Firework Night
A/N: Happy Guy Fawkes Day! I'd been wanting to write more fluff, and the occasion just seemed to fit. For reference, George is just over three, and Kit is nearly a year old. I'm not entirely sure how Firework Night was celebrated in the 1920s, so please do forgive any historical inaccuracies.
Enjoy! :)
November 5, 1924
"Shh, darling, it'll only be a moment," Matthew whispered, as his son clung closer to him and squirmed and wriggled impatiently in his arms. "Just a few more minutes, my little chap …"
"But … I want to see the fi'works," George whined. "And … me's cold, Papa – "
"I know, I know," Matthew soothed, cuddling him lovingly against the warmth of his chest and tickling fondly at his neck and chin, enough to provoke a series of helpless childlike giggles from the little boy as his father bounced him up and down.
"Is that better, Georgie?" Matthew asked, bumping George's cold little nose to his and kissing him. George nodded in affirmation. For the present, he was satisfied, though Matthew knew it wouldn't be long before his patience wore thin again. He wasn't a difficult child at all – far from it – but the bitter cold was rather hard for any child to endure for very long without a fuss, Matthew supposed, despite the presence of many layers of jumpers and warm mittens and scarves (hand-knitted by Grandmama Isobel) – and the promise of fireworks.
They were standing out in the village square, an icy wind flapping about their coats and stinging their faces; dead leaves slithering along quietly on the damp ground. The Guy Fawkes' Night celebrations that year had been meticulously planned by the villagers of Downton, down to the last detail with the Earl of Grantham and his family witnessing the festivities. Only – something seemed to have gone wrong, resulting in the firework display being delayed. The children, naturally, weren't pleased.
Matthew looked over to Mary, who was whispering softly to darling Catherine, her dark hair a fantastic contrast to the paleness of her marble skin, swept so becomingly over one side of her forehead and twisted elegantly at the back of her head into a design he had never quite been able to fathom. He thought she looked particularly splendid that evening – an aquamarine-blue dress light as foam and embroidered all over with filigreed gold, while the pearl and diamond necklace he had purchased for her on their honeymoon shimmered over the front of the gown.
He was just admiring the delicate way her engagement and wedding rings sparkled palely in the silvery moonlight when he noticed her gazing at him, and a shy blush coloured his cheeks – he knew that glint in her eye all too well, the look that glittered with the promise of later …
"How are my darling girls doing?" he said, walking over and giving them both a kiss on the cheek.
"Bearing up," Mary said. "Kit isn't too happy with the cold and the lack of fireworks – well, nor am I, I must say!"
"And neither is George … well, the fireworks are always magnificent, anyway – so your patience will be well worth it, my little darling," he murmured, tenderly kissing his daughter's powdery forehead. God, how he adored her, his little girl … He chuckled as her little hands grabbed at his face and clutched his nose, a little giggle escaping her lips.
"Mama?" George asked, his tiny arms locked around Matthew's neck.
"Yes, darling?"
"Is it … Fi'work Night?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Do you know, Georgie, I … believe there's quite a story to it," Matthew whispered, feeling the small boy's legs lock tighter around his waist. Kit looked on quietly, her large brown eyes that so reflected Mary's gazing curiously at him, sucking reflectively on her little pink thumb. Mary pulled it out distractedly, softly tutting.
"There was a king, you see, once upon a time a very, very long time ago … and there was a person – well, a whole group of them really – who didn't like him very much. They thought he should be put to death. And … there was a man called Guy Fawkes who tried to kill the king. But the plan failed, and … that's why we celebrate it every year, you see. To remember."
George nodded his little head solemnly. Mary drew nearer to press a soft kiss to his cheek, then Matthew's … Her two men – how very, very much she loved them …
Just then, Thomas came hurrying out of the crowd towards Robert.
"They're ready, my Lord – it's going to start in a minute – "
"Oh, good," Violet muttered brusquely, tucking her lace shawl tighter around herself. "We certainly haven't been waiting very long."
"I must say admire your patience," Isobel said. "It's really quite remarkable."
There was a sudden sizzling, and the idle, impatient murmurings of the crowd quieted. Even the wind whispering through the trees stilled for a minute. Everything waited; holding its breath, anticipating.
A long whistle sounded, and then high up in the sky it exploded – bang! It squeaked and screamed and whistled, and the sound inevitably brought back to him, unbidden, the horrific sights and sounds of shells bellowing and echoing, his eardrums throbbing, blowing the soil to smithereens and bodies flying through the sky …
He clutched George tighter, willing himself to focus ... focus on his happy, excited, little-boy grin … and Kit's laugh while sucking her thumb, and his wife's darling face as she laughingly kissed her daughter fondly … his family.
It went on and on, as the people gathered in the square cheered and applauded; vibrant splashes of colour across the blue-black starry sky; Roman candles and Catherine wheels; dazzles of brightest green and red and gold, igniting the night with fire and heat and light.
This was not Flanders, he told himself fiercely, this was not Ypres, or Passchendaele, or Amiens, or the Somme … he was here at Downton, safe, with his darling wife and two precious, precious children. He loved them all – so terribly much – and yet memories encroached thick and fast, of things he thought he'd left behind – starry shells shattering the night, thunder, broken bodies, gunfire …
"Matthew? My darling, are you quite alright?" He felt Mary's hand on his arm, and he shook himself.
"Yes, I … I'm alright, really," he muttered. She knew. He knew she knew; she was far too deeply attuned to him not to have noticed. He gave a faint smile. "It's nothing, darling, really …"
She pressed her lips tenderly to his cheek, and in that moment, he could not have been more in love with her for saying all the things that must be unsaid, for understanding him on a level he could not articulate, for … for so many things. And then he felt George's golden head nestle confidingly against his shoulder, his excited squeals and childish excitement finally having given way to exhaustion. It was over.
Kit waved her tiny arms, her dear face still lit with that adorable grin. He leaned over to kiss them both gently.
"I suppose we'd better go back," he muttered, patting the back of George's head. "It's really far too chilly – and we wouldn't want them to catch cold."
"I quite agree – I believe a glass of warm milk each will be just the thing."
He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and their lips met for a sweet, gentle kiss.
"Happy Bonfire Night, my darling."
"And here's to many more …"
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I would love to know your thoughts :) :)
