Dining room, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Mary spent the whole way home from the train station in a daze, barely able to comprehend what had happened. Thank God Branson did not even attempt a conversation with her, because she was completely unable to carry one.
Matthew had kissed her.
Matthew had kissed her.
And what a kiss it had been!
And what he had said... He had just as good as said that he wanted to marry her! After everything she had done!
A sobering thought immediately dimmed her elation. Not after everything she had done. He still didn't know everything.
Somehow, despite learning that he still loved her – he must love her to do what he had done and say what he had said, mustn't he? - it still didn't change anything. Because she still felt obligated to confess the truth about Pamuk to him and she still feared that it would kill any love he had for her.
Not to even mention the fact that he was on his way back to absolute hell on Earth where he could be killed at any moment.
She went down to breakfast in a truly beastly mood.
Mama was of course getting her tray in bed, so it was just her and her sisters in the dining room, with Carson in attendance. Mary forced herself to mutter good morning and fetched herself tea with a sigh. She had no wish to talk to anyone.
Which of course meant that both Edith and Sybil turned out to be in a talkative mood.
"It's so strange how quickly I got used to sharing breakfast with Matthew," said Edith, looking at Matthew's empty chair regretfully. "He has only been here for a week and yet is seems wrong not to see him here."
Mary clenched her teeth.
"It's awful to think that he is soon going to be back in France," said Sybil sadly. "I just hope he will be alright. I don't think I could deal if something happened to him too."
That's it. Mary could stand it not a minute longer. She got up suddenly, clutching her teacup for dear life.
"I'm not hungry," she said. "Carson, I will finish my tea in the library. Alone."
She sent a glare at her sisters to make sure they got the message and walked stiffly out of the room.
Library, Downton Abbey, September 1916
She was quite annoyed to have her brooding over Matthew interrupted by Mrs Hughes.
"Yes, Mrs Hughes?" she asked, trying to keep her annoyance from her tone. None of her troubles were the housekeeper's fault and Mary always strived to be fair and polite to the servants. Even though she suspected that she wasn't Mrs Hughes' favourite person.
"I am very sorry to interrupt you, my lady, but I come to you with an urgent and rather delicate matter," explained the housekeeper. "You see, I expect that you will be approached by Mr Bates today to render his resignation."
Mary's eyebrows shot up.
"Resignation? But why? I heard he just approached Lord Grantham about possibility to stay in his position when married and I thought everything was arranged between them to satisfaction of them both."
"It was," said Mrs Hughes hesitantly. "But a new factor came to play and forced Mr Bates' hand."
"Then I guess we have no choice but to accept his resignation and give him the excellent reference he deserves," said Mary, frowning. She was not sure what the purpose of Mrs Hughes' intervention was. Surely she was not expected to try and change Bates' mind?
Mrs Hughes took a deep breath and plunged on.
"I'm afraid Mr Bates is being blackmailed by his wife who is threatening to expose a scandal involving a member of the family if he doesn't immediately give notice and leave with her."
Mary felt her eyes go wide.
"What kind of scandal?" she asked, pleased to hear her voice remain even and controlled despite the trepidation she was feeling.
Mrs Hughes hesitated again.
"I'm afraid it concerns you, my lady, and the unkind gossip about circumstances of Mr Pamuk's death."
"I see," said Mary slowly, her brain grasping for solutions. "And Mrs Bates threatens to sell it to the papers if Mr Bates does not come with her?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Well, we cannot allow that," said Mary firmly. "It's one thing if he is willing to leave us for a different situation, but I will not have him forced out due to threats to the family. I have no idea where Mrs Bates acquired her preposterous gossip, but I cannot imagine her threat to be substantiated – she is not at all connected with our household and cannot be considered a credible witness. This piece of gossip has been making rounds for years; it's hardly newsworthy material without some kind of proof – which does not exist, because the gossip is obviously untrue."
She was nowhere near as confident about lack of substance to the threat as she acted. Scandal sheets published outrages stories and outright lies every day, after all, Bates' wife was more likely than not to find one unscrupulous enough to print her revelation without any kind of proof. But Mrs Hughes was not the person to admit it to.
"I'm glad you think so, my lady," said Mrs Hughes with obvious relief. "How do you wish to proceed then?"
"Send Bates to me and I will speak with him directly. I am not sure yet what we can do about this wife of his, but I will not let us be blackmailed," she hesitated for a moment. "Mrs Hughes, does Anna know he is married?"
To her immeasurable relief, the housekeeper nodded in confirmation.
"He did confess to us all about that some time ago," she said. "As well as to his time in prison."
