Library, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Mary closed down the farming circular she was trying to read and exhaled sharply in frustration.
She knew that the way they were doing things at Downton had to change. The estate was not self-sufficient now and had not been for decades, maybe never. They had been bailing it out with Mama's money since 1890s and it could not continue, with all those new taxes and the turn in economy making it all the more urgent. She was fully convinced they had to act and reform things and she had Matthew's blessing to do so.
The problem was, she had no idea how.
Her head ached from reading one book or magazine on farming and estate management after another, but she still felt none the wiser for it. Everything was either incomprehensible or contradictory. There were articles arguing for switching to livestock, only to be followed by equally impassioned arguments for increasing production of grains, both sides quoting wartime needs. There were adverts for all kinds of machines which purpose was a complete mystery to her. It was becoming increasingly, frustratingly obvious that she would not be able to achieve anything meaningful without some guidance, but there was no one to offer it to her.
Jarvis was perfectly useless for anything other than managing day to day business of running the estate in exactly the same way as he had started doing it forty years ago in her grandfather's time. Who knows, maybe his ideas had been progressive then, but they definitely were nothing of the sort now. His general response to increased taxation, changing regulations, the war and increased imports from America was dismissal of all as passing troubles. Well, Mary was convinced that the troubles were here to stay and if they didn't do anything to confront them it would be Downton which would pass into the past and that was completely unacceptable. She promised Matthew she would take care of it for him and she would be damned if she failed at it. But if she couldn't rely on Jarvis, who was there to ask? Shrimpie was way too busy, and she never got an impression that he was heavily involved in running his estate anyway. Her godfather was a dear, but it was obvious that he was way more interested in different kinds of medically oriented charities than in farming. In fact, who did she know who was truly interested in farming and actually noticing that times were moving on?
The answer made her mouth sour, but she still got up to ring for Branson.
She didn't see she had any other choice.
Sitting room, Loxley House, September 1916
Mary's good luck must have been working today, because not only Sir Anthony Strallan was at home, but he was also willing to receive her and most graciously offered her tea, despite the fact that she showed up in his driveway completely uninvited and unannounced.
She startled at the sight of his arm in a sling and expressed hope for his quick recovery from whatever accident befell him. He smiled nervously.
"I'm afraid it is rather permanent," he explained with embarrassment. "I went to France, you see, with the diplomatic corps – minor disagreement with our allies to resolve and I knew quite a lot of them from before the war, so it was thought I could be useful in smoothing some rustled feathers – but when we were touring the trenches, it turned out that we were unexpectedly in range of a German sniper and now silly thing is of no use to man or beast."
"How very unfortunate," answered Mary honestly. She never cared enough to make enquiries about Sir Anthony's hobbies, but she did know he used to be a great and passionate shot and he sure liked to drive Edith around in his new Rolls Royce and she didn't think he could do either now without use of one of his arms. But then again, she did not come here because of his arms or lack of them.
"Sir Anthony, you're probably wondering about the purpose of my visit," she started plainly, putting her teacup down. "I assume you heard that my father died back in March."
"Yes, of course," stammered Sir Anthony. "My condolences, Lady Mary, and I apologise for missing his funeral. I was still recovering from my wound, you see."
Mary waved her hand dismissively.
"There is no need to apologise, don't distress yourself. But since he died, my cousin inherited the title and the estate, but as you may know, he is in France now, so he cannot manage it himself and, for lack of better candidates, he left me in charge."
She sent Sir Anthony a look challenging him to question the wisdom of such choice, but if he had any qualms, he was much too polite to express them.
"And what is it that brings you to me now, Lady Mary?" he only asked, looking at her with interest.
"I need advice," confessed Mary bluntly. "A lot of it, to be honest. I know next to nothing about farming and my agent is still mentally in the last century. I see the dire need for reforms, but I have not the faintest idea where to start. I know this is exactly the kind of challenge which you have always been passionate about, so I came to beg for your help. I want to learn how to reform and run Downton and I will learn – but I need somebody to explain to me where to begin."
Sir Anthony's eyes lit up.
"I am flattered and grateful for your trust in me, Lady Mary," he answered with what seemed to Mary an honest pleasure. "Tell me what you have learnt so far."
What followed, was an intense, but extremely informative hour of eye-opening discussion and, despite Sir Anthony's assertion that they barely started, and that he would need to see the maps, accounts books and preferably tour the estate and farms with her, Mary finally felt like she was getting somewhere.
Which made what she increasingly felt she must confess harder to face.
Mary braced herself and looked Sir Anthony straight in the eye.
"Sir Anthony," she said evenly. "You have been very helpful to me and it makes what I am going to tell you much more difficult."
