Hello! Hope everyone is well! I thought it was time for a new MM story!
So . . . in the Epilogue to Center, we learned that in early April 2020, Matthew slipped on black ice on the front step on his way to work and had suffered a bad concussion, and that his slow recovery, "a hard slog," had put him a couple of months behind in his progress with his physio therapy. The story April Showers was about the fall and immediate aftermath. This story is a sequel to April Showers and how Matthew and Mary dealt with his recovery from the fall.
A quick knock, and the door opened, revealing a familiar face, smiling broadly. The orderly entered the waiting room.
"Tommy! My God, Tommy! You're a sight for sore eyes! What on earth are you doing here at Royal York? Have you left the clinic? I can't imagine how they'll get on without you! I can't believe Coates would let you go."
Tommy's cheeks colored with pleasure. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Crawley, very kind. But it's only a temporary assignment, a special case, as it were. Dr. Yardley asked Dr. Coates, said that they needed me, and so here I am." Tommy moved behind Matthew's chair and began pushing him toward the door. "I understand you've been through it, sir."
Matthew shook his head, as Tommy began wheeling him down the long hospital corridor. "Through it is right!"
"You fell and hit your head, a nasty crack was it?"
"Yes. Ice—black ice on the front step—and down I went. At least that's what they tell me. I don't remember. A bad concussion."
"And when was that, sir? How long have you been laid up?"
Matthew shook his head again. "You know, that's the thing. I don't remember when it happened, or how long it's been." He frowned, trying yet again to put it all together, but couldn't. "But it's been a long time, too long. Too long without walking, without real physio. I had to wait, you see, until the dizziness went away. I thought it never would. Couldn't even sit in my chair for the longest time. Stuck in bed day after day. But finally, I started to improve." Tommy turned into a new corridor that stretched before them. "That's why I'm here today, to start physio again. But I guess you know that."
"Yes, sir. My orders are to bring you to the physio room."
Matthew nodded. "Yes, I can't wait to give it my all." He gestured down at his braced legs. "It's been so long, I know I'll need the braces. I'll have to start with the bars again, work up to using crutches, then sticks."
"Yes, sir." Tommy entered another corridor, and then another.
"I don't remember it being this far," Matthew observed.
"Royal York's a big hospital, sir."
"It's odd no one's about. I mean, normally, the place is bustling with activity."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, tell me about the chaps at the clinic, Tommy. How's everyone getting on?"
Tommy stopped in front of double swinging doors. "I would, sir, but here we are."
"It's so good to see you!" Matthew held out his hand, and Tommy clasped it cordially.
"And you, sir, and you!" His eyes held Matthew's. "I'll be round to pick you up when you're done."
"I've missed you, Tommy! It will grand seeing you when I come for a session."
"Ah, well, I'm sorry, sir, but I won't be here, you see."
"Why wouldn't you—ah, right, you're here for a special case. Just for today, then?"
Tommy pushed open a door. "That's right, sir." He maneuvered Matthew's wheelchair into the physio room. "Good-bye, sir." He started to leave, but Matthew took his arm.
"Wait, Tommy." He gave the orderly a searching look. "Am I the 'special case?'"
"Yes, sir." Tommy smiled sympathetically, then, with a nod, turned at left. Matthew watched the retreating figure until the door swung shut.
Special case. With a growing sense of anxiety, he surveyed the empty physio room, quiet except for the ticking of the large wall clock. Where are the other patients?
"Mr. Crawley."
Matthew's head snapped around as Dr. Yardley and Paul Phillips entered from a side room.
Yardley nodded, reaching out to shake Matthew's hand.
Phillips followed suit, smiling. "Very good to see you, Mr. Crawley."
"I'm very glad finally to be able to resume my physio," Matthew stated, looking from Yardley to Phillips and then back to the doctor. "I'm wearing my braces. I know I'll need to build back up to where I was before the fall."
Yardley pulled reading glasses out of his pocket and consulted a chart he'd been holding. He pursed his lips, then exhaled, looking over the glasses at Matthew. "It's been a very long time, Mr. Crawley. A very long time."
Matthew nodded. "Yes, I know. I mean, I'm not sure how long, but I know it's been a long time. I was dizzy. But finally, I'm not." When neither Yardley nor Phillips said anything, Matthew pressed them. "How long has it been?"
Yardley closed the chart. "Too long, I'm afraid, Mr. Crawley. Too long. I'm very sorry."
Matthew stared up at him, his mouth slack, his heart pounding. "Wha-what do you mean, 'too long?'"
"Just that. You have been incapacitated—in bed, in your chair—for far too long. Your condition has deteriorated. I'm afraid you won't be able to walk again."
"I don't understand. Of course, I have to regain my strength, I know that. I know it will take time." He stared at Yardley.
Yardley looked at him sadly. "It's been too long."
