Drawing room, Downton Abbey, October 1916
All the furniture had been removed from the drawing room and the assortment of wheeled beds, washbasins and nightstands filled the space instead, clashing garishly with the luxurious green silk covering the walls.
"Should we give them some more space between the beds?" asked Anna doubtfully.
"Well, we could give them..." started Edith, only to be interrupted by Isobel.
"Not much. I'm determined to defend the library as a recreation room."
"Where are we to sit?" asked Cora.
"We can screen off the small library."
"Is that all?" asked Cora incredulously.
"I suppose we still..." tried Edith again, only for the same thing happen.
"Or we could leave you the boudoir. I wanted to put intermediaries in there, but we don't have to."
"How kind," commented Cora through clenched teeth, as Isobel walked purposefully out of the room to oversee other part of the preparations.
Cora, Mary and Edith were left staring at each other, as Sybil busied herself with making the beds. It was clear sign of Cora's state of mind that she didn't object to Sybil's activity or attempted to make her to call for a maid instead.
"Who will be in charge?" asked Cora.
"Cousin Isobel thinks it will be her. She said so to Anna," said Edith drearily.
"All I know is that she'll drive us mad before the end," said Mary gloomily.
Cora just looked at her. She did not trust herself to comment.
Matthew's study, Downton Abbey, October 1916
Mary frowned at Isobel, who was assessing the spacious, well-lit room with a covetous gleam in her eye.
"This is Matthew's room," she said firmly. Isobel just waved a hand cheerfully.
"And he would not object to having it put to good use while he is not here."
Mary's frown deepened.
"I assume not, but we still shouldn't change anything in here," she said, feeling her stubbornness raise to the surface. Cousin Isobel would not take over this room. "This is the only room he specifically had outfitted with his own comfort in mind. I will not have it taken away from him when he will find it hard to find some peace here on leave anyway, with the whole place crawling with soldiers as it's going to be."
Isobel looked at her with a frown of her own.
"Matthew fully supports using this house as a convalescent home," she said firmly. "He would not begrudge this room either. And if he finds himself in need of some peace and quiet on leave, which won't take place for many months in any course, he can come to Crawley House for a bit. It would be wasteful to keep this room sitting empty when we have so many people to accommodate."
"Then I will give up the agent's office for the orderlies room and will run the estate business from here," bargained Mary. "You cannot say that an office is not needed – I need a place to work in peace and to meet with the tenants, workers and vendors, and the small library will not do if it's separated from the recreation room in the big library just by a screen and used as our only drawing room for all of us. Not to mention this room has a telephone, which will be very useful. The agent's office is in one of the side buildings with direct access to the yard, which I assume the orderlies might like for opportunity to have a cigarette. They all seem to smoke, as far as I can tell, and you need to put them somewhere."
Isobel held her gaze for a long moment, but then her face relaxed into a smile.
"The agent's office will do very well for the orderlies' room," she said, looking at Mary with surprising fondness. "And I guess you will need an office somewhere else then, so this room should do splendidly."
Matthew's Study, Downton Abbey, October 1916
She was beyond grateful for the peace afforded by Matthew's study she commandeered for herself when his newest letter arrived.
And what a letter it was! She was reading it with her eyes wide, having to reread each paragraph multiple times, barely able to comprehend or believe what she was reading. He couldn't have meant... But his words left no room for ambiguity.
Matthew was still in love with her. He never stopped loving her, even though he tried to after she had hurt him so badly. He loved her still and he wanted to marry her. This letter was basically his second proposal.
Oh God.
She had to answer him immediately. She never, ever could put him through the same suffering she had in her ignorance and fear before the war. She had not realised then how much she had been hurting him by keeping him in perpetual suspense, but she was fully aware of it now and there wasn't a thing in her life she felt more guilty about. It had never been her intention to make him suffer, she had been just too wrapped up in her own dilemmas to notice and understand until it had been too late. Well, she knew better now, she had to answer right away.
Faced with unforgiving blankness of the paper, Mary faltered. It was obvious she had to answer – but what? When nothing really changed since they had been through the very same dance before?