She took a deep breath.
"You see, when we last saw each other at my parents' garden party two years ago, I lied to you," she winced slightly at the sight of Sir Anthony's astonishment. "Edith did something which I found cruel and undeserved and I wanted revenge very much. I knew she was eagerly awaiting your proposal – she was elated at the prospect of getting married to you. So I did everything in my power to prevent it from happening. I admit I did not think at all about your feelings when I did it though and I sincerely apologise."
Sir Anthony gaped at her, obviously speechless. Mary forced herself to continue.
"I will understand if, in the circumstances, you won't want to continue helping me with the estate. I did you a great injustice."
He seemed to gather his thoughts with difficulty.
"Not at all, Lady Mary. I will need... some time to think about what you said. It changes so much... And yet," he smiled sadly, looking at his immobile arm. "Maybe it was for the best, after all. But I will help you, and Lord Grantham. I see you truly do need my help and I thank you for making me feel useful. Being useless... it's the worst feeling in the world, Lady Mary. I cannot say that I forgive you for your interference – I hardly know what to feel or think about it yet, it was such a shock! - but I promise I will do what I can to help you keep Downton afloat until Lord Grantham can return."
If Mary thought she could not possibly feel more awful about her actions, she was wrong.
"You are a truly kind man, Sir Anthony," she said quietly. "And I cannot express how guilty and how grateful I feel."
She rose to her feet and went to the door. She could not stand a minute longer at Loxley. On her way out, a sudden thought made her address her host again.
"Have you heard that Edith is driving a tractor now?" she asked mischievously, and nearly laughed out loud at his expression.
She left Loxley in slightly better mood. Maybe there was a chance to repair her mistake. Even if it meant making Edith happy.
Edith's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 1916
She found Edith in her bedroom, which was a strike of good luck. The conversation she intended to have was definitely not intended for anyone's else ears.
"I was at Loxley today," she said without preamble before Edith even managed to open her mouth.
"Whatever for?!" exclaimed Edith, eyes widening.
"I need Sir Anthony's advice regarding Downton. He is the most informed man of our acquaintance when it comes to farming," shrugged Mary. "But when we talked, I realised I was unfair to him while taking my revenge on you."
"You were! You truly were!" Edith's eyes narrowed. Mary waved her hand dismissively to quiet her down.
"So I told him the truth – that I lied and you were eagerly awaiting his proposal."
Despite the topic, she did feel certain satisfaction when Edith's jaw dropped.
"You did what?" whispered Edith.
"I just told you. Anyway, I don't know if he renews his courtship of you – a lot of time passed and he has an immobile arm now, which he seems to think makes some kind of impediment – but when you see him next, he will know the truth."
Edith shook her head in disbelief.
"Why did you do that? You obviously didn't think or care about his feelings then, what makes you care now? Just because you need his help?"
Mary bit her lip but decided to answer honestly.
"I confessed the truth to him, because I realised he is a truly kind man and I was inadvertently cruel to him. He did not deserve it and I do apologise when I know I'm wrong. I still think you deserved it – but I should have thought of something which did not involve innocent people in our quarrels."
"I did only something you deserved!" cried Edith passionately, her eyes shining with anger.
"You know nothing about what happened that night," said Mary icily. "And how much I had to pay for it. You just wanted to ruin my life, and, in some respects, you succeeded. If it makes you feel better to be so righteous, without knowing full circumstances, then so be it. But if you ever mention it to me, or anyone else, for that matter, I will make you feel sorry. You know perfectly well that I can."
She left without leaving Edith a chance to respond to her threat. And she did bang the door behind her.
It might have been immature, but it did make her feel slightly better.
The Somme, September 1916
The air was full of flashes and the deafening noise of guns, when a group of men, covered from head to toe in mud, poured over the side of the trench, slipping and sliding into its murky, sodden safety. Matthew, as filthy as the rest of the sorry bunch and the last to get in, pulled himself with effort back to his feet and squinted doubtfully at the muddy figure next to him.
"Is that you, Davis? How are we doing?"
A slime-caked individual nodded.
"The stretcher bearers are with the boys now. Quite a few gone, I'm afraid, sir."
Matthew nodded wearily, expecting nothing else from the pandemonium still going on over the top.
"Go back to the dug-out. I just want a moment with Sergeant Stevens."
He walked forward through the cramped and crowded trench. A private soldier addressed him as he passed.
"Well done, sir."
"Well done to all of us. Who are you?" he asked, unable to recognise the man for the dirt obscuring his face. Truly, if the Germans ever wanted to infiltrate the British trenches, they should just wait for one of the rainy days. He wouldn't have been able to recognise Mother under all this bloody mud, never mind a spy.