Mary felt her jaw drop.
"Prison?" she asked faintly, then followed up firmly. "Mrs Hughes, why don't you tell me everything you know about Mr Bates before I have my conversation with him? I suddenly feel I do not know him at all."
Ferry from Southampton to Calais, September 1916
Matthew was staring moodily at the disappearing English shore. He did not like to contemplate where he was going.
Especially when his head was completely consumed by the memory of Mary's lips against his and the shape of her face cradled in his hands.
He had kissed her.
He had kissed her.
And she had most definitely kissed him back.
But what did it mean?
Well, he knew full well what it meant for him. He was completely, utterly, madly in love with Lady Mary Crawley and if it wasn't for that blasted war forcing him away from her now, he would have been on his knees in front of her, begging her to be his wife.
But what did it mean for her? Did she really love him back or was she just overwhelmed by concern for her dearest friend and cousin, allowing him liberties since he could very well be dead within days? The possibility that he could once again be reading too much into her actions and letting his hopes overtake his reason made him queasy.
But could they really kiss like that if they didn't share the love he could feel pulsing in the very centre of his very being?
Library, Downton Abbey, September 1916
"I understand that your wife made credible threats to sell scandalous gossip regarding me to the hawking papers," stated Mary, looking at Bates intently. His face was impassive, but she thought she could detect regret and shame in his eyes.
"I don't know how to express my sorrow for it, my lady. I am fully prepared to give my resignation and go with her at once. You must know that I will do everything in my power to stop her from inflicting any harm on you and your family."
"I do not believe giving in to her threats is the best course of action," said Mary decidedly. "Is there any other reason which makes you consider either leaving Lord Grantham's employment or reconciling with your wife?"
"None," answered Bates firmly. "My marriage to Vera is irrevocably broken. She came here because I was trying to convince her to divorce me. I love Anna and I want to marry her. If there is any way for me to free myself from this marriage, I am fully ready to use it."
Mary nodded, eyeing him thoughtfully.
"Tell me what kind of woman Mrs Bates is," she ordered. "What motivates her? What is she afraid of?"
"She is a greedy, bitter, vengeful woman," said Bates with bitter conviction. "I will never deny I did her a great wrong after I was released from the army due to my injury. I became a drunk and not a nice one either. I never hit her... But that is the best I can say for myself."
He remained quiet for a moment, then returned to his tale.
"Vera stole the regimental silver. I do not know whether it was from greed and stupidity – the theft was easily traced back to our house – or as an attempt at revenge against me. Either way, I felt guilty enough for my behaviour to her that I took the blame and did my time in prison. I have not seen her since then until today. There were no letters either. I do not know where she lived, although she did visit my mother from time to time, to check on me, I think. That's how she learnt I started working for the late Lord Grantham and how she got the idea to use my name to get herself a job at Marquess of Flintshire's household. I am ever so sorry for it all."
"Why do you think she came here now, after all those years?" asked Mary, frowning. She wondered how much of Bates' sordid history Papa was aware of when he hired him.
"There's no mystery in it. She heard that my mother died and left me a house in London and some money. She is greedy. I offered her all of my inheritance if she agreed to the divorce, and to stay quiet about you, but she thinks she will be better off remaining married to me, although God only knows what happiness she can imagine coming out of it."
"But paying her off won't solve the problem. If she is so greedy, she will just come for more. Blackmailers always do... Could she be intimidated somehow? I assume it's too much to hope she could be reasoned with."
"I tried reasoning with her and it is hopeless, my lady. And Vera is not easily intimidated – the only thing which can do that is prison. She is genuinely scared of it; she was in a complete panic when she thought she was going to face it for the silver theft. But she didn't do anything illegal."
"Oh, but she did," Mary smirked slowly. "She is blackmailing you, and me, indirectly so far, but undoubtedly so. And blackmail is quite illegal."
Bates looked at her shrewdly.
"Could we prove it? Well enough to actually lock her up?"
Mary thought for a moment, biting her lower lip.
"I think I should meet with her myself. Maybe she will be less sure of herself with me than with you."
Bates paled visibly.
"She won't be, my lady. Vera never was someone to be respectful or intimidated by rank. It would be most unpleasant and distressing."
"Well, I can be unpleasant myself when I want to be," said Mary firmly, getting determined now when she had a rudimentary plan of action. "Take me to her, I intend to at least try. But Bates, even if I am unsuccessful and I won't manage to convince her to drop the issue, you are under no circumstances allowed to go with her. We will fight her in some other way."
