Downton Abbey, July 1916

She took to subscribing to Manchester Guardian, because she knew Matthew had favoured it and she found herself feeling inexplicably closer to him while reading it – even though she knew he rarely had opportunity to read it in France. With the widely reported news of the new British offensive, she was poring over all the reports on it she could get. She didn't know for sure if Matthew was in it – he wasn't allowed to tell anybody where exactly he was stationed – but he was in France and just the possibility made her terrified, despite the overwhelmingly positive descriptions in the press.

In the Manchester Guardian of July 3, the upbeat tone was still very much present, although tampered with some caution to their readers to manage their expectations of a fast victory:

"The first day of the offensive is therefore very satisfactory. The success is not a thunderbolt, as has happened earlier in similar operations, but it is important above all because it is rich in promises. It is no longer a question here of attempts to pierce as with a knife. It is rather a slow, continuous, and methodical push, sparing in lives, until the day when the enemy's resistance, incessantly hammered at, will crumple up at some point. From today the first results of the new tactics permit one to await developments with confidence."

The newspapers were optimistic and yet, she couldn't fight the ever growing unease. More and more things started to contradict the official narrative. The reports of more and more families in the village and among the tenants receiving dreaded telegrams from the War Office. The influx of wounded at the hospital. The black marked letters they all received – she, Edith, Sybil, Mama, Granny – so many news about yet another man of their acquaintance dying. The cancellation of garden party at Haxby because Billy Russel was killed. And among this all, no letter from Matthew.

Two weeks after the first news of the offensive she could wait no longer. She felt she was going mad. She went to the Crawley House, hoping to meet Isobel after her shift. She was lucky, although she felt immediately guilty when she noticed her exhausted face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Cousin Isobel. I do not want to disturb your rest. I just wanted to know – have you had any news of Matthew?" she said quickly, hoping she was not blushing as much as she feared. "Only - he usually writes me at least once a week – about the estate, mostly – I try to keep him informed, you see. But I didn't hear from him for nearly three weeks now and with the news of the casualties..."

She stopped, unable to finish her thought.

Isobel's lined face softened immediately and she grasped Mary's hand in one of her own, dry from carbolic soap.

"I had a field postcard from him, just this morning. He is alive and well," she assured, smiling when she saw Mary practically wilt in relief. Then she grew serious again. "From what the wounded soldiers are saying, the battle is fierce right now, on unprecedented scale. He most likely does not have much time or opportunity to write. We must be patient, as hard as it will be, and have faith that he will go through it."

xxx

When the letter from Matthew finally arrived, she nearly burst into tears of relief at the breakfast table.

"Dearest Mary,

I am so sorry for the very late answer to your letter. I have been busy for the last few weeks. My unit is finally sent for rest to the back lines and it's only now that I can catch up on the missed correspondence. I hope Mother shared the news from the field postcard I managed to send – I never wanted to worry her or you.

The last few weeks... They were hard, Mary. I cannot really talk about it, but I did see a lot of men, good men, die. I was lucky enough to not be one of them, but I don't feel very lucky now, just extremely tired and sad. Forgive me for that abysmal letter, but I do not have it in me to write more cheerful one now.

Please let me know how the things are at home. I find myself in desperate need of distraction from it all.

Your tired cousin,

Matthew"

Mary bit her lip, frowning worriedly. It must have been truly horrid if this letter was Matthew's version of sanitising it. She knew that he was telling her very little about the reality he was living in, with just a glimpse here and there into the nightmare it really was. She did not like to imagine what could have made him despondent enough to admit to his misery, even without providing details. "I did see a lot of men, good men, die." She shuddered. How close did he come to dying himself?

"How is Matthew?" asked Sybil eagerly, dragging Mary out of contemplation of his letter.

"Alive," she blurted out in answer, thinking that in the end wasn't that the most important thing? With so much death around, could anyone really afford to wish for more? "Thank God, he is alive."

xxx

She managed to shake off her sisters soon afterwards and settled in the privacy of her bedroom to write an immediate reply. She was not sure how long Matthew would be out of the trenches – she had some dim recollection that it was a week or less at the front, then in the reserves, and finally in the rest camp. She wanted him to receive her letter before he had to go back to the thick of fighting, as well as the package she had Mrs Patmore preparing as she wrote. If there was anything at all she could do to make his life just a tiny bit better, she was fully determined to do it.