Matthew shook his head. "No. No, no, no." He wheeled himself to the bars, shoved his legs off the chair's footrest, gripped the arms and pulled himself to the edge of the seat. He leaned forward, grasped the bars and tried to pull himself up. But he couldn't. He tried again, straining, then sat back, panting. He leaned forward again, then pushed up on the arms of the chair. Nothing. He tried again, his arms trembling with the effort. Nothing. He couldn't lift himself even an inch off the seat. He looked desperately at Phillips. "Help me up," he demanded hoarsely. "Help me stand."
Phillips looked at Yardley, who gave a bare shrug. Phillips went to a drawer and pulled out a padded belt, securing it around Matthew's waist, then leaned down, his arms coming around as Matthew's hands clasped his neck. He lifted Matthew, then grasping the belt, positioned him in front of the bars.
Matthew gripped the bars, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. Holding himself up with his arms because his legs were no good. It was like they weren't there. He began to sway wildly, his legs buckling, and Phillips grabbed him around the waist and tightened his hold on the belt. "I can't feel my legs!" Matthew choked out. "What's happened to me?"
Phillips dragged him back from between the bars and lowered him carefully into the wheelchair. "I'm very sorry, sir."
Matthew stared at Phillips, then Yardley, trying to fight the panic that had started to overwhelm him. "What's happened to me? I was walking! Sometimes with one stick, sometimes with none! You've both seen me! It's like it never happened!"
"It's been too long," Yardley repeated. "Far, far too long." He looked at Phillips, then inclined his head towards Matthew.
Phillips nodded, kneeling down in front of Matthew, and raised a trouser leg. He started unbuckling the leather strap under his knee.
"What are you doing?" Matthew demanded. Phillips moved on to unlacing the shoe. "No. Please don't take them off. Please, don't. You can't be certain, I might be able to learn to walk again with braces and crutches, I might always need them, but it would be better than being in the chair, I won't mind," he appealed to Yardley, who remained silent. "Surely, there's something to be done, I don't care how long it takes, there must be something," he begged. "Please. What does Dr. Coates—."
Yardley held up a hand to stop him. "I have been consulting with Dr. Coates throughout your treatment. He concurs. I'm afraid we are certain. You will not be able to walk again, even with braces. They are of no use to you now, Mr. Crawley," Yardley said quietly, as Phillips inserted a shoehorn.
Matthew watched, blood pounding in his ears, as Phillips extricated his foot and removed the brace, then began to work on the other leg. When he finished, he stood up, then carried the braces to a cabinet and stowed them away.
"It's very hard, Mr. Crawley, a blow, to be sure, but you've been in a chair before. You'll adapt. You'll get used to it, again."
"Get used to it, again?" Matthew bit out. He wheeled closer to Yardley. "'Get used to it, again?' When I was confined to my chair—." He stopped, breathing hard, his mouth working, then began again. "When I was confined to my chair, I accepted it. I learned to live with it. But I never, ever got used to it. And I will never, ever get used to it. Do you understand me?" he shouted. "I will never, ever get used to it!"
.
I will never, ever get used to it!
Matthew woke with a jerk, his heart pounding. Drenched in sweat, he threw off the covers, and forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply. His racing heart began to calm, and he looked around the bedroom, trying to make the dream fall away. Mary was gone—relieving herself or feeding George? He ran a hand over the sheets on her side of the bed; they were cool, the clock said 6:45, so she was with George. He exhaled. It was so real.
But he could feel his legs, and yes, he could move them. It was a dream. A dream, a dream, a dream. And it made a kind of sense, didn't it, after his trip to Royal York the day before to be examined and evaluated by the head of neurology, Dr. Carroll, and Dr. Yardley, his spinal specialist, who had both met with him after comparing notes from their examinations and consulting by phone with Dr. Coates:
You're very lucky, Mr. Crawley. That was a nasty concussion; you came close to needing surgery to relieve the pressure from the edema. So: the double vision has resolved, as has the aphasia, perseveration, and memory issues Dr. Clarkson reported. Yes, you're still experiencing dizziness, but that's not unusual only ten days out, as are the headaches when you try to read—too soon for that. It's early days yet. All in all, Dr. Yardley and I—and Dr. Coates— are very pleased with your progress, and we expect to see continued improvement.
Yes, we are indeed. And I'm happy to say that the fall, while causing painful bruising and muscle strain, has not caused damage to your spine. Dr. Coates and I agree that eventually you should be able to carry on with your regime.
Yes, Dr. Yardley, when can I start my physio again? I mean beyond the exercises I can do in bed.
Well, Mr. Crawley, at this point, as you've described, it's a struggle for you to be sitting up in your chair. You're experiencing lightheadedness right now, by the look of you, are you not?
Yes. I am.
Well then, you can hardly be up trying to walk. Another fall could be quite disastrous. We can't put the cart before the horse.
Yes, you're right, of course. Dr. Carroll, how long until the dizziness and vertigo are gone?
That can be hard to predict.
So, not days? Weeks? Months?