Bates looked at her with astonishment.
"But why, my lady? You are putting yourself at considerable risk."
"Because two of the very few people I actually like have considered you worthy of loyalty and admiration. I know Papa saw you as more of a friend than a servant – even when it was causing disagreements with Mama and he hated those – and I know Anna loves you. And besides that, you cannot be punished for my sins. That would be simply not acceptable."
The Somme, September 1916
Matthew walked down the crowded trench, past the carnage of mud and blood and groaning men. He was just passing by stretcher bearers loading a body, when he heard horribly familiar screech. Oh yes, he was definitely back.
"Look out!" yelled Davis behind him.
They dived for cover as a shell hit the trench and buried them in mud and debris. All was still, then men started to fight their way out. Matthew's head appeared on the surface just as his neighbour managed to shake himself loose. He was one of the stretcher bearers and there was something familiar about the man. Matthew focused his eyes and startled when he finally recognised him.
"Thomas? It is Thomas, isn't it?"
"Corporal Barrow now, my lord. Lieutenant Crawley, that is."
Matthew laughed, hit suddenly by the absurdity of it all. Besides him, Davis was digging to free his legs out of the mud.
"You'll never guess where I've just been."
Grantham Arms, Downton Village, September 1916
Vera Bates was quite a handsome woman, if obviously hardened by life, her eyes shrewd and angry. She agreed to a meeting with Mary at one of the private parlours at Grantham Arms and now they were both coldly assessing each other.
Mrs Bates decided to attack first.
"So my Batesy came crawling to you for help? And you came here all mighty and fancy, expecting me to take orders from you and run away like a kicked dog to wherever I came from?" she asked derisively. Not intimidated by rank, indeed.
"There's no need to be rude, Mrs Bates," answered Mary calmly. "Mr Bates did not come to me, as it happens – your conversation with him was overheard and duly reported to me, since it seemed to concern me as well for some reason. What Bates does, whether he stays or goes, is his business and no care of mine. Your threat, however, is very much my business since I would be the affected party. That's why I wanted to meet with you."
"To do what? Pay me off then? I gather you would be good for a pretty penny."
Mary narrowed her eyes.
"And if I don't offer you any?"
Vera laughed humourlessly.
"Do you expect me to sit on such a juicy story and keep mum out of the goodness of my heart?"
"No, Mrs Bates, I do not. I just wanted to make sure we understand each other. Am I to surmise that if I don't offer you a significant sum of money, you are going to attempt to sell this old gossip you picked up to some scandal sheet?"
"You bet your pretty arse I will," spat Vera. "Unless Batesy comes to his senses and returns to me. If he does, we will manage without your money. But if he remains stubborn, well – it would cost you quite a lot to shut me up."
Mary sat up straighter.
"You just outright blackmailed me, Mrs Bates. A daughter of an earl," she said coldly. "Do you realise that I could report you to the police for that?"
"As if you would! What proof have you of what I said? We're quite cosy here, just you and I. No witnesses to support your charge. And then everyone in the country will be able to read what a hussy you are, no better than the rest of us."
"That would be inconvenient indeed, Mrs Bates, but hardly newsworthy. People were gossiping about me for years. I hardly care by now and, to be honest, I suspect you may find it hard to interest some newspaper in such an old story. There's a war going on."
"And what about that fancy soldier you were all over at the train station? Won't he care what you get up to with other men?"
Mary groaned inwardly. Of all the people to witness their goodbye!
"He knows all about it – more than you, I dare say – and doesn't care," she lied smoothly. "So feel free to go tattling to him if you want. He will laugh in your face and throw you out the door."
She narrowed her eyes again, her voice becoming steely and commanding. She was Lady Mary Crawley and she would not lower herself to quarrel further with that woman.
"Blackmailers go to prison, Mrs Bates. You may ruin me, if you want, but be very sure that as soon as I read my name in any article mentioning the unfortunate Mr Pamuk, I will go straight to the police. And I assure you that they do not take kindly to the likes of you threatening and blackmailing people like me."
"How would you prove it? Them papers protect their sources," spat Mrs Bates.
"I have witnesses," answered Mary coldly. "Mr Bates the first of them, but by no means the only one. As I said, your conversation with him was overheard in its entirety. There are witnesses who know I am meeting with you now. There will be servants of my cousins the Flintshires who will be willing to testify that you went fishing for any gossip about the family while in their employ. And finally, it will be my word against yours. And in the world we live in, Mrs Bates, my word counts more than yours."
"You think you're so clever, don't you? We will see yet who will be sorrier when your exploits fill every paper!"