"Thompson, sir."
"Then yes, well done, Thompson."
He looked around. He saw a man with sergeant's stripes ministering to the wounded being loaded onto stretchers.
"Sergeant Stevens?"
Hearing Matthew's voice, the man stood up and saluted. It was indeed Sergeant Stevens, although as muddy and weary as the rest of them.
"I want every wounded man taken down the line before it starts to get dark. We've bloody well lost enough of them for one day."
Stevens just nodded grimly and Matthew staggered into the dug-out, finding that Davis managed to light the paraffin lamp and somehow clean his face and hands, making himself appear even more grotesque with brown-greenish mud still covering thickly the rest of him. He spotted a telegram laying on his makeshift desk.
"When did this arrive?" he asked, tearing the envelope open. He didn't wait for Davis's answer when he read the contents though. "Good news, we're to be relieved today by the Devons. The men can finally get some rest and I've got a few days' leave coming to me."
"What will you do with them, sir?"
"Oh, I'm going north, maybe just with usual stop at Calais to make myself look and feel more human. Remind myself what real food tastes like, so I don't disgrace myself at home when they seat me at the table for multiple course dinner," he gave his manservant rather a playful smile. "Naturally there is a girl I want to see while I'm there."
"So I should hope, sir."
They both chuckled. Matthew took off his Sam Browne and handed it to Davis to clean.
"It's strange, isn't it?" mused Davis, reaching for the cleaning rag. "To think of our old lives just going on as before? While we're here. In this."
"It's more than strange," answered Matthew, peeling off his sogged uniform with effort. "When I think about my life at Downton, I feel like Heinrich Schliemann excavating Troy. Every part of that existence seems like another world."
Calais, September 1916
Sitting in a bathtub in a small hotel in Calais, Matthew was thinking about his words to Davis. He was soaping himself for the third time, sniffing at his hands suspiciously to check whether he could still smell the trenches on them, and tried to reconcile it with the fact than in just a day he was going to be addressed as "my lord" and sit at a table with damask cloth and silver cutlery, served a five-course meal by immaculately dressed servants.
None of it seemed real.
He sighed and washed his head thoroughly again, reaching for fine-toothed comb and the delousing powder. Davis got his uniform steam-cleaned and pressed and took additional precaution of burning the seams with a cigarette, so hopefully he wasn't carrying a lot of passengers in his clothing. He was putting wholly new underwear after his bath, sending all his old ones to be burnt, which should help as well. Still, despite all that and the three changes of water in the bathtub, he just didn't feel clean enough. He wondered wearily if he was ever going to feel truly clean again.
Library, Downton Abbey, September 1916
"A telegram for you, my lady."
Mary's hand flew to her mouth in an unwilling gesture. It is not that, it cannot be, she assured herself sternly, taking the telegram envelope and the penknife with trembling fingers. You are not his next of kin, if something did happen – and it did not! - they would notify Isobel, not you.
She wilted in relief when she noticed that the telegram was from Matthew himself. Thank God, she thought, even while she was mocking herself for being ridiculous. It took her a long moment to recover her wits enough to actually comprehend Matthew's message and when she did she nearly jumped in sudden and overwhelming joy.
"Matthew's coming home!" she exclaimed happily. "He's got a week of leave!"
"That's wonderful!" commented Cora warmly. "Will he be in time for the concert?"
Mary scanned the dates again.
"He should arrive just before it starts, on 4 o'clock train. He writes that he will go to the Crawley House first, to see Isobel, and will change there, and that we shouldn't wait outside for him – I think he still didn't fully forgive us for giving him the formal welcome back in March," she shook her head in fond amusement. "I must tell Branson to pick him up at the train station and then wait at the Crawley House until Matthew and Isobel are ready. And I have to tell Mrs Hughes to make sure that his rooms are ready and Bates to prepare his clothes, and..."
"Mary," interrupted Cora, amused by seeing her usually most composed and poised daughter so flustered. "Aren't you going to Cliveden with Aunt Rosamund? I can handle the preparations for Matthew's arrival, it's not like much needs to be done."
Mary gave her a blank stare as if she completely forgot about her planned excursion. To be honest, in the moment she really did.
"Cliveden?" she asked flabbergasted. "I will have to telephone Aunt Rosamund and tell her I will go with her some other time."
She left the room abruptly before Cora had a chance to change her mind. Who cared about Cliveden and the Astors? Matthew was coming home!