"Dearest Matthew,

I cannot even imagine what you are going through, so I won't be using platitudes which must necessarily sound empty to you. I will just say that I pray for you every night. I don't know if it means anything, but this is the only thing that I can do, so I will continue doing so until you come back home safely.

Sybil suddenly decided to volunteer as VAD and is off to the training centre in York. Mama is horrified and suspects your mother's involvement – she did find Sybil a place in the training centre, but claims she was not the one to plant the idea in her head – but ultimately agreed after Granny made a speech about crown princesses ladling soup down the throats of some unfortunates. The only condition Mama imposed on Sybil was that she volunteers only at our own hospital at the Village and for God's sake does not go anywhere near the front. To our collective surprise Sybil acquiesced, so there is some reason left in her head.

Now that harvest is approaching, Edith is busy day and night helping at the farms. I did request and managed to hire some proper land girls to help as well; they are arriving as I write. I cannot help thinking that Papa would have a heart attack at the thought if he was still with us. Carson is aghast enough and horrified that the sad day might yet come when he will have to accept the utter indignity of maids serving in the dining room. Fortunately for him William has not been drafted yet and his father forbids him to volunteer, so he can temporarily breathe in relief. And don't even get me started on Jarvis's opinion about employing land girls. Most of the farmers don't seem to mind though; they are desperate for any pair of hands for the harvest.

We are still in mourning for Papa, so there is no proper entertaining – we remain in perfect isolation from the social life – but Mama is talking about organising a charity concert in September to gather some funds for our hospital. It will be six months since Papa died, so it should be appropriate enough and the hospital dearly needs the money with all the wounded we are receiving. It was not built to accommodate such numbers, I'm afraid, and the resources are desperately lacking. With your permission, I would like to donate some of the quarterly dividends to equip them a bit better and hire at least two more nurses.

Speaking about the money I finished reviewing the books and I am afraid I was right. There seems to be a lot of waste and mismanagement (words to be avoided when talking to Jarvis at all cost, but nonetheless true). It truly pains me to think or speak about Papa like that, but I think he overlooked a lot of detail – often out of kindness, I know, but sometimes I think just from the simple reason that we were always doing something this particular way. I am not sure where to even start the reforms, but it is clear to me that we dearly need some. I wish you were here to discuss some of the problems; you always had wonderfully open mind about such issues.

I hope you don't mind me telling you that I miss you. However much I laugh thinking how vehemently I resented you coming to Downton, it seems wrong and empty without you now.

Your worried, but hopeful cousin,

Mary"

"Dearest Mary,

I told you many times – you don't need my permission to make decisions concerning Downton. I understand that it is formally mine now, but I have been absent for the last two years and, despite your father's instruction, I consider you much more appropriate person to assess the situation correctly.

Thank you so much for the latest parcel – it was greatly appreciated by me and the men from my unit. As several other men received their parcels from home at the same time, we all had quite a jolly evening sharing the spoils; a much needed moment of relief after the last weeks. Please include several dozens of socks, pencils and sheets of writing paper in the next one, at my expense – the quantity of those precious goods issued by the army are woefully inadequate and many of the men find it hard to procure any additional ones.

I do appreciate your prayers. You don't, you can't know how touched and grateful I have been after reading the opening paragraph of your letter. It truly means the world to me. It is easy here to forget all kinds of normal, human feelings – kindness, decency, compassion, honour seem to be completely out of place here. Any reminder, be it a small gesture by one of the fellow soldiers or a kind letter from home, is priceless.