"We certainly will, Mrs Bates," said Mary. "But if I were you, I would strongly consider my options and priorities. Your quarrel is not with me. I have never done anything to you and I have no idea why you would consider necessary to attack me in any way. If you do, it will not in any way affect your husband. He is in Lord Grantham's employment, not mine, and I have it on the best authority that he is not going to lose his position if you go through with your threat. Neither will Anna, because I do not see any of her fault in any of it. So you will put yourself at considerable risk for no gain for you. Proceed if you wish, I unfortunately cannot stop you from trying. But I assure you, I will bring charges against you if you do, and I will see to it that you are sent to prison. I will not take this kind of unprovoked attack lying down."
Vera Bates glared at her viciously and got up so hastily her chair fell back.
"You are right," she hissed. "I don't have any proper quarrel with you, other than for letting my Batesy get up to no good with that hussy. But you may tell them that they didn't hear the last from me. I will not allow him to abandon me like that! Not after everything!"
"That is yours and Bates' business," answered Mary with feigned disinterest. "And no concern of mine. I just want you to leave my business alone. Do we understand each other, Mrs Bates?"
"We do," spat Vera Bates, leaving the room. "You are a cold bitch alright, but I will not cross you without a reason."
"Takes one to know one," muttered Mary, gathering her own things.
Junior officers' dugout, the Somme, September 1916
Matthew huddled miserably under his thin blanket, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable on the army cot. He smiled wryly, trying to remember what was that which he found so objectionable about his new huge bed at the Abbey. He certainly wouldn't mind finding himself in it again.
Oh God, what he wouldn't have given to be back home right now!
His thoughts inevitably returned to his last night there and Mary's shocking, but so very right presence in his bed.
The way she comforted him and calmed him down from the terror of his nightmare – he was lacking words to express how much it meant to him.
Her joke about her mother dragging them to an altar left a sour taste in his mouth. Mary obviously was trying to lighten the mood, spare him his embarrassment over the state she had found him in, but knowing now how she had been pushed at Sir Anthony Strallan of all people, he couldn't help but think there was too much truth in it.
Matthew determined to keep his feelings and burgeoning intentions under strict control in Cora's presence – or better yet, anybody's but Mary's, to be on the safe side. He could not imagine anything more insufferable than having Mary pushed on him against her will, like they clearly had done when he first arrived. He didn't think he could stand it now when a marriage to Mary would have been answering his deepest desire – but not like this, never like this. He wanted, needed Mary to love him, to accept him because she desired him as strongly as he desired her – anything else would be a travesty. He would not be another source of her torment, like they made Sir Anthony to be. Mary was his trustee, his heiress, his cousin, his dearest friend and if she never could be anything more, he would still take it greedily and never do anything to jeopardise her presence in his life. If she decided to marry somebody else, if she fell in love with somebody else – he had to clench his teeth at the sudden pain of that thought – then he would find the strength to deal with it somehow, but until then, she was his and he momentarily hated Cora for trying to take Mary away from him.
The shells were still flying overhead, although mostly to the north of their part of the trench. He gave the ceiling of the dugout a caustic eye, mentally ordering it to last at least until morning when he was out.
He fell asleep with his hand clutching the toy dog in his pocket.
Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 1916
As soon as Mary reached the privacy of her bedroom, she stumbled towards her vanity and practically collapsed on the stool.
She managed to be hard and composed while facing that vile woman. In fact, she was quite proud of herself for not giving her an inch, even when she dared to threaten to tell everything to Matthew. Vera Bates was not the kind of person one could afford to show any sign of weakness to, and Mary did not think she faltered. But now, with no witnesses around, she could feel herself crumble.
She dropped her head into her hands in despair. She would have to confess everything to Matthew herself, there was no way around it now. Better he learnt from her than from some ghastly newspaper article if Vera Bates managed to find somebody unscrupulous enough to publish the story even without any supporting evidence and Mary was afraid, for all her bravado, that she very well might find someone. Or even write to Matthew herself, she was spiteful enough to attempt it and cunning enough to figure out the way to reach him. Just how was she going to find the words and courage to tell it all to Matthew when she had never managed that before?
She froze at a sudden thought of such a letter, however she worded it, falling in someone else's hands. She could be handing somebody the very proof of the validity of the rumours surrounding her on a golden platter. No, she couldn't put something so sensitive in a letter. And yet, Matthew had to be warned somehow what might be very well coming. She groaned in frustration with her circling thoughts, reaching for pen and paper and deciding to just figure it out as she wrote.