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, September 1916
She saw him, tall and lean, golden and blue-eyed, resplendent in his red mess kit and was suddenly struck by the remembrance of the lines of a poem, describing Perseus as first perceived by Andromeda:
"In the spray, like a hovering foam-bow,
Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood,
Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his shoulder
Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin,
Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed clear on its clearness.
Curved on his thigh lay a falchion, and under the gleam of his helmet
Eyes more blue than the main shone awful; around him Athene
Shed in her love such grace, such state, and terrible daring."
How could she ever have compared him to a sea monster? He had always been the golden Perseus, she had just been too blind and too stupid to see it until it was too late and she had ruined everything, even if she hadn't known it until later. Their love had been doomed before it had begun, ever since that terrible night which she still did not possess enough courage to confess to him. Even their separation – the most painful thing in her life, the wound of it still festering – was better than having him despise her as he must when he learns the truth. Her sister's contemptuous words rung again in her ears "he died in the arms of a slut". She didn't think she could survive it if she heard them from Matthew's lips or saw them in his eyes.
xxx
Seeing Mary after all the horror and ugliness which now were his life, luminous in her black lacy dress, her eyes wide and shining, was like a sip of fresh water after being half-mad from thirst in a desert. He didn't care if his brain was coming only with hackneyed phrases to describe it, that was how he felt right now.
He could not tear his eyes away from her.
She doesn't love you, he reminded himself sternly. Or at least she doesn't love you enough to marry you. But it was hard to remember that when her eyes met his and the most brilliant, loveliest smile grew on her face.
"Matthew," she said, her eyes shining, her hand outstretched to grasp his. He thought he remembered every detail of those expressive deeply brown eyes, but obviously his memory was faulty, because they were even more fine than he imagined when he tried to recollect their beauty and expression at the front. He found himself greedily cataloguing every little detail of them for later perusal. "Welcome home!"
Her words struck him powerfully. Home. He was home now, wasn't he? But he didn't realise it, somehow, until she welcomed him in it.
A deep conviction that he couldn't imagine a home without Mary in it flew through him again, and again he had to remind himself that this was not what she wanted, whatever his stubborn wishes were. If only he was able to get over this woman and move on! But now his persistent heart kept dwelling on impossibilities, however much he tried to school it into some resemblance of rationality and acceptance for harsh facts.
He realised she was looking at him expectantly and that it most likely was because he was so busy staring at her that he did not return her greeting yet.
"It's nice to be home," Matthew said with a small smile.
"You arrived early enough that you can help Mama to welcome the guests as the host," she said evenly, in that maddeningly melodious, low voice of hers. He was sometimes convinced that this voice was haunting him, answering his unspoken thoughts when he let his mind wander. But same as with her eyes, the echo in his mind did not do the real thing justice.
"It still seems bizarre to me that I should be considered one," he answered, telling himself to pay attention. "I guess spending three days in this house was hardly enough to start thinking of it as mine."
She sent him a chiding look.
"And yet it is yours," she said sternly. "I understand it might be hard to remember when you are so far away and have more immediate issues to worry about but do try. We are all very aware of the fact that we are your guests now."
Matthew winced, even though Mary's tone was more playful than angry. He still hated the thought that they lost their home to him when he hardly wanted or needed it.
xxx
He noted with amusement that Doctor Clarkson seemed to be rather uncomfortable with Earl of Grantham giving him deferential greeting owed by a lower rank officer to the higher one, since they were both in uniform. He accepted the salute but used his civil title instead of military one.
"Will you open the proceeding tonight, Lord Grantham?"
"If you want me to," sighed Matthew. "What should I say? The hospital's been promoted and the cash will come in handy?"
"Promotion is one word for it... The casualties for the Somme are squeezing the system dreadfully. They want us to double out intake," explained Major Clarkson wearily.
"The fact is, they cannot stay with us for their whole treatment. We just can't tie up the beds," Isobel jumped in.
Clarkson nodded.
"We'll get them through the worst, then push them off to the nearest convalescent homes, ready for the next lot."
"That seems rather cruel," commented Matthew and Mary noted the same faraway look in his eyes which he had when she asked him what it has been like at the front. Her heart squeezed painfully when she remembered that awful letter he had sent her at the beginning of the Battle of Somme.
"War is cruel. Horribly cruel," she said, then caught Matthew's hand and briskly changed the topic. She hated seeing that look on his face. "Come, let me show you your seat. You're in front row, of course."
xxx
"He really does look like an earl," muttered Violet appreciatively, earning herself a glare from Isobel.
"Of course he does!"
"Spare me your indignation, I was paying him a compliment."
"Well, you didn't have to sound so surprised that he deserves one!"
