Chapter One
A/N: Hello! It's me again. Starting a new WIP!
For a very long time, I've been wondering what might have happened if it was Mary who had fallen ill with the Spanish Flu, after the EPIC DANCE. I always thought Matthew looked far calmer than he should have done when Lavinia was dying – and I have no doubt that if it was Mary in Lavinia's place, he'd have been losing his mind. So, I'm embarking on an AU from 2x08. I promise I haven't forgotten about ALtwL – Chapter 21 will be up as soon as I can get it all properly worked out and written.
The title comes from Heathcliff's passionate monologue to Catherine Earnshaw in Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë : "Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!"
Enjoy! :)
He was lying back in his own bed at Crawley House, the sheets rumpled and twisted around his body, dragged up one minute and agitatedly flung off the next, shivering at the recollection of the events of barely an hour or two ago, contrasting with the warmth of the quiet April night.
What had he done?
He'd held Mary in his arms—danced with her—felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears, felt the tickle of her breath on his face, the dark blue silk swishing about his legs as they moved as one, her soft, whispered words, interspersed with his own that had slipped out without his volition, of love and apology and regret—a fantasy briefly transformed to reality, an ever-present ache, a longing that had never really left, of everything that could have been … and then …
He had kissed her.
God, he had kissed her … the golden lights of the hall only a blur in his periphery, the music of the gramophone fading into a distant crevice of his consciousness; every fibre of his being and soul surrendering to her, to that moment, yielding helplessly. His longing heart had broken free at last, allowing itself to scream its truth that had been stifled for so long, to his muddled mind—that he was in love with Mary; hopelessly, madly in love with her; had he ever stopped, really? He could not lie to himself: at the front, in the throes of the bloodiest battles, when the roof of the dugout had rattled under the force of the explosions; when he was crawling in the mud, his face smeared with blood, his comrades blasted to pieces around him, their corpses buried under mercilessly exploding showers of French earth—what (who) had kept him sane? He had tried, hard, to think of Lavinia—dear, sweet Lavinia; so kind and good and innocent, who had been such a comfort to him; tried to force himself to hold on to the memory of her; shy smiles and innocent kisses at London parties, scented feminine letters that had given him something to live for in that hell; Lavinia who wanted him, Lavinia who had accepted him …
It hadn't worked. Not once.
Every time the whistle sounded shrilly, his heart thumping against his chest, praying he would survive this; every time he crawled in the filthy mud, artillery fire thrumming against his eardrums, screams of pain and fear rending the acrid air … every time he had tried to remind himself to survive, to live through this—his traitor heart had conjured her. Her alabaster skin and dark hair, her rosy-pink lips and shining brown eyes; the taste of her frantic, impassioned kiss at a dining table, in a midsummer garden during a debutante season … her warm, inviting smile as he settled himself down beside her on a bench; the feel of white silk gloves against his flesh one firelit spring evening in a library belonging to another existence, another world …
Mary.
His stick.
Mary who he'd loved so fiercely, Mary who had strung him along for agonising weeks, months, Mary who had shattered him so deeply, the life they might have had together … and then his position and prospects were all that mattered to her; she hadn't wanted him for who he was, not without the assurance of being the future Countess of Grantham, the mistress of Downton Abbey ... She didn't—love him. Not like he loved her—devotedly, insurmountably, for the wonderful woman she was. And oh, God, it had hurt. Tears burning in his eyes, hot as acid, when he had retracted his proposal … what an utter fool he'd been to allow himself to imagine, just for a fleeting moment, that she could ever return the depth of his affections. She did not want him; the words repeated in his head as the pain dulled, the agony that crushed his heart … and yet …
He loved her.
Yes, he loved her.
Still. Always.
The world had fallen away as eyes closed, shutting out the world, all reality, and their lips melded together; invoking distant memories that only their hearts remembered; a hundred times more poignant, more intense, because of the pain they had both been through since then … he had lost himself in her, his hands gently grasping her fingers, guiding them tenderly to his shoulder—for that one moment encapsulated everything that might have been theirs if only he hadn't been so bloody stubborn …
A sweet, soft voice had called, "Hello?" and just like that it was over, cold reality hitting him like an icy wind; he was engaged to Lavinia—was going to marry her in three days, for God's sake! The white tie had suddenly felt too hot, too tight, uncomfortably constraining; his breathing loud in his ears, as the small, fragile, delicate figure descended the staircase, a light shawl drawn around her slim shoulders …
She hadn't seen anything—had she? God, please let her not have … They'd jumped apart quickly enough, but his face coloured in shame now at why they had sprung apart at all …
She'd been ill, and he had kissed Mary. Heady, intoxicating, heavenly, perfect … Stop it.
What an utter bastard he was.
He had kissed Mary when his fiancée was ill in bed, but oh—how, how could he not have? When days ago, Cousin Violet had entered his bedroom at Downton to baldly utter the sentence that would resonate in his head long after she had left—
Mary is still in love with you.
Still.
How deeply and thoroughly he had convinced himself that she'd never loved him, never felt anything for him and never would. Had he been … could he have been wrong? Mary was in love with him—had she felt for him as he had for her, then, years and years ago, before this carnage and heartbreak had changed them both irrevocably, ensuring that they never again would be the same boy and girl who had parted under the Lebanon cedar tree?
Didn't he love Lavinia? He had thought he did; but it was like a blow when the realisation had hit him like an oncoming wind. He did love her, yes, but—not like he loved Mary. Her touch did not make electricity spark through his sinews, her company simply not as memorable ... the way he felt ... connected to Mary, as though he could understand her, read her thoughts as though they were two sides of the same coin ... Oh, God, he didn't love her, not in the right way. Not like he should. Not like—damn!—not like he loved Mary.
Hot, sick guilt churned in his belly; shame spearing through his veins. Dear Lavinia, who had come back to care for him when he was of no use to anyone, as good as dead (wishing he was); refusing to be sent away, determined to look after him. It was his duty to marry her, he owed it to her, after what she'd done for him. Prepared to be a nun, a nursemaid to a helpless, impotent cripple; prepared to spend her life childless, more a caretaker than a wife ... And he had betrayed her.
He had kissed the lips of Lady Mary Crawley.
Why?
Because—oh, fuck it—because he was in love with her, and she with him.
He didn't know what to do.
He had never hated himself more.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Matthew's thoughts really are very haphazard, aren't they? It's a constant push-pull between his head and heart, and he has no idea how to put things right :( Poor darling. Hope you liked it, and please do review!