I'm optimistic it won't be months, Mr. Crawley. I know how frustrating this must be for you after you've worked so hard and come so far. But this is a special case of competing issues: ongoing recovery from your spinal injury, but also now recovery from the concussion. I'm afraid you must be patient about resuming the former while we wait for the latter.
And Matthew, being the son of a doctor and a nurse, had understood that "optimistic" when used this way often meant "probably weeks, but you never know." Special case. He hadn't been able to get the conversation out of his mind ever since. No wonder he'd had that dream.
He pushed himself up slowly, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was still quite sore, and his back began to spasm. But he'd dealt with that before. His back would always be a problem, wouldn't it? He did feel a bit lightheaded, but it wasn't too bad. Not too bad at all. His sticks were propped against the side of Mary's dresser, too far for him to reach, but just a few steps away. He could do it. Three steps. He'd walked across the room without sticks. He could do this. He set his feet, then reached up with his right hand, grabbing the headboard and pulling, whilst pushing up off the bed with his left. He was standing! He took a step, and another—his legs did work, dammit! But it was a short-lived victory, as he began to sway, overwhelmed by vertigo. He tried another step, legs shaking, then fell heavily against the wall, somehow managing to stay standing.
He was next to his wheelchair. He should collapse into it, he knew. I will never get used to it! Instead, he drew back his right arm and smashed his fist into the wall. The pain felt good.
He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, staring at his chair, then staggered back to bed and rang for Bates.
.
Mary woke with a jerk, then smiled, looking down at George's face. He had pulled away from her breast, eyes closed, his lips moving every now and then—he was in the land of milky dreams, as Matthew called it. She stifled a yawn.
"Goodness, Wally, did I fall asleep?"
The nurse rose, taking the sleeping baby from Mary. "Yes, m'lady. And you clearly needed it." She carried George to his cot, laying him down.
Mary buttoned her nightgown, then rose, giving in to a real yawn as she tied her kimono. "Yes, neither Mr. Crawley, nor I, have been sleeping particularly well since his fall. Apparently, poor sleep is yet another consequence of a concussion. After he came home from hospital, he wanted to sleep in his room so as not to disturb me, but I wouldn't hear of it. He shouldn't be alone."
"And you're not sleeping well due to worry," Wally observed.
Mary sighed. "Yes." She frowned. "I'm not trying to borrow trouble, but I can't help it. He's been through so much." She went over to the cot, gazing down at George. "He's so frustrated that he can't be up walking because of the dizziness. He can't even sit in a chair much right now, and his wheelchair is worse, because there's no support for his head. And the longer he's not up and walking, you see, the longer it will take for him to build back to where he was. He said the doctors told him yesterday it should get better in 'weeks,' however long that is, but after he told me that, I talked to both Dr. Clarkson and his mother and pressed them. They both said yes, it is usually weeks, but it could be months. Of course, I'm not going to tell him that. It will probably be weeks. But the thought it could be months . . . that's what made it hard to sleep last night."
"I'm so sorry, m'lady."
Mary looked up, smiling. "Well, I'm not going to worry about it right now. Hopefully, he's still asleep. I'm going to slip back into bed and have a doze."
"Very good, m'lady!"
Mary leaned down, caressing George's head, then left the nursery. She yawned again as she turned the doorknob and entered their bedroom, but was suddenly wide awake as she took in the scene:
Matthew was propped up in bed, his right hand in a large bowl of ice resting on his lap. Bates was sitting next to the bed, a towel in one hand, a gauze roll in the other. Anna was standing next to Mary's dresser, holding a small bowl, rubbing the wall with a cloth.
Mary crossed the room. "What on earth? Did you get out of bed?"
Matthew looked at Mary sheepishly, lifting his hand. "I'm afraid my hand had an encounter with that wall," he confessed, inclining his head. "Sorry about the uh . . ." He couldn't bring himself to finish: blood stain.
"The water and baking soda have done the trick, sir," Anna smiled.
Mary shot a look at Anna, then sat down on the bed, nodding to Bates. He handed over the towel and gauze.
"How long has his hand been in the ice?" Mary asked, ignoring Matthew.
"About fifteen minutes, m'lady," Bates responded. He picked up a bottle of antiseptic from the bedside table, passing it to Mary.
"Thank you, both," Mary nodded. "We'll ring." Bates and Anna retreated without a word.
Mary sighed, as she took up her husband's hand from the bowl of ice and started to dry it on the towel.
"Oh, Matthew."
.
The days, especially the first days, after his fall had been difficult, although not without humorous moments. Double vision; aphasia—the inability to retrieve the right word; perseveration—asking the same question over and over; anxiety; the inability to remember what he'd just been told—causing more anxiety. All normal with a concussion, Clarkson and Isobel assured them, but so frustrating for Matthew—and for Mary. The good news—the best news—was that, even though he'd had bruising under his eyes and at his temple, he hadn't needed surgery to relieve pressure from the edema, although it was touch and go in the first hours.
The bruising wasn't the only thing hard to look at. His poor, shorn head! Mary was waiting to tell him, but he had figured it out himself the day after the fall.