It is so bleak here, Mary. You asked me once what's been like, and I couldn't talk about it. I still can't, really, there are simply no words to describe the awfulness and the horror of this war. My eyes are glutted with the sight of bleeding bodies and shattered limbs, my heart wrung with the agony of wounded and dying men. Two of my comrades were killed right at my feet. I was up to my knees in blood. Each time that I lowered my head I saw their crushed heads, hit by a bullet from a rifle only 13 meters away. There is the awful smell of the trenches after an engagement, the smell of gunpowder, and dead bodies and blood. It is a stench I shall never forget, and I still smell it, even here in the rest camp, even though I know it's not real here – but I know I will smell it for real again in just few days. And it is not only the battle which we fear. The Boche bring mines over. If one of those hits a dugout, it crunches ten men without leaving a single limb in one piece. It is so sad to watch and see all that. The worst and most moving of all is when one's best friend is getting torn apart, and one is supposed to leave him next to you until it is dark. Then he can be buried...

I just read what I wrote, and I know I should tear up this sheet and start anew. I know very well I should not share such details. They are not fit for anyone's eyes, be it man or woman. And yet, sitting here in the relative safety of the base, trying to get what rest I can before it's once again my turn in the trenches, I find myself selfishly wishing for connection, for understanding, for another reminder that what I face is not normal. Because you know what is the worst thing about it all? After a while, one becomes so used to it all that you lose your sense of horror when faced with it. And it should horrify you; it's most disturbing when it fails to do it anymore. This numbness separates one from normal life more than anything else could. I need a reminder that this instinctual recoil in horror is normal and needed, however awful it makes me feel. Numbness is easier, so much easier, but so very wrong.

I read it again and am still unsure whether it is right to send this letter. If I do, please let me know whether you found the contents too disturbing. If yes, please forgive me. I will never do that again. But I needed to tell someone and I couldn't write that to Mother. She would have understood – she is a nurse; she sees so much gruesome effects of war – but I can't stand her worrying about me more than I know she already does. I am her only son, her only child. However strong she is, I know she is terrified for me every minute. I cannot add to her fears by sharing mine. But if you find it too much, if you find it too unfair a burden placed on you, please tell me at once. I will manage, Mary, so please do not hesitate to be honest about it.

I have to tell you that I miss you too. What I wouldn't give to walk with you now through Downton grounds and discuss farming and fundraisers.

Your weary and sad cousin,

Matthew"

"Dearest Matthew,

You can always tell me whatever is in your heart or on your mind. Do not worry about upsetting me; this is the last thing you should worry about. If sharing something with me, however disturbing, lessens your own burden in any way, please do not hesitate in the slightest.

What you described is horrifying and I know you shared but a glimpse. I fully agree with you that it is not something a human being should ever get used to – and yet, how can one avoid being numbed to the horrors when one is surrounded daily by them? People are adaptable; they have to be to be resilient. I do not want to compare my circumstances to yours in any way – they are not comparable – but I think the mechanisms of our minds work similar. Papa's death was an unexpected and horrifying blow. I don't think I will ever get the image of him vomiting blood all over the table and falling down in pain and convulsions out of my mind. I miss him daily. And yet, despite grief and horror still being there, the memories do not cripple me as they did in the first days since it happened. I am managing Downton in your absence. I have to be strong for Sybil, Mama and Granny who are all struggling more than I in their own different ways. For Edith too, I guess, although how much support she gets from me is debatable. But all this responsibility means that I just cannot focus on circumstances of Papa's death or the pain of it, because I wouldn't be able to focus on performing my duties. So my mind dulls the pain and the horror day to day, but it cannot be contained forever. It erupts in nightmares, mostly, more rarely in crying fits when I am alone. As I said, I do not want to compare our situations at all, but I suspect the dreaded numbness you abhor so much is just your mind's way to help you survive the horror it faces day after day and keep you functioning when you need to focus on your duties. I do not at all believe that even a war as beastly as this one could take away your compassion, kindness and innate goodness from you for good. It is simply not possible. So do whatever you need to survive this hell and come back. You have many people who love you and who will do everything in their power to remind you who you are then.