Mary tuned out the sounds of bickering behind her and focused on Matthew, finishing his short speech to welcome the guests to the concert and to thank them in advance for their generosity, so very necessary in face of mounting casualties. Granny was right; he did look every inch an earl – graceful, gracious and noble. His rich voice and heartfelt words had the room spellbound. He was truly good at commandeering the attention of the room which surprised her a little – he didn't show such charisma before the war, and it wasn't something she thought came to him naturally. Probably he learnt it while leading his troops. Or maybe his war experience just gave him the confidence he was lacking before, even though he had never been easily intimidated. She smiled slightly at the memory of his undaunted look in response to her barbs when he had first arrived.
She had been an idiot. It truly was a wonder that he even deigned to speak to her now, never mind put her in charge of his estate.
She couldn't resist giving him a wide smile when he finished his speech and sat down beside her as the musicians started the concert.
"You did a marvellous job," she whispered, hoping he could hear her honest admiration in her voice.
"I'm glad you think so. I hardly have experience with addressing such illustrious audience."
They focused politely on the performance, even though Mary felt herself practically vibrating with desire to talk to him. She hardly knew or cared what about, really, she just wanted to interact with him, hear him speak to her, see his gorgeous eyes focused on her. Confirm that he was alive and well and here and did not despise her for hurting him so with her indecision.
She searched in vain for her usually ironclad self-control. She was Lady Mary Crawley, she was twenty five years old and she had no wish to make a spectacle of herself.
But it was Matthew and he was sitting here, next to her.
In the end, her self-control snapped due to radically opposite emotions.
The orchestra was sawing away at Tales From Vienna Woods, when two women started walking down the aisle, looking about. Mary startled when she noticed they were handing out white feathers to the men not wearing a uniform. One of them handed one to William.
"What is it?" he asked, confused.
"A white feather, of course," she spat in answer. "Coward!"
The realisation that those women were attempting to shame, to force, young men like William, like Matthew, to go to a likely violent and terrible death – words from Matthew's letter again danced in front of her eyes – that realisation made her see red. Truth be told, Mary hated everything about this war. She hated it for all kinds of reasons, from general to personal, from big to extremely trivial. She did not feel even the smallest shred of patriotic fervour seemingly surrounding her at every turn, although she was smart enough to not speak out about those feelings. She hated the disruption it brought to her life personally and to the life of her social class. She hated rationing. She hated cancellation of all events which brought some joy and fun to her life. She hated giving up her beloved horse to be slaughtered by German shells. She hated losing her labourers, tenants and servants to the army. She hated dreading receiving telegrams and letters bringing yet more bad news. She hated hearing about yet another friend dying or being horribly wounded. She hated that this bloody war was the most likely reason for her father's untimely and horrifying death.
Most of all she hated the fact that Matthew faced very real peril every damn day and she was completely powerless to help him. Her nightly prayers, her lucky charm – she was painfully aware that they were just desperate attempts to feel even slightly in control, to give her just a tiny amount of hope to cling to that Matthew would be spared, that he wouldn't become one of the thousands of men lost to the meat grinder every day. And those women – those imbeciles – they were trying to punish young men like Matthew for perfectly rational recoil from such grim fate!
She rose to her feet without even realising she was doing it.
"Stop it at once! This is neither the time nor the place!"
"These people should be aware that there are cowards among them."
"Will you please leave! You are the cowards here, not they, and you are not welcome here! Leader, will you continue," she ordered imperiously, her chest heaving and her eyes flashing with repressed anger engulfing her, staring as those abominable creatures shrugged and left the room. Only when they did and the concert resumed, she sat down, feeling first tendrils of embarrassment for making a spectacle of herself in front of so many people. She felt her cheeks redden.
She startled when Matthew took her hand.
"I don't think I've ever seen you so furious before and I have been the recipient of some truly impressive glares from you over the years," he whispered to her quietly.
Mary shrugged slightly, fighting to regain her usual composure.
"I did not approve of their recruitment tactics," she whispered back. "Especially since they shamed William. That boy is mad to go and fight, but his father forbade him to volunteer since he is his only remaining child and his mother died shortly before the war. He will be called up soon enough and most probably killed. What use is there in tormenting him like that?"
She noted the haunted look returning to Matthew's eyes and she cursed herself for her candid speech.
"I did not approve either," he answered heavily. "But I did not possess your bravery in openly protesting it."
Mary shook her head ruefully.
"It was not bravery," she protested drily. "I was just too angry to care what people will think of me. Now that it passed, I am completely mortified and will have to fight the urge to hide behind the curtains until they all go home to gossip about Lady Mary Crawley going quite mad."
Matthew stifled a chuckle, the haunted look thankfully leaving his eyes.