His questions started again as soon as he awoke and looked around the private hospital suite, a privilege of being a Grantham, curtains pulled against the bright daylight.
"Is this a hotel?"
"No, darling, you're in hospital."
"Right, right." He frowned. "I don't remember what happened."
"You slipped on ice on the front step and hit your head, and you have a concussion." Mary related patiently, as she had over and over the day before.
"Right. Yes. Where . . . was I . . . was I . . . was I . . ."
"Where were you going? You were going into the office, even though it was closed for Easter Monday, to leave some papers, so you wouldn't have to go today, because Paul Phillips was coming today for your physio."
"Right. Is he coming?"
"No, no, I called yesterday and explained what had happened." She began stroking his head. Matthew reached up and stopped her hand.
"That . . . that . . . that doesn't . . .feel . . ." He frowned, rubbing his head. "My hair. What . . . what . . . what . . . my hair?"
Mary sighed. "What happened to your hair? I'm afraid, darling, that it's protocol to cut the hair quite short on patients with a head injury, so that the head can be shaved quickly in case surgery is needed. Which, happily, you didn't need." She smiled, giving him a tender kiss. But he wasn't diverted.
"But my hair!" he repeated, rubbing his hand back and forth over his head. "I want . . .you know. . . you know . . . bring a . . . a . . . a . . . that thing, that thing, you know that thing that you can see things."
Mary frowned, then understood. "Ah, you mean a mirror?"
"Yes, exactly! A mirror. Bring a mirror."
Mary looked around the hospital room, then went into the ensuite bathroom, coming back a moment later with the mirror that hung above the sink. She gave Matthew a skeptical look, but he gestured for her to bring it over. With a sigh she turned it to face him.
"Good God!"
"It could be worse," she soothed.
"How?"
"Well, they could have shaved it. At least they left you something," she teased.
Matthew shook his head. "I look like a convict." And they both burst out laughing.
By the end of a week in hospital, when Clarkson released him, his symptoms had abated, except for dizziness and headache when he tried to read or was in bright light. And poor sleep. He wasn't sleeping well. But he was on the mend.
At least that's what Mary thought until she found him with a swollen hand with bleeding knuckles stuck in a bowl of ice.
.
"Oh, Matthew."
"I didn't break anything—look!" He raised the hand and carefully closed and opened his fingers.
Mary shook her head as she dried his hand, then examined the damage—swollen with scraped knuckles. Not too bad. She opened the bottle of antiseptic, poured some on the towel, and then started dabbing the wounds, perhaps none too gently.
"Ow!" Matthew cried, making a face. "That hurts!"
"Does it?" Mary asked blandly. She looked up from his hand, raising a brow. "Good! What on earth were you thinking getting out of bed? What happened? I guess you fell against the wall? Because you were dizzy, which is why you aren't supposed to get out of bed!"
"I did fall against the wall, but . . . never mind. Yes, I fell against the wall."
Mary frowned, turning his hand from side to side, then looked up at Matthew, narrowing her eyes. "You didn't do this falling against the wall, did you? Did you?"
Matthew hesitated, then admitted, "No. I fell against the wall, and then I punched it."
Mary rolled her eyes and started wrapping his hand. "So, let me guess. You got out of bed because you're so frustrated at being stuck in bed, but then, because you were dizzy, you fell against the wall, and then you hit the wall because you were so angry that you had lost your balance?"
"That's close enough."
Mary set the bowl of ice on the floor, then crawled into bed. "I'm afraid in this case, 'close' is not enough." She took up his good hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Tell me more," she asked.
Matthew exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "All right. I had a dream. In the dream, I thought I'd be starting physio at the hospital again, but Yardley said I'd been in bed too long, and I wouldn't be able to walk, not ever. Said I'd get used being in a wheelchair again. It was so real, Mary."
"Go on," she prompted softly.
"When I woke up, the dizziness wasn't bad, so I got out of bed to prove to myself that I can still walk. I took couple of steps, but then things started spinning, and I fell against the wall. And then I looked at my chair, and I . . .I," he held up his hand, "did this." His mouth tugged up in a rueful smile. "Stupid, I know."
Mary's heart clenched. It could be months. "I should say, yes, very stupid," Mary whispered, kissing his forehead tenderly, "but no, not stupid." She pulled one of the pillows from behind his head and tossed it to the floor, then slid down next to him, her arm coming round. "And, of course, you can walk." Please, don't let it be months. Please.
He brought her hand to his lips, then squeezed her hand. "You put up with so much."
"Hush."
He stared up at the ceiling, his mouth working. "It's just . . . it's like Amiens all over again."
Mary reached for his face. "What do you mean?"
"The not remembering. Waking up and not being who you were, and you just can't believe it because you can't remember why."
Her arms came around, and she held him tight. "Remember when I was so scared when we thought George would come early? I'd say, 'tell me again.' And you would."
He smiled, nodding. "All right, tell me again."