"Dearest Matthew,
I have to tell you that we had a bit more excitement after you left than we expected. Bates' estranged wife showed up and attempted to blackmail him into leaving your employment and reconciling with her. You can imagine how shocked I was learning about it all, considering I had no idea he was married and thought him courting Anna! Anna apparently knew about his marital status and his attempts to divorce his wife. Bates claims Papa knew it all as well, including other particulars of his past which I am going to tell you, and that he confessed to you about being married and wishing to divorce, at least. Carson and Mrs Hughes confirm they knew most of it as well, so I think he is telling the truth.
As Bates tells it, after he was discharged from the army due to his disability he turned to drink and his relationship with his wife deteriorated rapidly. Either to get a dig at him or out of greed, she stole the regimental silver from the army barracks and he took the blame for it out of guilt for his treatment of her. They have not been in contact since his arrest until she showed up here, apparently due to Bates' recent inheritance.
It is up to you, of course, to decide whether you want to keep him as your valet knowing those details. I will only say in his defence that he was fully prepared to fall on his sword and give into her threats to protect our family's, and more specifically mine, reputation.
As you might have noticed, I did not mention the details of Mrs Bates' blackmail attempt and I am afraid I won't - at least not in a letter. I will just admit that she threatened to sell an old piece of gossip regarding me to a scandal sheet. I met with her and managed to convince her that blackmail against a daughter of an earl is most unwise and cannot end well for her, but I cannot unfortunately be sure whether her self-preservation or her malice will win in the end. I deeply regret the timing of it all – if she showed up just a day earlier, I would be able to tell you everything in person and would not face the risk of you reading some twisted version of it in a paper – but I can only hope that if you do, you won't despise me as much as I fear you may. I will just ask you to give me a chance to tell you the truth in person, even if the tale does reach you in some shape or form. Some of the versions I've heard are very far from what really happened, and I have no way of knowing which one you might hear or read, but I will understand if you are too angry to hear me out. I am so very sorry for not confessing it to you years ago, for many reasons.
I fear that I am unable to write to you about anything else at present – the whole mess rather took all my strength and attention today – but I promise I will let you know how everything goes with preparations to transform Downton into a convalescent home. Thankfully Mama took great interest in setting it up, so I am free to oversee autumn works on the farms and to fret about possible ruin.
Your tired, anxious and regretful cousin,
Mary"
She reread her letter and bit her lip in indecision. Should she have mentioned their desperate, wonderful kiss at the train station? The words they exchanged? Did it mean something or were they both just caught in the moment? They should discuss it, shouldn't they?
Mary dropped her head in her hands again. What was the point? She just confessed to Matthew that she had a secret; a secret which was shameful enough to be blackmailed over and too awful to be described in a letter. How could she raise the topic of their goodbye now? How could she hope that Matthew still loved her, despite everything, when she knew very well it could not last?
Officers' dugout, the Somme, September 1916
Matthew was astonished to receive a letter from Mary barely three days after he was back in France – she must have sent it nearly immediately after his departure. He torn the envelope eagerly, expecting it must refer to their passionate goodbye at the train station – a scene which didn't leave his mind for the last three days – so the actual contents of Mary's letter shocked him to the core.
He dismissed Bates' unexpectedly colourful history for the time being, focusing only on the threat to Mary – and the reason for it.
What in heavens' name could she have done to warrant being blackmailed? And if she had – as she clearly said, she just warned him that there were multiple versions of the story in circulation, but that ultimately something had happened which she needed to confess to him – how could he have no idea about it?
He reread the letter again, searching for clues. She wrote that she regretted not telling him everything years ago – but when did she mean? He thought it reasonable to suspect that something might have happened after he had enlisted and cut off contact with his Downton cousins for a year and a half, except occasional letters exchanged with Robert before his death – but would Mary use the word "years" in such case? But he could just not imagine that anything scandalous had happened while he had been at Downton without his notice; he had been observing Mary so closely, for so long, how could he have missed anything like that? Maybe she meant something from before September 1912 and his arrival, although it would have meant she had been very young when it happened.
Whatever it was.
Matthew groaned inwardly. There was no way he was going to figure it out and he was going to drive himself insane if he kept trying.
He decided to approach the problem from a different angle. From everything Mary said, it was plain she had done something she perceived as scandalous – and Bates' wife attempt to use it as a blackmail material seemed to confirm this assessment. So how did he feel about that?
The answer came clearly and immediately – he did not care.