"That I don't think I will ever see – Lady Mary Crawley cowed and hiding. You've always been a storm braver if I've ever seen one."
"Not always," said Mary with a sigh, her eyes dropping to her lap where their hands were still holding each other. "Not always by far."
Dining room, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Sitting down to a late dinner after thankfully saying goodbye to all the guests except for Granny and Isobel was quite a relief – or would be, if her family wasn't bent on discussing the unfortunate incident.
"That was horrid, William," Cora addressed William, serving dinner with a long face which was looking just wrong on usually cheerful boy. "I hope you won't let it upset you."
"No, your ladyship," answered William, clearly lying through his teeth.
And then of course Edith felt the need to open her mouth.
"Of course it is horrid, but when heroes are giving their lives every day, it's hard to watch healthy young men doing nothing."
The only thing which stopped Mary from making a scene and eviscerating her sister was the fact that she already embarrassed herself enough for one evening. That, and Matthew shaking his head slightly at her.
She turned to him, cutting herself from the general chatter before she said something she might regret and he would be certain to disapprove of.
"Sir Anthony was unable to come for the concert, but he promised to visit us on Wednesday and talk with you about his suggestions for some necessary reforms here."
"I already feel very well informed. Your letters have been most informative," answered Matthew with a smile. Mary could not resist smiling back.
"Still, you may use this occasion to ask him questions. I found him most gracious and eager to be of use," she lowered her voice, sending a quick look to check if Edith was occupied enough to ignore their conversation. "More than I had any right to expect, considering my less than exemplary behaviour to him in the past."
She had no intention of ever confessing to Matthew what she had done to ensure her revenge on Edith, but she assumed that he witnessed enough to draw his own conclusions regarding Sir Anthony's possible grievances against her.
Judging by the serious look Matthew gave her, she was right.
"Why were you so cruel to him in the past?"
Mary huffed and lowered her gaze.
"Because Mama was pushing me at him incessantly and it was driving me mad."
To her amusement, Matthew nearly choked on his wine.
"She was pushing you at Sir Anthony?" he asked incredulously. Mary rolled her eyes.
"Oh, yes. You have no idea how insistent Mama can be when she has a marriage in mind for one of her daughters. Me, mostly, since I am the oldest and her biggest failure, considering I am basically an old maid by now."
Matthew's eyes bulged.
"An old maid. You."
Mary laughed at the absolute incredulity in his voice.
"Well, I am twenty five," she answered playfully. "And I went through five London Seasons without catching a husband – it would have been even more if they weren't cancelled due to the war. I'm practically on the shelf now."
Matthew shook his head.
"Anybody who considers you on the shelf must be either completely blind or brainless," he declared. "You are the most beautiful and captivating woman I've ever met. And why would anybody prefer a girl of eighteen over someone like you is completely beyond me."
Mary felt her cheeks reddening for the second time this evening, but before she could find a reply her attention was required by the others and the moment definitely passed.
Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Matthew could not sleep.
He found it rather ridiculous, to be honest. How was it possible that he was able to sleep on a narrow dirty cot in what amounted to a hole in the ground, with shells flying loudly overhead, but the sleep proved elusive in an enormous, heavenly comfortable bed in a room perfectly dark and silent except for merrily crinkling fire in the nicely drawing fireplace? Maybe he forgot how to sleep in such nice conditions. Or maybe his new bedroom, suitably grand for the 8th Earl of Grantham, felt just too alien for a man still thinking of himself as plain Mr Matthew Crawley. Well, Lieutenant Crawley now, but this was the moniker he wanted to forget.
He turned on his other side, growling in frustration. He thought he heard the clock outside striking midnight. He was awfully exhausted, but still not sleepy in the slightest.
As usual when fighting insomnia, his thoughts automatically went to Mary. He was so used to it he had stopped fighting this habit months ago.
He thought how magnificent she looked, eyes flashing and her back straight as a rod, when she was defending William from the women with white feathers. Maybe he should disapprove of her anger at honest efforts to bring the King more soldiers – who, as he bitterly knew, were desperately needed to replace the ones killed or wounded – but he could not. A thought of boys like William, who barely left the schoolroom, shamed and forced into facing the hell of the front sat wrongly in his belly. Not that he felt much better about the naïve fools like himself who volunteered all starry-eyed in search of glory and adventure – or, in his specific case, to run away from something and stupidly thinking that fighting in a war must be somehow better or easier than dealing with heartbreak. He came to the conclusion that there hardly was a right reason to go to war. However you ended up in it, you were in over your head anyway.