"Of course, you can walk. Of course, you can."
Please, don't let it be months. Please.
.
Mary looked up from the copy of Punch and glanced at the clock, then finished reading aloud the new P. G. Wodehouse story, which didn't disappoint.
The day after his attempt at walking, they were sitting in the library, near the French doors to the flagstone terrace. Or rather, Matthew wasn't sitting, he was lying on a wicker "chaise longue" style wheelchair that supported his extended legs and with a back high enough to support his head.
It had been Sybil's idea when she heard yesterday about his frustration at being still confined to bed.
Look, Mary, I'm sure there must be one or two of these chaises in storage at the hospital. You remember them, don't you? The patients used them here at the house, too. They're really like a chaise longue on wheels, so that the patient's legs are supported when extended. Also, the back is higher than a wheelchair, and it reclines. It would get Matthew out of bed, in fact, he could be wheeled outside.
Mary thought it was a brilliant idea and loved the thought of what some fresh air would do to raise Matthew's spirits. She had called Clarkson immediately, who said, indeed, there were a few of these chairs in storage and thought it would be just the thing, he should have thought of it himself. Late in the afternoon, a chair, newly cleaned and oiled was delivered to the Abbey.
Unfortunately, a trip outside that next morning had to be postponed due to the "April showers" that had started up just after Matthew, in pajamas and dressing gown, was settled in the chair, a pillow behind his head and a rug covering his legs and feet. The rain would turn to drizzle, but just when one thought it would clear, it would pick up again, thwarting any thought of moving him outside. They had parked the chaise in front of the doors so he could at least have a bit of an outside view.
"That was a corker," Matthew observed, still chuckling at the clever humor.
"It certainly was." Mary closed the magazine, then rose from the ottoman she had moved next to his chaise and went over to the French doors, shaking her head at the dismal scene outside. "It's not letting up," she observed with a sigh.
"Ah, well, maybe later," he smiled, his cheerful response belying his disappointment. He had so looked forward to being outside after so many days of confinement. But he certainly wasn't going to complain. "Just being out of bed and the bedroom is a marvelous change."
"Darling, I have to nurse George. He's been a bit colicky, so it might take longer than usual," she said apologetically. "I hate to leave you alone, but Papa and Tom are out on the estate, Mama has gone to Ripon on some errands, and Sybil is at her monthly appointment with Clarkson. I'll have Bates come sit with you."
"No, no, that's not necessary. I'll be fine." Mary looked at his still-bandaged hand and raised a brow.
"Don't worry, I won't try to get up," he laughed. "I promise."
"You'd better not," she said severely, then leaned down, kissed his cheek, and left. (She immediately found Bates and asked him to check in on Matthew every 10 minutes or so until she returned.)
Matthew watched her go, then looked back out the French doors and made a face. No, it wasn't letting up. He started flexing and then pointing his feet, tightening his leg muscles as he did so, one of the exercises he could do while confined to bed. Anything to slow the deterioration of his muscles. After three sets of ten, he stopped and reached for the magazine, idly flipping through it but not attempting to read. Finally, he closed the magazine and his eyes. The sound of the rain was quite soothing.
He dozed, his chest rising and falling gently, never noticing Bates check in on him twice. However, a familiar voice in the hall outside the library door roused him.
"Now, I don't want to disturb him if he's sleeping, Carson."
"Let me check, m'lady."
Matthew could hear the butler's soft tread approaching him from behind, and he turned his head, calling out. "I'm awake, Carson."
Carson came to the side of the chair. "Very good, sir. The Dowager Countess is here."
"I'm afraid she'll be disappointed. Mary's still seeing to George, and everyone else, I'm sure you're aware, is out and about at the moment.
"Yes, sir. I did inform her. She's here to see you"
"She is?" He pushed himself up a bit and straightened the lap rug. Out of habit, he started to run his fingers through hair that was still far too short to need tending, exhaling in exasperation at the thought of what he looked like. And then there was his bandaged hand. . . "Well, please see her in."
"I'm already in," Violet announced, coming forward.
"Cousin Violet! How good of you to come see the invalid! And in this weather, too," Matthew smiled.
"It did look as if it were clearing when I left, but apparently not," she observed as the library windows shook from a gust of wind. Violet leaned on her cane taking stock of the "invalid," as Carson set an chair next to the chaise.
"Thank you, Carson," Violet acknowledged, lowering herself. "We'll have some tea, I think," looking at Matthew.
"That would be lovely," he agreed.
"Very good, m'lady, sir."
Violet watched Carson leave, then turned to Matthew, shaking her head. "Oh, my, my. Dear boy, you look quite beaten up,"
"I looked worse. The bruises have faded, and my hair's a bit longer."
"Yes, Mary warned me."
"It's very good of you to come."
"I wanted to come sooner, but thought I should wait until after your examination at Royal York. I would have come yesterday, but Mary said that it wasn't a good day." She inclined her head. "She said you had hurt your hand?"