She bit her lip in indecision, then forced herself to pick up the pen. What she could do now, what she had failed at so utterly then, was to be honest with him.
Officers' billet, Amiens, France, October 1916
"My dearest Matthew,
First, let me tell you one truth – I love you. I have loved you for a very long time now and there is nothing I wish for more than to be your wife. Nothing could make me happier than that.
But... I am afraid there is a but, and it's the same reason which stopped me from giving you the answer before the war. It's related to that dreadful secret Mrs Bates threatened to expose. I cannot let you marry me without you being familiar with all the facts, it would not be fair to you – I would forever feel that I caught you with a lie and you don't deserve it. You are so good, Matthew. If only I could be worthy of you and your love!
As much as I dread your reaction, I would love nothing more than to finally confess it all. The last thing I want is to torture you with uncertainty for even a moment longer. But too much has been done to protect this secret for me to expose it in writing, in my own hand. Letters can be lost, stolen, read by prying eyes and I just cannot risk that, not after everything. But I promise you, Matthew, that I will tell you everything the very day you put your foot on the English soil. And I promise you this – if, after knowing the truth about me, you will still want to ask me to be your wife, I will say yes. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that I desire more than to be your wife. But I want you to know that I don't expect you to ask when you know, and I won't blame you when you won't. I only hope that you won't despise me so utterly as to remove me from your life completely.
I know I don't have the right, in light of my answer, but I wanted to write it at least once:
I love you, my darling. I love you so much.
Mary"
Matthew's hands trembled when he put down Mary's letter. He could hardly believe what he had just read.
Mary loved him! She had loved him for a very long time – she had loved him before the war, when he had first proposed – she wanted nothing more than to be his wife!
He could hardly comprehend it, it challenged so many of his beliefs so profoundly.
He reached for the letter again, to reread those precious words.
It was not all settled and good, of course. She seemed to think that her damn secret – whatever the hell it was – would present insurmountable impediment. As hard as he tried, Matthew could not imagine what on Earth it could have been. It was something Mary could be blackmailed over, something of interest to the scandal sheets, something which caused multiple rumours about her and what she seemed deadly convinced could make him despise her.
Whatever it was, he could just not imagine Mary doing anything which matched those criteria, however hard he tried. He could imagine anything making him despise her even less. He was aware she wasn't perfect – he considered himself very well acquainted with her faults – but he loved her too much to care. He could not imagine anything which would be able to change that.
But Mary clearly believed otherwise. She would not give him an answer until she was able to confess her secret in person to him. How the hell was he supposed to survive the months, maybe even a year, until she had the opportunity? How was he going to survive the thought that Mary loved him, that she wanted to marry him, but it was still so uncertain, it could still all be for naught? It was impossible!
He reached impatiently for a sheet of paper and his pen, determined to answer her as soon as possible.
"My darling,
You do not know; you cannot know how happy – ecstatic really – your words have made me. To hear, after all this time, that you love me now and have loved me then – when I convinced myself so utterly that it was neither true nor possible – oh darling, I am so happy I can barely believe it.
It's beyond frustrating to be so unable to settle that last hurdle between us. The realisation that we both love each other and want to spend our lives together, but there is still something which, at least according to you, may have the power to keep us apart, is driving me insane. But Mary, I wrote you before – I never could despise you. Whatever it is which you feel you must tell me, it won't affect the love I feel for you. Do you know how I can be so sure without hearing you out? It's because I have spent a year and a half in unimaginable hell, doing my utmost to forget you, to stop loving you, and I failed at it completely. I don't love you because you are perfect – I am sorry, my darling, but I never thought you so – I love you because you are a brilliant, brave, loyal, wonderful woman, even though I am not at all blind to your less flattering qualities. But you would not be you if it was somehow possible to excise them. Whatever you have done which scares you so to admit, I am sure that we can get past it. Because if there is one thing which that war has taught me it was to separate the things that matter from the things which don't. You, my darling, you matter the most in the world to me. And whatever you think, it is not possible to change it.