But seeing Mary, so brave in saying out loud what he was himself thinking, clenched his heart painfully with admiration for her. She said she was not always brave, but he could hardly imagine it. She must be afraid at times – she was human, there must be things which scared her – but he couldn't imagine her otherwise than facing them straight on. She reminded him greatly of Cousin Violet in that.
He often thought ruefully that Mary would have made a much better officer than he ever could.
He snorted inwardly at the thought of Mary being married to Strallan of all people. He had no idea what Cousin Cora had been thinking. Seriously, Strallan? His Mary, so brilliant, so vibrant, married to a nice, but admittedly awfully dull baronet old enough to be her father? No wonder she lashed out at such dictum, even though poor Sir Anthony was innocent of any wrongdoing.
He sighed, turning again and pulling the pillow over his head. Laughing at this woefully inept attempt at matchmaking did not change the sad fact that his own match with Mary, so fervently desired by the family, had met with similar failure. Was that the reason? Had Mary been pushed into an engagement with him and could not force herself to commit to it? He had thought that the family had relented on this topic pretty early on in face of Mary's obvious and clearly expressed dislike of him, but had they started again when they had noticed their burgeoning friendship? Had it been the family's meddling which destroyed them in the end?
Oh, what was the point of torturing himself with those unanswerable questions? In the end the matter was simple: Mary had not loved him enough to marry him, whatever her exact reasons for delaying her answer for two miserable months. And yet, seeing her now, talking with her, laughing with her – and after exchanging those heartfelt, wonderful letters too! - he could not stop obsessing about the fact that he still loved her. Oh God, how he loved her! Back in 1914 when she had broken his heart so thoroughly he had thought it impossible to love more than he had loved her and yet now he thought he did love her more, so much more. And every time he talked with her, every time he received her letter, a small hope, impossible to quench, was growing again in his chest, asking insidiously if his dream was really completely impossible? Or had he given up too early, his pride as hurt as his heart? She cared about him, there was no denying she did – maybe he could yet make her love him? Maybe he could be enough for her after all?
His pride, or even some darker feeling, was answering snidely that of course he might be enough now – he was the Earl of Grantham, wasn't he? He had the keys to Downton, the only thing she had truly cared about. And yet he rejected that voice viciously. He had tried to give her Downton after all and she had refused the very possibility with vengeance, making it clear that she did not want it if it meant his death. It didn't have to be love – he did not dare to think it was love – but it did suggest that she cared for him more strongly than he ever suspected.
If only hope was not so very frightening!
He got up suddenly, fed up with his circling thoughts and his inability to rest. A glass of warm milk might be just a thing. He put on his bathrobe and sleepers and went in search of the kitchen. He was reasonably sure he could remember the way from his tour of the house back in March.
It only occurred to him when he was halfway through the grand staircase that he could have just rung the bell and order whichever servant was on night duty to bring him some.
Mary's Bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Mary could not sleep.
She was not surprised. She often reacted to stress or worry by being unable to sleep and ever since that nightmarish night when Kemal Pamuk had died in this very room, in this very bed, she got very used to her recurring insomnia. It often made her sharper than usual at breakfast, but otherwise she thought she was managing just fine.
And how could she sleep now knowing that Matthew was just a corridor away from her?
It was such a blessed relief to see him looking whole and well, if a bit too thin, with her own eyes after months of extreme anxiety that she would never see him again. She knew of course that he could very well end up killed in a week, when he went back to France, but she resolutely put it out of her mind for now. There would be time for worrying about it later; for the next seven nights he was going to be safe and at Downton. She was going to be able to look at him, talk with him, spend time with him and maybe even allow herself to pretend, if only for a little while, that there was still hope for the two of them.
It was very easy to let herself pretend. Way too easy.
When he looked at her in that fond way of his, when they laughed together, when he freely admitted that he found her beautiful and desirable – oh, she was so sure that there was still possibility that he could love her again, that maybe he never stopped, however much she had hurt him. But it was always immediately followed by the sobering thought that he still didn't know so it all didn't mean anything. Because she could not imagine that he could keep loving her knowing the truth of what she was and how little she was worthy of his love.
So it was better to remain his cousin, his friend, keeper of his estate than dream of something more – because one did not own every truth to a friend, even the dearest friend in the world, while one definitely did own such truth to a potential husband. And, however painful it was, she could reconcile herself to never being his wife – she had over two years to accept it after all – but she could not stand the thought of losing him completely again, of him disappearing from her life as he had after that horrid garden party. As long as she kept her secret, she could keep Matthew as well, even if that meant that her love for him would have to remain a secret too.
She sighed deeply and threw off the blankets. She was going to go to the library and find something new to read. Sleep was unlikely to come to her as it was, there was no point in spending the whole night wallowing in what could never be.