Matthew held up his bandaged right hand. "Yes. I'm afraid I punched a wall."
"Oh, dear. I hope you're over that." She looked rather impressed.
Matthew nodded, his mouth pulling up. "I think so, yes."
Violet took in the chaise. "And this is quite a contraption. I remember soldiers using them during the war. It's more comfortable for you, I take it, than your wheelchair.?"
"Yes, very much so. Still having trouble with dizziness when I'm sitting up, you see. This gets me out of bed. We were hoping I could go outside today, but. . ." he gestured at the windows and gave a shrug.
"Ah, well," Violet nodded. "April showers bring May flowers."
"Yes, and do you know," he smiled, "Mary told me I said exactly that when I came round the day of the fall. I don't remember saying it, but then, I don't remember the fall or the day after. She keeps saying it when I feel gloomy to remind me that I'll get better. I'll remember you said it, too."
"That's the spirit." Violet nodded. "Yes, and hair grows fast!"
"Let's hope so!" Matthew laughed.
Carson entered carrying the tea tray followed by Sybil.
"Matthew, you're up! And Granny! Well, this is jolly!" She kissed Violet's cheek. "Carson," she directed. "Help me turn this battleship of a wheelchair, so we can sit closer to the fire. Here, Granny." She assisted her grandmother over to a chair near the fireplace, moving another aside as Carson pushed Matthew closer. "There we go!" she said, positioning herself on the hearth and spreading her skirt.
"All went well at your check up?" Matthew asked, accepting a cup from Carson.
"Very well! The baby's growing on schedule, and the heartbeat is strong. Thank you, Carson." She took a welcome sip of hot tea. "And I'm fit as a fiddle—although rather damp!"
"Thank goodness at least one of you girls has escaped the nausea." Unlike Mary and Edith, Sybil had only had mild morning sickness, and only during her first trimester.
The front door in the great hall opened, and there was a bit of a commotion, followed by a slam as the door shut and the windows rattled again. Carson hurried out.
"Ah, I imagine the rest of the troops have arrived," Granny observed.
And shortly after, Cora entered the library, followed by Carson carrying a tray with more teacups, which he began to set out on a sideboard.
"Goodness!" Cora exclaimed, tucking bits of damp hair up. "Matthew! So good to see you up. And Mama!" She leaned down and gave her mother-in-law's cheek a peck. "Whatever possessed you to come out on a day like this?
"I came to see Matthew, and it seems we all underestimated the weather."
"I certainly did! Move over, Sybil!" she directed, nudging her daughter with her hip and standing next to her on the hearth. "How was your examination? Thank you, Carson."
Sybil gave her report a second time. "It sounded like Tom and Papa came in with you?"
"They did, but they needed to change out of their boots and—well, here they are! That was fast!" she observed as her husband and Tom joined them.
"Matthew, my boy! I'm sure this is an improvement." He clapped Matthew on the shoulder. "Any room for me on that hearth?"
"Come on, Sybil, we'll let the men have a turn at drying out!" Cora laughed, tugging at Sybil's arm.
"Hey, I'm still damp," Sybil grumbled with a smile, as she came over to her husband and kissed his cheek.
"Not as damp as I am." Tom turned to Matthew. "Good to see you out of the bedroom," he grinned. "How's the hand?"
"Not too bad. The swelling's down, and I have a reminder not to get ahead of myself," Matthew replied, his mouth pulled up in a rueful smile.
Tom nodded sympathetically, then took his place next to Robert. "How was the check up," he asked Sybil, trying not to look anxious, but not quite succeeding.
Sybil gave her report a third time. "So, you can relax now, Tom. He's nervous before every exam," she added, giving her husband a tender smile.
"As was I," Matthew nodded.
"Are we invited to this party?"
All heads turned to the library door as Mary entered, cradling a sleeping George face down in her arms.
Everyone began shushing, but Mary laughed quietly, shaking her head. "He's fast asleep, but just wouldn't sleep in his cot. He's having a spell of colic, and the poor thing needs pressure on his tummy—that's why Wally told me to hold him like this. I had him face down on my lap, and then," she smiled at Matthew, "it occurred to me that someone else had a lap that was available."
Matthew set his cup and saucer aside. "Someone certainly does," he agreed happily.
Mary handed over a soft blanket, which Matthew spread over the woolen lap rug, then carefully laid George face down on his father's lap, making sure his tummy was pressed against one of Matthew's thighs. The infant gave wee cry and wiggled a moment, then settled. Mary straightened up, looking around at her silent family. "It's all right to talk," she assured them. "In fact, Wally says it's good to talk normally around a sleeping baby—they won't wake up as easily."
Everyone chuckled quietly, clucking at how sweet the baby was, and then the conversation picked up again.
Matthew, smiling tenderly, tried to pay attention but really couldn't, his eyes fixed on his sleeping son. He rubbed circles on George's back, and even though the rain now was coming down harder than ever, he felt as if the sun had at last come out.
.