I can safely say that I will love you till my last breath, whether it's going to take place tomorrow or in fifty years. So I will try to wait patiently for the opportunity to talk with you and I promise to listen to anything you have to say. But Mary, whatever it is – I will still love you because it appears that I am simply not capable of anything else.
Yours very sure,
Matthew"
Library, Downton Abbey, October 1916
"I go away for five minutes and everything is settled!" huffed Violet indignantly, glaring at the screens being set up to separate the small library from the big one.
"Nothing is settled! For a start, which rooms will we live in?" snapped Cora, glaring at Isobel resentfully.
"The small library. And the boudoir," answered Isobel unperturbed.
"If Cousin Isobel can find somewhere else for the intermediaries," said Cora in a sickly sweet voice.
"There's always the boot room. I'm sure you'll have use of that!" said Violet derisively.
"And where are we supposed to eat?" asked Mary warily.
"You can share the dining room with those officers who are well enough..."
"No," said Cora steely.
"We all have to make sacrifices..." said Isobel, obviously trying to be diplomatic.
"No!" exclaimed Cora, finally snapping. "I do realise it is your son's house now, but we still live here, by his decision, and he said that we do have a say in how the convalescent home is to be arranged. We are all trying to be as accommodating and cause as little trouble as possible, but I will not have my daughters dining every night with strange men we know nothing about. We will sooner all leave! Although how Mary is going to be able to run your son's estate from London is beyond me."
"Then we'll have tables set up in the great hall for the mobile officers and the nurses," intervened Clarkson. He didn't run the Cottage Hospital at Downton for fifteen years without learning to navigate the local politics. He was very much aware that while the estate belonged now to Mrs Crawley's son, there was unfortunately not inconsiderable chance that it could revert to Lady Mary at any time, so antagonising the other branch of the family too much was certainly a risky endeavour. And Richard Clarkson had always been rather averse to taking risks.
Amiens, France, October 1916
"My darling,
Because that is how I think of you, even though I know I have no real right - your letter brought me both unimaginable joy and unbearable pain. The joy is easy to explain, I believe. To hear how much you do love me, after how badly I have hurt you; how deeply convinced you are that nothing could ever change it - it was nectar for my heart. I must have reread your letter a dozen times already and I have only received it this morning. I will treasure it for my whole life. But Matthew, I am afraid to accept this as true. I do believe that you are convinced of the truth of your feelings and I am not questioning them. However, you do not know what I have done and I do fear that your love for me blinds you to the possibilities. Even if you are considering different scenarios - as I am sure you can hardly avoid to - they remain theoretical and easy to dismiss. When you are confronted with hard, undeniable truth, you might yet feel differently. That's why I think it might be wiser for us to tone down our letters a bit - to speak less of love and hope for the future when they may end up only bringing us pain later. Let's talk about Downton and crops and rents, let's talk how you are doing and whether the paperwork is threatening to drown you yet. It will be easier, my darling, believe me. Just know - because I cannot stand the thought of you to have any reason to doubt it - just know that I love you as I never expected to love. Deeply, utterly, passionately. Even if we are not destined to be together, even if my mistakes prove as fatal as I fear them to be, know that I will love you forever, even if you cannot forgive me for my actions.
Downton is functioning, for better or worse. Mama and your mother are working together to prepare the transition to the convalescent home. Well, to say they are working together is maybe putting too positive spin on things. I am afraid your mother is rather forceful in ensuring everything matches her vision perfectly. Of course, her vision is very impressive. The problem is that we do still live in the house and some of her ideas disregard it completely. I freely admit that some of our differences of opinion can come from different expectations of what constitutes necessary comfort and what an indulgence, but it is hard to compromise when there is certain doubt who actually carries more authority - Isobel as your mother and Major Clarkson's appointee or Mama as the resident of the house still nominally in charge of its daily operations in your absence. I hate to bring it to you, but it might be very helpful if you were to speak up on the matter and establish who should be in charge. I promise that if it's going to be your mother, we will accept it. Although Mama is starting to speak about an extended visit to Aunt Rosamund. I guess we are lucky that the threat of an U-boat attack will stop her from running to Grandmama in New York.
