Chapter Two
A/N: After quite a lot of procrastination, here's the second chapter of this fic! It's been a very, very hectic few days what with school and tests and exams, so I only had time for one-shots. Now, however, I have plenty of time to devote myself to this story – cheers! I'll do my best to update more frequently, although given my own confusion with this, it still might not be as regular as I'd like.
Without further ado … here you go, and I hope very much that you like it!
Golden amber light shimmered softly in the throes of the fresh new dawn; mocking Matthew with its blithe cheeriness. He'd made the mistake of reading the newspaper over his breakfast, and the striking black headlines had done nothing to improve his spirits, glaring at him from the whiteness of the page. Spanish Flu continues to do the rounds … unprecedented degree of severity … public advised to take every possible precaution …
"Are you quite all right, dear?" Isobel had asked, startling him out of a long, gloomy reverie.
"Hm? Yes, I'm … perfectly fine," he muttered distractedly into his teacup, folding up the offending newspaper.
"Are you sure?" He was nearly always appreciative of his mother's concern, but it had the capacity to be terribly annoying, however well-meant. This was unquestionably one of those times. "You do look a bit peaky – "
"No, really, it's only … my back," he had replied, snatching at the most plausible excuse. "It still feels a little sore."
Isobel hadn't pressed the matter, but he knew perfectly well she didn't believe him, not in the slightest. His mother was far too perceptive; she knew him far too well. A mere twinge of the back wouldn't make his gut twist in shame every time he thought of Lavinia, descending the stairs, soft ginger hair swept across her forehead, her innocent frown and large eyes … and oh God, Mary …
He had escaped as quickly as possible to the back gardens of Crawley House, hoping for some respite from his circling thoughts out in the fresh, clean air – but it was fruitless. Little white primroses lining the dark green grass scented the air with their young purity, untouched by war, or blood, or sickness or death … he tried with all his might not to think of last night, of the two women residing at Downton Abbey, one of whom he was pledged to marry (his head throbbed dully with dread at the thought) and the other who he –
His heart lurched with love and longing, even as he tried helplessly to quash it, the thought of his darling back at Downton – so tantalisingly near, and yet so very far away … The prospect of beholding her beautiful face again brought only pain, coupled with desire that made him shiver with self-loathing. Honour-bound though he was to marry Lavinia, deep down he knew beyond doubt that there was only one woman to whom his heart and soul belonged, as they would to no other.
An exasperated sigh escaped his lips as he stumbled moodily back indoors; sick of the primroses and the daisies and birdsong and maddeningly bright sunshine in the garden. Confusing, contrasting, contradictory … just like …
Mary, Mary, quite contrary; how does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockleshells, and pretty maids all in a row …
He was quite glad to find his mother was out – at the hospital, Molesley said. The last thing he felt like doing was being subjected to her interrogation about feelings he could not untangle, desiring nothing more than to be left alone. Barricading himself in his study, Matthew paced around it aimlessly, his footsteps rubbing along the thick, soft carpet, before finally settling down in his armchair and staring unseeingly at the fire, having refused Molesley's offers of tea. Books lined the walls of the simply furnished, elegant room; and for the first time in his life, he felt no inclination towards them. Matthew's eyes roved slowly over the familiar titles of the well-worn leather spines … Wuthering Heights? No, a doomed, tragic romance in the wild Yorkshire moors didn't particularly appeal to him. A Tale of Two Cities? Executions and bloodshed and sacrifice – and in France, no less? He'd seen enough of that to last him a lifetime. And as chance would have it, his eyes wandered to a particular title … Andromeda and Other Poems, by Charles Kingsley.
The unbidden memories the volume evoked flowed like a relentless river over smooth stones. Countless times he had reread the very first, titular poem the book contained, since the night so many years ago, when it had first become so deeply significant to him …
Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure;
Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him.
Brimful of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him,
Answering lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodité
Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours,
Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals.
Matthew groaned quietly, burying his face in his hands. Was he never to escape her?
Brimful of honour … God, what honour did he have left to speak of? He had kissed her while his fiancée was laid up in bed, like the cad he was. Answering lip with lip … the memory assaulted him again, torturously sweet like ambrosia … the way nothing else had seemed to matter when Mary was in his arms, every stain and hurt and scar fleetingly obliterated, gloriously washed away in those stolen moments of blissful, pure ecstasy … Perseus and Andromeda were one of the very rare lovers in Greek mythology who had got a happy ending, going on to marry and having eight children …
At the occurrence of this helplessly enticing thought he rose abruptly from his chair and promptly left the study, shutting the door firmly behind him.