Thank God, it had, finally, started to get better. At first slowly, the dizziness lessening day by day allowing him to sit up longer and longer. And then suddenly, just over a month after his fall, it was gone. After Clarkson had come by and examined him—It appears the swelling has resolved—he made the trek again to Royal York, and Carroll and Yardley confirmed the diagnosis and approved his beginning physio with Paul Phillips as soon as possible. But very gradually, Mr. Crawley, very gradually. You must be patient. And, no, Yardley, had been quite sure that he wouldn't need the braces.
Two days later, Matthew, dressed in his khakis, wheeled himself into the physio room to wait for Phillips. It seemed months, not weeks since he'd been here for a session. He stared at the end of the parallel bars, so tempted to try to stand on his own. But he had promised Mary he'd behave. You must be patient.
There was a knock, the door opened, and Paul Phillips walked in, smiling broadly in greeting.
"Well, this is a red-letter day, Mr. Crawley!"
"It certainly is!" Matthew returned as they shook hands.
"You've been keeping up with your exercises with Bates, the ones I set you to in bed?"
Matthew nodded. "Yes. Twice a day."
Phillips smiled. "Good. Then let's get right to it." He went over to a cabinet and opened a drawer, withdrawing a padded belt. "Now, sir, I know how you hate using this, but—"
Matthew held up a hand. "No objections today. I promised Mary I'd behave, and I don't want any chance of a setback." He raised his arms slightly, and Phillips secured the belt around his waist, then wheeled him to the bars.
"Now then," Phillips began. "You're going to feel what you've lost. But that's all right. Don't let it discourage you. We'll just keep at it. Right?" He took hold of the belt
Matthew licked his lips. "Right." He moved to the edge of the seat and reached up, gripping the bars, then leaned forward and tried to pull himself standing, but couldn't. Tried again.
"Third times the charm," Phillips encouraged.
It was.
"That's the ticket!" Phillips exclaimed, as Matthew stood, swaying.
"You helped me up," Matthew muttered.
"I swear, I didn't," Phillips responded, but then tightened his grip on the belt and clutched the back of Matthew's shirt.
"My legs are like jelly." He really thought he might collapse.
"It's all right, it's all right. Getting your sea legs. Yes, steady on, steady on. How's your head? Any dizziness?"
Matthew exhaled. "No, no." He took a step. Then another.
"There you see, you're doing fine, sir." Phillips smiled
Matthew looked over his shoulder at his physio therapist. "Matthew. Please call me Matthew. And if I may—Paul?"
Phillips's smile broadened. "Yes. Certainly."
Matthew took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and tightened his grip on the bars. "All right, then, Paul. Let's give it a go."
.
"Matthew, I think you need, to sit down and rest a bit."
"I don't."
Paul tightened his grip on the belt around Matthew's waist and stopped walking. "I say you do."
Matthew stopped. "Fine. Fine," he agreed testily. He pointed with a crutch to the bench under the Lebanon cedar. "Over there."
They had been walking outside on the gravel drive around the Abbey. After a week and a half of sessions with Paul, Matthew had grown sick of the physio room and walking up and down the corridor of their suite of rooms using the elbow crutches.
"I want to try walking outside," he declared after they had made their umpteenth turn up and down.
Phillips hesitated. "Matthew, I know this is utterly boring—."
"You're damn right!" Matthew glared at him. Boring, frustrating, agonizingly slow. His first sessions only half an hour, gradually building up to an hour and a half. They were going to try for even a bit longer today, but if he had to walk that corridor again, he was sure he'd go mad.
Phillips laughed. "All right. Better you try it with me than after I leave."
Matthew snorted, and they made their way to the door that opened to the great hall. Phillips started to open the door, but Matthew stopped him. "You can take off the belt."
Phillips shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't."
"Dammit, Paul! I don't need it."
"Dammit, Matthew, I get to decide that. You just don't want anyone to see you wearing it. Admit it."
Matthew exhaled through pursed lips. "Yes. You're exactly right."
Paul considered a minute. "All right. I'll take it off. But once we're outside the front door, on it goes."
Matthew had started to protest, but seeing that Paul meant what he said, gave up. "Thank you."
It seemed to take forever to cross the hall, but to Matthew's huge relief, no one was about. Once outside, on the step that had been his undoing, they paused, and Paul secured the belt again. Matthew made a face but said nothing as he carefully negotiated the one step.
"I don't need it," he stated obstinately, then set his crutches and began to walk.
.
"I'll sit there."
Paul eyed the route they would have to take to get to the Lebanon cedar. "We're closer to a bench on the terrace."
Matthew shook his head. "No." He lifted his stick again, pointing. "No, there. Let's go."
"Now, sir—Matthew—that's—."
"That's where I'll sit," Matthew finished, giving him a stubborn look.
Paul gave up. "Right."
They slowly made their way from the path across the uneven lawn to the bench, Matthew placing his crutches carefully before taking a step, the trip taking more than twice as long as it would have before his fall. With Paul supporting him, he lowered himself heavily, exhaled as he set the crutches aside, then took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face.