The harvest is finished, the 3rd quarters rents collected (I attach the figures) and the preparations for the winter in full force. For now, I took the mantle of an agent myself, since we did not receive any acceptable applications for the job yet. I hardly have a clue what I'm doing, but Sir Anthony most graciously provided me with a list of tasks to perform, so I hope I will not mess things up too badly. The tenants are rather unsure what to make of me but are at least more outwardly respectful than Jarvis ever was, so hope remains we will all figure out a way forward until more qualified candidate can be found.
How are you, Matthew? With all our complicated feelings to untangle, and my sorry mistakes rearing up their ugly heads, we barely had time to discuss you. Is it very bad to be back there? Are you well? Do you need anything I could send you? Please let me know.
Mary."
Matthew was in a bad mood.
Well, that was an understatement.
He felt hurt and extremely frustrated by Mary's letter and her evident lack of trust in him and his love for her.
And on top of that, he was beyond annoyed with the convalescent home drama. It wasn't only Mary, who asked him to get involved, oh no. Mother, Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet all wrote to him as well and neither of them was as subtle nor diplomatic as Mary when appealing to him for support.
He probably should expect a letter from Clarkson in the next mail call at this rate.
He kicked a piece of mud as he walked angrily between the lines of tents, fuming. The autumn rains were just starting, but he knew from the previous two autumns he spent in this Godforsaken place that they were there to stay, as was the mud.
He hated the mud with a passion. He had never minded it before; if he got splashed with it while riding his bicycle he usually just laughed it off, happy to be outside and active – but he guessed there was only so much mud a man could reasonably be expected to deal with in his life and in his opinion he had passed it sometime back in early 1915. If he by some miracle survived this hell to go home, he swore to never leave the house until it was perfectly dry outside.
Thank God it was still his unit rest week and he had a few hours for himself. He hoped a walk to a semi-decent estaminet he knew and a meal not consisting of army rations might improve his temper enough to enable him to respond to his flurry of letters with some semblance of civility.
He was just in front of the door of his chosen estaminet when he spotted Thomas walking leisurely to the same place. He greeted him cheerfully, despite his beastly mood. He actually counted that a familiar face and some pleasant conversation could help in alleviating it.
"It's a good thing we ran again into each other, Corporal, since I do owe you for that most excellent tea. How about I buy you dinner in repayment?"
Thomas's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he accepted the invitation gratefully, so they soon found themselves sharing a simple meal, with wine for Matthew and beer for Thomas, over the rickety table.
"Do you ever regret volunteering, Corporal?" Matthew found himself asking before he had time to think better of it.
"Only every fucking day since I got here, sir. Do you?" Answered Thomas candidly.
"Yes and no," answered Matthew musingly. "I still consider it my duty to be here, however much I hate every bloody minute. But I do regret singing up so rashly and for the wrong reasons."
Thomas snorted.
"Are there any good ones? Either you're a naive fool, a dupe or a loony."
Matthew looked at him wryly.
"And which one were you?"
"A dupe, definitely" answered Thomas bitterly, shaking off ash from his cigarette. "I believed that if I volunteer for the medical corps, I won't end up as cannon fodder. Stupidest mistake of my life and I made quite a few of them."
"By your classification, I was a naïve fool, I guess," said Matthew, thinking back to August 1914 and shaking head over his younger self. "I definitely had no idea whatsoever what I was getting myself into."
"None of us had," answered Thomas grimly and changed the topic. "How is getting Downton changed into a convalescent home coming along?"
Matthew groaned.
"Don't even ask. I am getting an avalanche of letters from everybody, basically all trying to make me take their side in innumerable quarrels and debates. If such place was not so sorely needed, I would be tempted just to write to them all to forget the whole thing."
Thomas laughed out loud, knowing the principal players well enough to imagine the difficulties and bad tempers Matthew was dealing with.
"What are they quarrelling about?" he asked with interest.
"Mother writes to say that both Ladies Grantham are being impossible, protesting all her ideas and obstructing her at every course. She cites the example of them shooting down the idea of the family sharing the dining room with the officers who are well enough to come to dinner."