I have sent the parcel with all the items you listed for yourself and your men and added some additional ones which I hope you will appreciate. Mrs Patmore advised condensed milk. Apparently her nephew wrote her that tea in the trenches is an insult to its name. Your mother added significant quantity of delousing powder and whale oil to fight trench foot. As much as the necessity for such items appals me, please let me or you mother know if you need any more supplies of this kind. It's bad enough to know you have to live in such appalling conditions; I could never accept being unable to help alleviate them in some small way because you decided, for whatever reason, to stop yourself from asking.

Not much to report from home. The harvest is progressing. Edith thrives in the glory of being the tractor driver and spending time with the land girls and farmers. She came one day smelling of beer. I'm not sure who was closer to fainting, Mama or Carson. Sybil is still in York and barely has time to write a few lines, but in those lines she sounds happier than she was in years. I am battling Jarvis who apparently decided that being a vocal opposition gets him nowhere and became sullen and quiet one. I wonder if it was your letter's doing or he just realised I am not going to turn into a quiet and obedient little lady. Truly, he should have known better; he has known me since I was born.

I miss riding. I haven't since my poor Diamond was taken away. I heard what has become of most of cavalry horses and it pains me to think of it, so I try not to, but it's hard on a beautiful day like today when normally I would spend a glorious hour or two riding. I know it is selfish and silly to mourn a horse when so many men are dying every day, but I'm afraid I have always been selfish and I don't think I can stop it now.

I have to say though that however much I miss riding, I miss your company more. I keep praying every night for your continued well-being and quick return.

Your selfish cousin,

Mary"

"Dearest Mary,

I do not know how you can consider yourself selfish, except I am well aware that for some reason you are taking great efforts to appear less nice than you truly are. The reason behind such behaviour remains completely baffling to me, but the behaviour itself is an indisputable fact.

I am sorry about Diamond. I still remember how magnificent you looked on top of him and what great pleasure it was to observe the two you galloping through the fields. I bet that if we had more occasions to go riding together, I would have won a race with you. Eventually, at least. You and Diamond were bound to slip one day.

Since my commission was in infantry from the beginning, I did not have many chances to practice my riding since then. I did learn how to drive though and I have to admit I found it quite fun. If this war ever ends, I would like to buy myself a sports car, one which can go really fast, just for the fun of it. Yes, you have my permission to make fun of me for it.

Speaking of driving, have you ever thought of learning? If Edith can, why not you? Especially since Branson is likely to be drafted at some point.

Jarvis is obviously a fool if he ever expected you to be meek. You are not creating a good impression of that man as the agent, especially when both you and me could use more support, unexperienced as we are in running the estate. What would you say to searching for someone new? Since it's unknown when or if I come back, you would be the person most impacted by working with the agent day to day, so I'd like to leave this decision to you.

Thank you for the parcel, its contents were most appreciated by everybody, Mother's and Mrs Patmore's additions included. I'm afraid Mrs Patmore's nephew was perfectly right about the tea, so canned milk is a true luxury which makes a nectar out of it. Please convey my thanks. As for Mother's additions – well, there is a reason I always spend the first hours of any leave in a hotel in Paris or Callais before I board a ferry to England. Believe me, nobody would appreciate it if I didn't. There are nights I dream about the bathroom in Crawley House, poor water pressure notwithstanding. Sometimes I'm afraid that the mud became an integral part of my body.

Our rest period is again nearly over so don't be alarmed if you have to wait longer for my next letter. With the battle ongoing, there is pretty little time or opportunity to write while in the front trench, although I will do my best to do so. Please write to me though. I cannot express how much letters from you and Mother raise my spirit. What you said about being affected by your father's death – it really struck me. I feel it was truly insightful of you and it did force me to look at some of my most troubling thoughts in a bit different light. Thank you for that, Mary. Truly. I apologise for the disturbing contents of my last letter – I feel awfully guilty for burdening you so – but I cannot regret considering the peace of mind your reply has given me.

Yours grateful cousin,

Matthew"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I used quotes from authentic letters from WW1 soldiers for fragments of Matthew's letters. You may find them and many more at this website, they make for fascinating, although very sad reading:

encyclopedia. /article/war_letters_communication_between_front_and_home_front

Next chapter we will catch up to S2E1 and Mary and Matthew will see each other again.