Maybe he would have, before the war – maybe he would be shocked now, when he learnt the details because she still couldn't imagine Mary ever doing anything fulfilling those criteria – but whatever she had done, he did not care enough to make the slightest dent in his feelings for her. He knew her. He knew her as the brave, caring, wonderful woman she was and he loved her with all his being. Whatever she had done, it had taken place years ago and he would just have to find a way to deal with it when she finally confessed everything to him. He just could not imagine doing anything else.
His resolve firm, he took out his writing set.
"Dearest Mary,
Your letter troubled me greatly, for many reasons. It is utterly frustrating that not only we cannot discuss the matter in person, but not even in a letter. Unfortunately, as you well know, all my letters are censored, and you are right to be concerned about privacy, especially if the matter is as delicate as you imply. Understanding the difficulty does nothing to stop me from wondering and worrying though. If only we could talk!
I must tell you one thing though – whatever it is which you will tell me when we next see each other, I never would – I never could – despise you.
The details of the matter aside, I was both proud and concerned that you decided to confront a blackmailer yourself. I am full of admiration for your courage and loyalty and so very proud of you for your actions; both for assuming responsibility for helping Bates, when you had all kinds of reasons to let him go, and for negotiating with that vile woman. My concern comes not from any lack of faith in your bravery and cold blood, but only from fear how very upsetting it must have been considering everything you described about her. I hope it did not distress you too badly. How are you, Mary, after dealing with all of this on your own? I so regret that I was not there to support you in it.
I agree of course that Bates should stay in his position. He did confess to me about his marital status before I left, although I was stunned to learn about his time in prison. If the matter was reviewed and discussed by your Papa, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes, and he was allowed to continue in his employment, then I trust their judgement on the issue.
Your concerned cousin,
Matthew
He could not resist addressing their parting at least slightly. He could understand that with everything which happened after he left Mary could be too overwhelmed to dwell much on it – but he desperately needed to at least allude to it.
P.S. Our parting is constantly on my mind, whether I am awake or asleep.
He put the letter in an envelope and got up to bring it to his captain for censoring and posting. He scowled at the necessity of it and the thought of somebody else reading the words he intended solely for Mary's eyes. If it wasn't for that bloody censorship, she would be able to tell him plainly what was it that she was being blackmailed with, and maybe he could offer her some more meaningful help than empty platitudes.
He was walking past the stretcher bearer post when he saw Thomas sitting there, drinking tea.
"You look very comfortable there, Corporal," he noted pleasantly.
Thomas jumped to his feet and saluted, then, after a momentary hesitation, asked:
"Would you like some, sir? We've got condensed milk and sugar."
Matthew raised his eyebrows in surprise, truly impressed.
"I won't ask how you managed that."
They both laughed as Thomas handed him a cup.
"Go on, sir."
Matthew took the proffered cup and sipped it as they sat. It was admittedly the best tea he had managed to get in the front trenches so far.
"That's nectar..." he hummed appreciatively. "Are you sure you can spare it?"
"Gladly, if we can talk about the old days and forget about all this for a minute or two," answered Thomas with earnestness Matthew had never heard from him before. Then again, had he ever shared a proper conversation with the footman?
"I wonder if we'll go back to the way things were, when the war is over. What do you think?"
"To be honest, I doubt it."
"How are you gonna keep'em down on the farm, after they've seen Paree?" drawled Matthew, making Thomas snicker.
"We haven't seen much of Paris, worse luck, but we have seen the world's bigger than Downton."
"Strange to think I was there so recently. It feels like a million years ago. Do you ever hear from anyone?"
"Oh yes. Miss O'Brien keeps me informed. Lady Edith's driving and farm work. Lady Sybil's working as a nurse. Lady Mary's running the estate. Miss O'Brien tells me the hospital's busier than ever, with the wounded coming in. Is that true?"
"Certainly is. They had a concert when I was there, to raise extra funds. And Downton is going to be turned into a convalescent home in the next few weeks, to take in recovering soldiers and free some beds in the hospital for more urgent cases."
Thomas's eyebrows shot up in shock.
"Downton? Turned into a convalescent home? Old Mr Carson must have hit the roof."
Matthew laughed.
"He rather did, yes. As did Dowager Countess. But I hope they both will appreciate the good it will accomplish. Unfortunately, there is more and more need for such places."
They both sobered up, acknowledging the truth of that statement.
"I'm curious, sir. Do you think I could ever get a transfer, back to the hospital? Seeing as it's war work?"
"Well, you'd have to be sent home from the front first. And then you might have to pull a few strings..."
He drained his cup and stood, returning it to Thomas.
"Thank you for that. Thank you, very much."
