – as I said you are in charge of Downton and I will abide by any of your decisions made in my absence. Especially since I am sure you will make a better job of it than I ever could.

You ask how much details I require – I will leave that decision to you. A detailed report would not burden me in the slightest, to be honest any distraction is a welcome one. When we are not busy, the biggest danger we face is overwhelming boredom, due to never ending and insufferable waiting. There is of course seemingly never shrinking mountain of paperwork to occupy me – a bane of existence for every junior officer – but a lot of it is concerning matters which hardly lift one's spirit. A nice financial report might be just a thing, but I do not want you to think that you have to defer all your decisions to me; as I said, you are in charge.

Speaking of financial matters, I ordered Murray to keep you informed regarding the performance of various shares your mother's fortune has been invested in. I am afraid I made quite a few changes to the way your Papa managed the money. He did invest the bulk of it in just one company, Canadian Grand Trunk Railway, and while there is nothing alarming about the company itself – except its current management maybe falling a bit short of what its previous CEO, who died on Titanic, was able to deliver – I find the risk of keeping all eggs in one basket unacceptable. I don't want to criticise Cousin Robert, least of all to you of all people, but I am not convinced he was the most astute of investors. I would have not mentioned anything, except for the very real risk that you will be left responsible for managing it, and I want to make sure you have basic understanding of the financial matters. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think your Papa thought it a necessary part of your education and I want you to be fully prepared for what you might soon face.

Please let me know how you and your family are faring. I know it must be very difficult time for you all. I know I've been completely lost when my father died. If there is anything I can do for you, just ask.

Your bored cousin,

Matthew"

Mary realised she was smiling. He was alright! He wrote back! And such a nice, friendly letter too! He had faith in her ability to run the estate for him; he really did mean it that he wanted her in charge – look how he stressed it again and again. In that moment, she felt she could levitate. After a year and a half of no word, no communication, all the while being terrified for his life day and night, this letter was such an incredible gift she could hardly believe it.

"What does Matthew write?" asked Sybil curiously. Mary quickly schooled her features and tried to gather her thoughts.

"That he is well, thankfully," she answered with what she considered reasonable composure. "And a lot about the estate. Excuse me, I have to go to library and prepare the quarterly report he's requesting."

She left the dining room with all the dignity she could muster, even if her feet felt like skipping for some reason.

The Somme, April 1916

Matthew had to admit to himself that mail call got much more exciting now that he had a hope of receiving a letter from Mary. He hoped she would write back soon, but he was still very pleasantly surprised when he received her response quick enough that she must have posted it the very day his own letter had reached her. He opened it eagerly, finding several sheets of financial figures in addition to a lengthy letter.

"Dearest Matthew,

I will quote you and say I am as well as can be expected. I miss Papa dreadfully, every day, but I am very grateful to you for giving me a purpose to each day and an engaging occupation. I hardly have time to cry on a sofa when there is a quarrel with Jarvis to be had.

Mama is devasted, which is perfectly understandable, but very hard to witness. She barely leaves her room. The only thing keeping her interest are the fundraisers to help the war effort. She is not hosting them here, of course, considering we are all in deep mourning, but she lends her pen and her considerable influence and connexions to the cause, ensuring that events organised by one of her numerous committees are well organised and well attended even in her absence. I admire her determination.

You are perfectly allowed to laugh at the mental image of Edith on a tractor, God knows she looks ridiculous in reality. I'm pained to admit that she seems to be useful though. Apparently there is no end of tasks a tractor can perform at a farm. There is no way I am getting into a car with her at the wheel though. I do value my life.

I'm rather worried about Sybil; she seems to be dealing with Papa's death and all the other depressing news we receive regularly by falling into deep melancholia. I am at my wits' end trying to find a way to help her.

Granny is strong though. She mourns Papa deeply, but if there ever was a firm believer in stiff upper lip, it is her. She is determined to go on, so she does, with no small help from your mother. I am so grateful for your mother's effort on Granny's behalf. I have no idea how she finds the time, busy as she is with the hospital and more charities than I can count (I have a sneaking suspicion she and Mama are in competition about the number of committees they sit on), but she visits Granny every day, usually to drag her somewhere or rile her up with some ridiculously modern idea. It's working brilliantly and fills me with true admiration for her.

Since you said you need a distraction, I include the financial report for the first quarter. Frankly, it does not look good. Jarvis says that rents are often behind after a harsh winter and should catch up after the harvest, but I am sceptical. And if it's true, there must be some way to either find some other source of revenue in those months or save what we get in better months. As it is, I will need to use the dividends and interest on Mama's fortune to cover the estate expenses; a practice which looks to be the usual way of running things. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that in some years this financial income was not enough, and we were dappling into capital. I am still going through the previous years' account books, and I am reasonably sure that this is exactly what I'm going to find.

What you wrote about Papa's financial management and the reports I have received from Murray do seem to fit the pattern, however much it pains me to admit it. You're of course perfectly right that Papa never talked with me about investments – he did indeed not consider it a topic for me to worry my pretty head about, a fact I am cursing right now – so any pointers you can give me will be very welcome. I want to understand what we are doing to keep Downton afloat for you.

I am sorry that you are bored, but to be perfectly frank, I am glad for it too. I much prefer imagining you bored out of your skull and grumbling over a mountain of paperwork than in danger. I'm sure your mother would agree with me. I did not care for your hints of the prospect of me inheriting your estate – haven't I forbidden you from even considering such a scenario already? If I was not clear enough, I repeat myself here: you are not allowed to even contemplate it, never mind mention it to me. I am not trying to run the estate as your heiress (because you won't need one; you will marry and make your own heirs when this beastly war ends), but only as your agent since you cannot very well do it from France. That was the deal between us, remember? And I refuse to entertain a thought of any other outcome.