Thomas snorted.
"How would that work, with them being served the hospital meals and the family their own? Or would they all share army issued food, with old Mrs Patmore running the canteen? And where are they going to find the footmen to serve so many people every night?" then, remembering he was criticising Matthew's mother, offered a hasty apology. "I beg your pardon, sir."
Matthew's mouth twitched.
"I think you stumbled upon some practical considerations Mother didn't realise yet. And what do you say about Lady Grantham's complaint then? Ah, here it is," he picked up the letter and read. "We are to be hardly left any room for our use at all. I understand that we have to accommodate quite a lot of people, but Cousin Isobel graciously allowed us only the small library, screened off from the big one which is to be used as the recreation room, maybe the boudoir as well, if she manages to find another space for intermediaries. And we still didn't decide where to place the nurses when they are off duty, never mind the details like who will handle all the additional cleaning and laundry. Surely it cannot all be expected of the staff."
Thomas puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully.
"I can understand her frustration, but there isn't much to be done about the rooms, is it?" he said, clearly envisioning Downton's floor plan. "The big library does make sense for the recreation room, and they do need to place the intermediaries somewhere – although maybe the music room would do. As for the nurses off duty, do you know what they intend to do with the smoking room?"
Matthew scanned the letters for any mention of it.
"Physical therapy, I think."
Thomas shook off the ash.
"Then it's off the list. There is the maids' sitting room which nobody uses, but it's for the bloody good reason, nobody wants to climb four flights of bloody stairs to get there. But as for the laundry, more people will need to be hired, that's for sure. The uniforms, pyjamas, sheets, bandages – it all won't only need to be laundered, but disinfected too, what with the blood and stuff, even if they get rid of the lice at least before they get there. Do you think you can get the army to pay for that?"
"Always worth the try," answered Matthew, eyeing Thomas speculatively, then impulsively asking. "Corporal, if I somehow managed to get you reassigned there, would you be willing to manage the convalescent home for me?"
"Can you do it, sir?" asked Thomas, his eyes alight with fervent hope. A hope Matthew understood perfectly, even if he never would have allowed himself to act on it.
"I am not one hundred percent sure," he admitted honestly. "But I am an earl now, and I do have some connections. And Dowager Countess has more than I will ever have, even if I live to her age. If you promise to be my representative there and keep all parties from starting another wat at Downton, I will make sure to pull any strings I have to get you there.
"You may count on me, sir," answered Thomas with dead seriousness. "If you manage to pull it off, I will owe you for life."
Officers' billet, Amiens, France, October 1916
"Dear Cousin Violet,
I have received your letter, as well as ones from Mother, Cousin Cora and Cousin Mary, and I spent a considerable amount of time trying to come up with a solution to the issue of chain of command at Downton when it starts to function as a convalescent home. I think I may have stumbled upon one. While serving here, I happened to meet Corporal Thomas Barrow, the former first footman at Downton, and I think he might be of use to us. Were he pulled from the front and appointed as the manager of the convalescent home, under Major Clarkson's direct supervision, he could mediate between the unstoppable forces that are Mother and Cousin Cora. He knows how the house works and which ideas would be adding undue burden for the servants; he has a good working relationship with Cousin Cora (although he admitted to a fractured one with Carson, but Carson is not our biggest problem here), and he is a fully trained medic and an experienced soldier so he would be able to grasp both medical and military needs of such a place. Hopefully he would manage to organise such a division of duties between Mother and Cousin Cora as to reduce the threat of outright confrontation. I'm sure with such a huge endeavour there must be enough to do to keep everyone busy and off each other's toes.
If you think my idea has any merit, please use whatever connections at the War Office you possess to make it happen. Pulling any man from the front is not an easy endeavour – we constantly want more men here, not less – but it would be reassigning him to a different type of war effort, not giving up his services, so there might be a chance of success.
I hope you will remain in excellent health and spirit.
Yours sincerely,
Lt. Matthew Crawley"
Matthew addressed the letter and put away his pen, sighing.