"At least she doesn't seem too serious," Matthew said quietly, as he and Isobel exited Lavinia's bedroom at Downton. The three of them had come to the conclusion that the wedding would have to be postponed, given that the bride was taken ill, and the miasma of sickness and gloom that pervaded the Abbey – indeed, the entire village of Downton.
"No, no, I'd say she's been lucky," Isobel reassured him. "But I am terribly sorry about the wedding."
Another painful shiver of dread. He could not conceal from himself the shameful truth: he was glad the wedding was put off. He could not bear the prospect of that sweet, innocent girl's hand being placed in his, so confidingly, so trustingly – when his heart did not belong to her completely and wholly, and it never would. A delay – yes, he was glad of the delay, even though it made him shudder with self-loathing.
"These things are sent to try us," he muttered with a small shake of his head, not looking his mother in the eye – God, how could he? – and hoping desperately she could not read the scorching shame branded upon him.
Dinner that evening was excruciating.
Matthew mechanically forced down the food, washed it down with wine; and they seemed to stick in his throat, clogging it. It felt unnatural, all of it: the several empty places at the dinner table – Cora, Lavinia – no Carson to supervise the meal; and most of all the dark-haired figure merely feet away from him, who drew his eyes every instant he willed himself not to look at her. Because to look at her would be to plunge the knife in further; the memory of merely hours ago when it had just been the two of them in the world, and nobody else –
Nothing else would matter in the world today … we could go on loving the same old way ...
If he had known, twenty-four hours ago, that he would have kissed her and reproaching himself bitterly for it while his fiancée was ill in bed …
The delicate white lace of her blouse contrasted elegantly with the soft, silky brown of her hair; it complemented the paleness of her neck, patterned with the tiniest marks and freckles … every part of him ached for her, his arms longing for her – she was only a few steps away, but they might as well have been miles apart for every barrier, broken and unbroken, that stood between them. She was strong and shining and gentle and oh, God, he loved her so …
Tension radiated between them; the sparks leaping, threatening to burst into flame, each afraid to glance up in case the other's dear eyes might hold them captive and never let go … because to lock eyes would be to acknowledge the chasm between them that ached to be filled with kisses, to remember, to –
"I'm so sorry," Mary's quiet voice instantly disrupted the inane, subdued chatter. The blood chilled suddenly in Matthew's veins, icy foreboding travelling through him. "I don't feel quite well. I think I'd better lie down."
Several worried pairs of eyes scrutinised her concernedly.
"Darling, is it –?" Robert began worriedly.
"No, it isn't very severe – perhaps it only needs a rest," she whispered. Her face was drawn, and pale, and wan; her head was swimming; her hands trembled and shook as they clutched the dining table to support her weight. Black and red stars swirled painfully before her eyes. The men stood as she walked slowly across like a phantom in white and exited the dining room.
Matthew's hands were icy-cold; his brain was numbed. Every instinct called for him to run out into the hallway and take her in his arms – his heart lodged itself into his throat at the fleeting glimpse he had caught of her, her brown eyes suddenly seeming far too large for her face. Twenty-four hours ago, Lavinia had left the room, in precisely the same way … his brain mulled over every event and fact slowly, as though unwilling to process and digest the information …
Mary had escorted Lavinia to her bedroom last night, and … Lavinia was ill with the Spanish Flu. That could only mean that –
No.
Oh, God, please no.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Matthew's conflicting feelings are terribly complicated – he knows he should be thinking of Lavinia, and being worried for her, but his conscience reminds him constantly of how he betrayed her. Nearly everything reminds him of Mary. The truth is, he does care about Lavinia, and he does love her in a way. But the rawest and deepest part of his heart has already been occupied by Mary, and she's never left it. He simply can't help thinking of Mary when he knows he shouldn't be caring about her at all – and that of course circles back to him hating himself for thinking of her and feeling even more guilty about all of it. To put it simply, Matthew's struggle is between his head and his heart. Violet's talk with him was the catalyst that drove his repressed feelings to the surface, and then the dance was the tipping point for both of them. His heart simply demonstrated the truth. Goodness, he really is the king of angst.
Reviews would be lovely :)