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Matthew wasn't sure which one of them was more shocked to encounter the other at the bottom of the great staircase, but he knew that he nearly dropped his candle. And that he was gaping. But in his defence, the last person he expected to meet in the deserted hall after midnight – not that he expected to encounter anyone, to be honest – was Lady Mary Crawley. In her nightgown and thin silk robe. With her hair down.
He gulped, hoping she could not perceive how absurdly rattled he was at the sight.
To his utter lack of surprise, Mary recovered her power of speech first.
"Matthew," she gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted a cup of hot milk with honey to help me sleep," answered Matthew, proud that he managed to keep his voice more or less even. "So I went down to make myself one."
Predictably and to his quiet amusement, Mary rolled her eyes at him.
"You do remember that you have a house full of servants, do you?"
"Who are in bed after a day of hard work, especially after tonight's concert," parred Matthew immediately. "I am perfectly capable of heating up a cup of milk if I want one."
"It doesn't mean that you should," pointed out Mary in exasperation. "Why are you using this staircase, anyway? It's rather out of your way if you're in search of the kitchen."
Matthew smiled at her sheepishly, raking his hand through his hair.
"In search of is a very apt word for my situation," he admitted. "Since I am not completely sure where the kitchen is."
Mary stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Matthew wished he could bottle that laugh and listen to it in his most grim moments at the front. It was his favourite laughter of Mary's and very rare to encounter – a truly merry and carefree one, only heard when she was so sincerely amused that she forgot to feel self-conscious about it.
"I guess I better be your guide on this quest then," she said finally, her eyes twinkling. "It wouldn't do for the Earl of Grantham to be found wandering the basements of his manor, hopelessly lost. Come, Lord Grantham, and follow me."
Matthew acquiesced without a word. It was better. He would have only confessed that he would gladly follow her anywhere.
Kitchen, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Matthew laughed at Mary's puzzled expression and took the milk and the pot from her hands.
"I take it you've never done it before?" he teased. Mary straightened indignantly and folded her arms in front of herself.
"I'll have you know I can make excellent scrambled eggs," she announced imperiously.
"I will believe it when I see it," he shot back, feeling triumphant at his success in getting the oven going again. He poured the milk into the pot and stirred it carefully to avoid burning it. "But for now, do you want some?"
Mary considered it for a moment than nodded in affirmation and went in search of two cups.
"Can't hurt," she said. "Maybe it will help me to sleep as well."
Matthew looked at her with concern.
"You couldn't sleep either?" he thought about the place he ran into her. "Were you searching for a book?"
"I was going to, but I couldn't leave you to your own devices. Heavens know where you would have ended up."
Matthew chuckled, checking the temperature of the milk.
"Probably not here," he admitted freely. "I seemed to remember the direction of the kitchen in relation to the main hallway completely backwards."
Mary laughed lightly as well, handing him the cups. He deftly poured the milk into it and added a generous spoonful of honey to both. They took their cups and settled at the kitchen table.
Growing tension started slowly to replace the earlier easy camaraderie between them. Matthew became hyperaware of the intimacy of sharing a cup of milk with her in the darkened kitchen, both dressed only in their nightclothes and the whole household asleep floors above them. He took a big gulp of milk to cover it, barely noticing how it scalded his mouth.
"Why couldn't you sleep?" he blurted out the very first question which came to his mind, just to say something and break this increasingly dangerous silence.
Mary took a careful sip of her milk, seemingly gathering her thoughts.
"It's quite common for me," she said finally. "Whenever I'm worried, or stressed, or simply have too much on my mind. I usually just keep reading until I am exhausted enough to collapse."
"And which one was it today?" asked Matthew, then clarified seeing her questioning look. "Which reason was keeping you awake tonight?"
She averted her eyes and shrugged noncommittally.
"Why couldn't you?" she asked him instead. Matthew took a page from her book and took a sip of milk first.
Because I was pondering how much I love you and whether there is any hope for us whatsoever or if it is only in my head again, he thought. That is if I don't end up dead next week, of course.
"I just find it a bit hard to settle in a new room," he found himself saying instead. Probably for the best.
He finished his remaining milk quickly and, seeing that Mary did as well, reached for her empty cup to put it in the sink.
"Will you show me the way back up, my faithful guide?" he asked with a smile which grew wider seeing the answering smile on her face. Oh God, she is so exquisitely beautiful.
"Of course I will," she said, getting up and pointing towards the door they came through. "It's obvious that you would be totally lost without me."
And isn't that the truth, thought Matthew ruefully, following her upstairs.