"What would my mother say? Me entertaining the Earl of Grantham to tea," quipped Thomas.
"War has a way for distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't," said Matthew sincerely. He and Thomas were sitting together in a muddy trench full of blood. Why shouldn't they have a cup of tea? What did those petty distinctions matter?
He touched his cap in salute and walked off. He had an urgent letter to post.
Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 1916
Mary reread Matthew's letter with growing incredulity and very cautious hope.
Could he mean it? Could he really not despise her, despite everything?
He did not know what it was she had done... But now he knew enough to realise it must have been something bad. And yet his letter was charity itself, seemingly full only of concern for her.
She looked at the postscript again and bit her lip. What was she supposed to write back to that? She could hardly stop thinking about their parting kiss herself, but could they really take it further without talking over this damn business with Mr Pamuk first? Could she – should she – accept his forgiveness without making sure he understood the gravity of her mistake?
Deciding to think on it tomorrow, Mary took out Matthew's photo from its hiding place and knelt down to pray with a sigh. She was just going to start, when the door opened, revealing Edith. She barely had time to push the treasured photograph under the pillow as she jumped to her feet.
"What do you want?" she snapped, rattled at her privacy being invaded at such a moment.
"I think I left my book in here," answered Edith, clearly unperturbed by her sister's hostility. Or the commonly acknowledged custom of knocking before entering, apparently.
Mary looked around, found the book and handed it over.
"Is that all?"
Of course it wasn't.
"You were praying," pointed Edith, looking at her with unabashed curiosity.
"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Mary, which unfortunately did not deter Edith in the slightest.
"You were praying," she insisted. "What were you praying for?"
Exasperated, Mary walked to the door and opened it.
"Please go. I'm tired."
Thank goodness, Edith gave up and left, sending her sister the last curious look. Mary locked the door for good measure and returned to the bed, where she retrieved the photograph, tracing Matthew's beloved features delicately with her finger. Her body tingled at the memory of his kiss.
She knelt down again and bent her head.
"Dear Lord, I don't pretend to have much credit with you. I'm not even sure that you're there. But if you are, and if I've ever done anything good, I beg you to keep him safe."
Delville Woods, the Somme, September 1916
Matthew definitely did not feel safe at the moment.
He and twelve other men from his unit were sent to check on the Germans' position. They crawled in the dark as far as they dared, and then laid there for a long time, waiting for a lull in the shelling. All they had to do was to see if they could hear the enemy and then creep back and report where they were. There was no question of making an attack, or anything like that. A routine mission, if hardly comfortable.
It seemed like hours before there was a pause in the terrible noise and, when it finally came, Matthew realised they managed to get nearly directly under the German wire. He could hear them moving about, even talking – mostly complaining about the rations and other casual trench talk like that, from what he could tell. That was all they needed to know, so he signalled to the nearest man to pass the word to retreat. They started slowly creeping back the way they'd come, keeping as low and quiet as they could.
Matthew judged they were just few yards from their own position – which was just linked up shell-holes with a few sandbags here and there as a kind of parapet – when suddenly one of his men jumped up to dash the last few yards to his own shell-hole. At that very moment, there was a break in the clouds and a blink of moon came out. The Jerries must have been suspicious that something was up and looking out for any movement because, instantly, a machine gun opened fire and the man fell. Matthew could only signal to the others to keep still, huddle into as small target as possible, and wait for the darkness to fall again and the machine gun to stop.
When it finally happened, they carefully passed the remaining few yards into the trench, reported to their Bombing Officer, and only then Matthew could perform a headcount.
It was then that he realised they lost Bobby Pearce.
Bobby, a gruff South African war veteran who even before the embellishment of the ugly new scar he now bore on his forehead had a face only a mother could love. He could neither read or write, so it was Matthew who wrote his letters home and read out, with difficulty, the infrequent, near-illegible replies. Pearce was a rough diamond and an old soldier. He was entitled to wear the campaign medal of the South African War, but he scorned it as a 'bare-arsed medal'. That war had ended before Bobby had got nearer the front than Gibraltar and he did not agree with the opinion of the Army that he qualified for the statutory decoration. Pearce was a hard swearer and a hard drinker. Matthew had covered up for him, had got him out of trouble a dozen times but there was no man he would rather have had at his own shoulder when there was trouble ahead.
And now Bobby Pearce was dead.