But the thought of you being bored got me wondering – what are you doing when you're not busy? How can you entertain yourself? I know you like reading and cycling, but I don't suppose you have much opportunity for either. So how do you fill your time?

Your curious cousin,

Mary"

Matthew shook his head ruefully at her stubbornness. It was nice, in a way, to see the care for his wellbeing obvious behind her refusal to acknowledge the daily danger he was facing. However it was immediately followed by grim realisation that most probably she would have to face it sooner rather than later. It was relatively calm on his part of the front at present; the Huns were busy giving the French hell at Verdun, but he could tell the British command was preparing for some offensive of their own and Matthew had no illusions about his chances of surviving it. If he even lived long enough to see it, of course. There were many ways to die here after all, even without the heat of an ongoing battle.

Still, there was no point in quarrelling with Mary about that. She just lost her father and, whatever her feelings about marrying him had been, they were cousins and friends at the very least. He could write a cheery letter to her and take comfort in knowledge that when he died, she would finally get what should have been hers all along.

"Dearest Mary,

You ask me what I do to stave off boredom. Well, it firstly depends whether I am in the front trench, in the reserve lines or at the base for rest. In the trenches opportunities for recreation, even when the Huns are nice enough not to shell us, are depressingly few. There are cards, of course – you would not believe how good I got at them out of constant practice and sheer desperation, even though I never had any particular talent or liking for them. Still, a deck of cards is extremely portable, cheap and easy to come by, so everybody plays when they can.

I do try to read when I can, but books are hard to come by unless on leave – reading French is another skill I vastly improved over the last two years, since French books are necessarily easier to acquire. I cannot bring more than one or two with me to the trenches – we can only bring what fits in our rucksack and after you marched once or twice with one heavy from the rain, while you trudge through the mud, you learn the virtues of travelling light very quickly. I am exchanging books with several other more bookish officers, so none of us accumulates too big library to worry about.

When we are on base, our standard of living is instantly improved, starting with the chance to scrape of the mud in the communal baths and have out clothing steam cleaned. The facilities are rather Spartan, I admit, but it's always nice to realise my skin is not naturally the colour of the earth. When properly clean and dressed, we have the luxury of visiting YMCA canteen or local Estaminets for some real food – or whatever passes for it so near the front in a war-torn country. Still, at least it's not military rations.

Quite often, there is an impromptu football game to join or all kinds of races. Soldiers are a boisterous bunch, with lots of restless energy to spend.

Then again, the army takes care I don't have too much free time on my hands. Did I mention that paperwork is endless? And when I am not dealing with that, I am expected to master an ever-growing body of tactical and technical instructions, and to attend residential training courses. Those can be fun though – that's how I learnt to drive. But going back to paperwork (I am never free of it anyway), there are all kinds: duty rosters, personnel rosters, personnel documents for any soldiers joining or leaving our unit, letters to command and to the relatives of the fallen, and of course letters to censor.

I hate censoring letters. I have to censor letters for the men in my unit and I absolutely hate it. Not only I am feeling like I am invading their privacy - a man is often likely to put most intimate of thoughts in his letter from the front and I know they detest the fact that I am reading them just as much as I detest the thought of my captain reading mine – but so very often, when a man is blown up or shot in front of me, I am reminded of his words to his sweetheart, his mother, his wife, his children and it makes everything even more unbearable. I curse my good memory now. I try to skip over the contents of those letters, look only for forbidden key words and leave the rest unread, but I still register too much for my peace of mind.

It's one of the hardest parts of being an officer (is there an easy one, I wonder? Maybe only the fact that I am not subjected to physical labour and don't have to clean my own uniform; a Sisyphean task if there ever was one) – being responsible for the lives of 50 men, and yet having very little power to do anything real to protect them. Lieutenants do not get to decide how to run a war. We do not get to question our orders any more than a private soldier. But responsibility for conveying and enforcing those orders is ours. It makes my mind and my conscience very heavy at times, Mary. I am not arrogant enough to believe that I alone could have won this war already, or even saved anyone, not really. But the impossibility to question even the most bewildering of orders is yet another facet of being a soldier, an officer, which I detest with passion. Lawyers were not made for unquestionable following and unconditional acceptance. Maybe if I chose a different profession, I would chafe at my current restrictions less."

Matthew looked at what he actually wrote down and startled in surprise. It was as if his brain decided to switch off whatever filter it should have on before sending his thoughts to the hand holding the pen. He managed to control himself in his previous letters to Mary - they were discussing the state and the family, neutral topics, safe topics. This was neither neutral not safe. This was his raw emotions erupting all over the paper. He could not send it to her. If it even got pass the censor, that's it.

And yet writing with such raw honesty to Mary felt so perfectly natural. He just knew she would understand. Not about the reality of the trenches - nobody could really understand that who wasn't here. There were many days when Matthew felt he could hardly comprehend it himself. But somehow he felt that Mary would understand his feelings and disordered thoughts even without knowing the full context, just because she knew him. As much as he kept reminding himself that she didn't love him – or at least didn't love him enough – he never was able to deny the connection between them, the way they just seemed to get each other. It was an illusion, of course. The miserable end of their near engagement was proof enough that he at least was very capable of being mistaken about Mary's feelings, just like any other fool blinded by her beauty. And yet... He wanted to send this letter. He wanted to talk to somebody who cared. And even if Mary hadn't loved him enough to agree to marry him, he stubbornly believed that she still cared about him. Just not enough for anything more.

Oh, to hell with it. He folded the sheet of paper and put it in the envelope. It probably all would be blackened out by his captain anyway, but he would send the blasted letter.

Then he remembered he didn't actually finish the letter and, with a sigh, took it out to add at least his signature.