It was his last peaceful night before going back for another turn in the front trenches. Tomorrow he would be back there and a day after his unit would be sent into a battle. He should answer Mary's letter as well before he went, but he scowled at the thought. He was not at all sure he would not end up regretting whatever he wrote right now. Better to wait and let his thoughts settle a bit more.
If he were to die in that charge, he would have preferred for his most recent letter to Mary to be his last anyway.
Delville Wood, the Somme, France, October 1916
Thomas scowled, taking the last dregs from his cigarette. It took ages for the bloody Boche to stop shelling the hell out of the Delville Wood and allow the RAMC to pick up the wounded. As if there was anything left to shell after all the previous times one or the other side bombed it into oblivion.
When the artillery finally went quiet (seriously, why did they even bother with wasting so much ammunition on such a useless target?), Thomas commanded his section of stretcher bearers to go ahead and hurry up before the darkness fell. The days kept getting shorter and they didn't have much time.
As expected, the sight which welcomed them was grim. In addition to the fallen from today's charge, the shelling strewn around corpses buried or left around from the previous ones (how many times did this fucking wood exchange hands in the recent weeks? what was the bloody point of it all?), so the ground was literally strewn with body parts. Thomas was just stepping gingerly over some when the sight of a familiar blond head of a man lying against a broken tank caught his eye and made him gasp.
Oh no, you fucking won't, he swore as he ran towards Lieutenant Crawley, not when you're my only chance to get me out of this hellhole. He collapsed on his knees in front of him, relaxing a bit at seeing his wry smile, despite the pain clear on his face.
"We cannot stop running into each other, Corporal," rasped Lieutenant Crawley as Thomas carefully inspected his leg. A field dressing had been put over the wound but judging from the blood soaking it and the whole of trouser leg below it, it stopped being adequate hours ago.
"I preferred it when you bought me dinner, sir," muttered Thomas, reaching into his medical kit. "What got you?"
"Machine gun," grunted the Lieutenant, wincing in pain as Thomas changed the dressing to hopefully stop the bleeding long enough to transport him to the Field Dressing Station where they could clean and stitch it properly. He only hoped it would be soon enough to save Lord Grantham's leg. The longer it took, the bigger the risk of amputation grew, and it wouldn't do for the Earl of Grantham to hop around on crutches. Hardly dignified enough for such an elevated position. "It only grazed me, really, but it hurts like the dickens and made me bleed like a pig."
"And yet he crawled over half of the ridge here, checking on and trying to save as many of the rest of us as possible," pointed out a private sitting next to him, amazingly calm for someone with half of his arm missing. Somebody put quite a nice tourniquet on the remaining half, most likely saving his life. From the sickeningly adoring look he was sending his Lieutenant, it was most probably him.
"Couldn't spend the whole bloody day just laying here, could I?" grinned the Lieutenant, despite involuntary painful grunts escaping his mouth as Thomas tightened the bandage over his leg. "I would get bored to death. Better to put myself to some use since I had to wait for Corporal Barrow and his lads here anyway."
Thomas straightened, calling over one of the mentioned lads to help him load Lieutenant Crawley on the stretcher and carry him off the battlefield. He found himself hoping that he really would keep his leg and, to his own surprise, not even because he could be his ticket out of here. Lieutenant Crawley was a good and kind man and Thomas didn't meet many of those in his life, never mind showing any kindness to him. Would be a bloody shame if he didn't make it.
Field dressing station, the Somme, France, October 1916
Matthew settled more comfortably against the frame of the hospital bed and winced at the sharp pain in his thigh resulting from his movement. The blasted bullet sliced through the outside of his right leg from front to back, somehow diagonally, making it impossible to move in any way without aggravating it.
He knew he should count his blessings – as long as the wound remained clean and didn't become infected, he had a pretty good chance of keeping his leg, even if having antiseptic poured repeatedly over it was akin to being doused with liquid fire – and he did, he really did. But he thought dryly that he would appreciate not experiencing getting shot even more. He could live very well without knowing how much it actually hurt.