He and Davis volunteered to crawl over the parapet, back to where they had seen the body fall and dragged him in. Bobby was indeed completely dead. A bullet struck him at the back of the head and the whole top of it was gone. Matthew thought mournfully that in a way Bobby, one of the very few men now who had been with him from the very beginning in 1914, had been a father figure of sorts to him – a much older man than him, who really had looked after him like a father although he was his lieutenant. It did not stop Bobby from calling him gruffly 'a fancy boy' and making fun of him for complaining about being dirty.
He felt terrible.
Before it got light, Matthew and Davis buried Bobby just a few yards away and stuck a rifle in the ground, bayonet down, and his tin hat on top of it to mark the spot. The shelling had started up again and, when they went across the following morning to attack again, Matthew noticed that the place where the grave had been was now one enormous shell-hole.
The junior officers' dugout, the Somme, September 1916
When he was finally safe – well, at least for the very loose definition of "safe" used in the front trench – all he could think at first was Bobby and his promise given long ago to go and tell his parents about his end. He dreaded the thought of them asking where he was buried – and they would, he knew, they were catholic, and a proper burial was extremely important to them. How could you tell a mother that her only son was blown to pieces and there was nothing left? That they did bury him all right, but then the shell fell and nothing was left but another crater in the barren soil?
He wondered numbly if somebody would have to convey similar tale to Mother one day. He shied away from imagining her reaction to such news.
He thought of Mary instead, and the way she kissed him at the train station, her gloved fingers threading through his hair until she nearly threw his cap off, her mouth so delicious and passionate against his.
Suddenly he could not ignore anymore what happened between them. He could not pretend that everything was as before, that nothing changed. He did not care that he didn't receive a response yet to his last letter to her. He did not care that the answers to the questions burning in his mind could break his heart all over again. He had to know what she felt for him or he was going to go completely insane. He got up from his cot and reached with shaking hands for his pen, paper and the precious envelope he had been given after he stumbled back from the day's charge.
"Dearest Mary,
As you can see, my letter arrived in a green envelope. We can receive one every two weeks or so – sometimes less often, if we are busy – and their significance is enormous. You see, the letters in green envelopes are not censored with the battalion and are supposed to remain private. It is not completely sure they will be, of course, that would be considered too dangerous, so random green letters are still opened and censored at the base or in London – a man from my unit had the bad luck of his letter to the girl he was courting chosen for this random censorship and ended up court martialled for its contents. But the idea is that those letters should be as private as it can reasonably get at the front and thus most often intended for one's sweetheart.
What are we, Mary? Are we sweethearts? Or was that moment at the train station just the result of us getting overwhelmed by the emotions of parting and uncertainty if we ever see each other again and did not mean anything more than that? I would not presume to think we are engaged; when I did not ask properly and I cannot say that you properly answered. But are we truly still just cousins and friends or is my heart right this time in hoping for more?
I was afraid to raise this topic, but I find I cannot remain silent for any longer, however big the risk of getting hurt – the uncertainty and speculation are torturing me too much. I love you, Mary. I've never stopped loving you, even when I was at my most hurt and angry. I admit I tried to stop, I tried to forget you, but I failed utterly. I think I love you more than I ever did before, that my love for you grows every day. I cannot imagine my life without you. I want you to be my wife.
There, I wrote it, and my hand has barely trembled while I was doing it. And yet now the choking fear of waiting for your answer starts again. I beg you, Mary, please answer me plainly whether there is any reason for me to hope. If you don't love me, if you don't think you could ever love me, please tell me at once. I will accept it, Mary, I promise. If everything you can offer me is to remain my dearest friend and cousin, that's what we will be. I won't pester you ever again, I won't mention my feelings and will work harder than ever before on supressing them. Nothing has to change between us if you don't want it to. But please, Mary, don't keep me in suspense. If I have to spend months waiting for your answer again, I am sure I will go mad. That would surely do what the war hasn't managed so far.
I hardly dare to write this paragraph, but I promised myself to be fully honest in this letter to you. There has been enough of silence and misunderstanding between us, don't you think? Mary, if I am not mistaken after all – if you feel for me what I hope you do – my darling, you would make me the happiest of men, war or no war. I cannot promise you the future. I cannot even promise that I will ever see you again. And yet, the thought that you could love me back – that you could wish to spend however much time we can have together with me – that thought, that hope sustains me in my darkest moments here. I know that I might be hoping for way too much from you and I promise again that I will not blame you in the slightest if it is so. But Mary, to think that it could be true!
I will not sign this letter as your cousin, because, to be frank, it is not at all how I think of myself now in relation to you.
Matthew"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bobby Pearce was a real person. The description of him and his death can be found in Corporal Len Lovell's account in the wonderful book "Somme" by Lyn MacDonald (p.279).