He asked the passing nurse for a pen and paper as soon as he was able to sit and gather his thoughts from the heavy fog of morphine which they gave him yesterday. He did not think the War Office would notify Mother about his injury, considering it was not deemed serious enough to ship him back home to recuperate, but one never knew, and he couldn't stand the thought of her or Mary imagining the worst. War Office telegrams tended to be short on details.
"My dearest Mary,
I am writing to you and Mother in hope that my letters will reach you sooner than a telegram from the War Office, if they even bother to send one for something so minor. I don't want to alarm you, darling, but I got injured. Do not worry – it is not very serious. I am not even sent to England to heal, which should be the best proof of my words. A machine gun bullet grazed my thigh pretty deep. It bled quite a lot but, after it was cleaned and stitched, it is expected to heal shortly without any reasons for concern. I am currently in the field dressing station but expected back on base in two or three days for monitoring in a hospital there until the wound closes properly, followed by few weeks of light duty and then back to my usual rotation.
Lieutenant Benson and I took the platoon across yesterday. We were the first to go in our company. I think our Captain gave the order to advance a little bit before the time because we'd been trained that the closer you kept to the creeping barrage the safer you were. But we overdid it. We walked into it and it has to be said that there were a lot of shorts. The artillery was very good but they weren't all that perfect and they couldn't guarantee to put a curtain in a straight line that you could keep behind.
I went down very early and I saw Benson going on just in front of me. He was brandishing his revolver and shouting, "Come on!" and he just went down. He got a machine gun bullet right through the head. The Germans had got up by then and my platoon was literally put out of action in a very short time. The last I saw of them there were about half-a-dozen going through the smoke climbing up the ridge to get into the German trenches and I was left lying there. It was a gorgeous autumn day and, after the rest of the Battalion had gone through, I was able to crawl about. I put a bandage round my leg and crept about going to the rest of wounded men in my platoon. Some of them were shouting. They made horrible sounds when they were in pain and some were wounded pretty badly. I went round to as many as I could, just to try and help as much as I could – putting field dressings on mainly, sometimes binding injured limbs – and cheer them up if there was nothing I could do. Then I found a tank which had broken down trying to get up this ridge. It stopped there whole day and we collected as many of the walking wounded as we could and tried to drag or carry those who could not move on their own. It was doubly safe, behind the ridge and behind the tank.
Matthew found himself back in Delville Wood, waiting for the fighting to stop and the medics to arrive for them. It was a long time before the Germans got the range and started shelling. When they did, it was a horrible sight. The shells were falling on the wood, and it had been fought for over and over again, so it was full of dead bodies and they were being tossed up by the explosions. In a strange sort of way, it was fascinating to watch these bodies rising up into the air above the tree stumps and circulating almost in slow motion and coming down again. Horrible, but fascinating. It seemed so strange to be lying there on that lovely warm autumn's day watching these bodies going up and down.
But he couldn't write something so morbid to Mary. He was telling her too much as it was.
There is some talk about getting me a Military Cross for the events of yesterday, although to be honest I do not see that I did anything so very special as to deserve it. I guess you will see the announcement in the London Gazette if it happens.
Darling, I was thinking long and hard about your request to curtail our talk of love and any hopes for our future and I must say that I disagree. I do understand your reluctance, because I have fears of my own. When I was laying there, on that hill, bleeding and watching shells falling on the wood exactly where the rest of my platoon was supposed to be, I couldn't escape the thought that only by the grace of God none of them fell on me. And although I do fear death – I am not so numbed to it yet not to fear it – I fear missing out on so many things I wanted to do in my life even more. I fear that I will never get to marry you. I fear that I will never even get to see or kiss you again. And I'm afraid, darling, that such outcome is much more probable than me rejecting you for something you have done years ago, however terrible it was. But if I stop myself from wishing and dreaming because of my fears and yours, I will have nothing to keep me sane here, to remind me that there is a life worth living outside of the grotesque reality I am forced to survive in here. My darling, I refuse to base my behaviour to you on something that hasn't happened and maybe never will. I firmly think that even if some of our fears will come true; whether yours or mine, we will still be happier and grateful for the love we shared before than we would be by being spared from some pain by denying it.
I will not deny ever again that I love you, Mary. This is the one thing I refuse to do.
Yours very much in love,
Matthew"
Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, November 1916
Mary's fingers trembled so badly that it was a miracle she didn't drop Matthew's letter.
He'd been injured. Oh God, he'd been injured and so very nearly killed. He'd been so very nearly killed and her last words to him would have been her admonishing him not to talk of his love for her because she was too big of a coward to hear it.
He was right. He was perfectly right. How would it have made her feel if he had died and those would have been her last words to him? Would she have felt any better, to have silenced him on the issue? Or would her regret have been even worse for depriving him of her love when he needed it most?
It could not go on, she resolved there and then. She would be deceiving herself if she claimed she wished Matthew to drop the subject for his own good, so he had less regrets when he inevitably had to take it all back after hearing her long overdue confession. No, it was just her being selfish and afraid. He made it so plain, multiple times, that her love was providing significant comfort to him. And oh God, how severely he must be in need of some, facing what he was! And she loved him so much, so very much, that everything in her was screaming for freedom to express it, to let him know how incredibly important he was to her, how very essential, how deeply beloved. If he was willing to risk opening his heart to her, even knowing that some ugliness lurked in her past waiting to be exposed, then so be it. She couldn't be any less brave than him. Matthew deserved better from her.
No 1 New Zealand Stationary Base Hospital, Amiens, France, November 1916
"My darling Matthew,
I am so, so sorry. You cannot know how sorry I am that you were forced to go into battle with my most misguided attempt to protect myself from heartbreak as the last thing you heard from me and in response to such a kind, loving, generous letter you have sent me too. I will never be able to apologise enough for it. Just know that I promise to never try to silence you like that again or to hide my own feelings from you.
Because I do love you so, darling, however bad I am at it. When I read about your injury and how close you were to death that day, I think my heart nearly stopped. Do not scare me like that ever again! I was completely miserable for the time you were away and without any word to me before, but I could endure it as long as you were alright, even if you were never to be mine. But I cannot, I just cannot imagine how I would survive in a world without you, so you must take a good care of yourself and come back to me safe and sound. Any other scenario is simply not acceptable.
How are you, my darling, truly? I hope you are not in a lot of pain and that you are not understating the seriousness of your wound. I so wish I was able to visit you in the hospital and see with my own eyes how you're doing. Or better yet, that you were sent here to recuperate so we could all take care of you and spoil you as much as you deserve. But from what you're saying it seems that for such a thing to happen you would have to be injured much more seriously than you are, so of course I cannot wish for that. But if there is anything I could send to you to make your recovery more pleasant, please just ask. I feel desperate to do something for your comfort.
I will not comment on the foolishness of your claim that you don't deserve the MC, if one is to be awarded to you. You are so brave, my darling, so very brave and such a good officer to your soldiers. Of course you deserve any honour bestowed on you. I cannot imagine how proud your mother will be when it happens. I know that I will be. But you must know that we are all so very proud of you already, medal or no medal.
It scares me so to write what I am going to now, but I will be brave enough to do it. I cannot do otherwise in face of the courage you've shown. Matthew, I accept your proposal, with the caveat that you have my absolute permission to withdraw it after we meet and you learn everything, if you find you cannot marry me in the circumstances. But for now, and hopefully for good, we are engaged. I just will ask you to keep it between us until you return for your next leave – just in case you will change your mind about marrying me. I promise it is the last time until then that I raise this possibility. We are engaged, darling, and we can start planning our life together. So you see, you have all the reasons in the world to keep wishing and dreaming and come back to me, because I assure you, I will not change my mind. If only you want me, I am yours.
Your loving fiancée,
Mary"
Matthew lowered Mary's letter on the blanket covering his legs, careful not to let it drop to the floor. He relaxed against his pillows and grinned in the purest happiness he had felt since the war began.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I hope you liked that development
The description of the charge in Delville Wood (one of many) was taken from "Somme" by Lyn MacDonald.