Paul looked out over the dales, the rolling green decorated with patches of blue and white bluebells that marked May in Yorkshire. "I see why you wanted to rest here," he observed, smiling in appreciation. "Stunning view."
"Yes. Yes, it is." Matthew leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly he pointed toward a beech copse.
"Look," he said softly.
A mother fox and two kits emerged from the trees. "Mary and I saw a mother and her kits a year ago."
Paul smiled in appreciation. "I imagine that's the same mother with a new family," he observed.
They watched as the animals followed the stream, then disappeared over a hillock. Matthew continued to stare out at the dales, his body rocking slightly; Paul waited.
Matthew reached down and plucked a blade of grass, then said quietly, "I almost stumbled twice walking over here." He turned his head to look back at Paul. "I guess you know that."
Paul nodded. "Yes, but you caught yourself."
"You caught me."
"You caught yourself, and I was holding on just in case."
Matthew shook his head. "I'm sorry I've been in such a mood today. I don't know . . . I feel . . . I was desperate to go outside, but it hasn't helped. I feel like this is never ending." He threw the blade of grass away and plucked another. "I've been trying to walk for a year, and I was!" He inclined his head the way they had come. "Last November, I came home and walked from the drive here to Mary, sitting on this bench. I used my sticks, not crutches! And I didn't stumble. Not once. I'd been walking during the day with one stick for weeks. And the last thing I remember before the fall is walking from my dressing room to our bed—without my sticks! And now here I am, trying to walk again, and . . ." He shook his head. "It's like I'm Sisyphus pushing that damn rock." He exhaled heavily. "At least, last winter, we had 'the list.' Always a new challenge."
"And if we go through the list again, it's just going to feel like pushing the same rock, isn't it?"
"Yes," Matthew sighed.
Paul thought a moment, then cocked his head. "What if there were something on the list that we didn't get to?"
Matthew frowned. "What do you mean? We did everything—." He stopped, his mouth tugging up. "No, we didn't, did we?"
Paul clapped Matthew's shoulder, smiling. "No, we didn't."
.
"Granny's steps?" Mary exclaimed in surprise, climbing into bed. "That was on your list?"
"Yes," Matthew nodded. "It was." He winced as he tried to move onto his side to face her. He ached from the day's work with Paul, but it was a good ache. It told him he was making progress.
"Of all the things you'd want to do—." She stopped, giving him a tender look as she remembered. "Oh. Yes, yes. The day we told Granny we were getting married, and you had to stay in the car."
.
They were soon in front of the Dower House. "Here we are, then," Branson announced. But no one moved as they contemplated the several steps that led to the front door.
"It's been so long since I've visited, I'd quite forgotten the steps," said Matthew lightly.
"Sir, we could ask her ladyship's butler to help me carry you up in the chair," suggested Branson. "I'm afraid the stoop is too narrow for me to place the chair and carry you to it," he added apologetically.
"I'm not sure the man's up to it, to be honest," replied Mary, vexed with herself for not thinking about the steps ahead of time.
"Well, then, I could bring the chair into the entrance hall, sir, and then carry you up to it. No trouble with that at all," Branson offered.
Mary looked at Matthew. "Darling, why don't you wait in the car? We don't even know if Granny's here. Or she might be resting. If she's here and up, I'll tell her our news, and I'll let her know you're here, too, but will come up another time."
Matthew smiled in appreciation. "If you don't mind, that might be best." He was grateful and for more than just avoiding the steps. He was suddenly nervous about her grandmother's reaction, and it might be better just to hear about it. And, if he were honest, he was starting to tire.
Branson opened her door, handing Mary out. She came around to Matthew's side, opened the door and leaned in. "Don't look so worried," she whispered, "Granny always wanted us to marry." She gave his cheek a kiss, then ran up the steps and was quickly ushered in.
.
"Yes. Something I was most keen to accomplish."
"How many steps are there? Five?"
"Six, actually, although the first step is only a couple of inches off the ground."
Mary frowned as she pictured the scene. "And they're steep, with no rail. Matthew—"
"Yes," he interrupted, "which is why it was something we couldn't tackle right away. We felt I was finally ready to try working on it in late December but waited until after Christmas and New Year's. We planned to go there one day to practice, when I knew Granny was coming here to tea, but the weather was foul. The next week, when she was going to Mother's, was a day I had to go into the office. And the next week, I wasn't going anywhere because someone was past her due date," he grinned, tapping her nose. "And then George was born, and I just forgot about it. And I was concentrating on walking more and more with only one stick, or none."
"Which you did, and you will do again," Mary affirmed with a nod and a kiss.
"Thank you, sweetheart. I've been in a funk—which I'm sure you've noticed—," Mary kissed him again, "but this gives me something to work towards, and it's made such a difference, really, it's like a fog has lifted."
"It has," Mary nodded, holding his eyes. "I can see it."
He kissed her hand. "Not that I'll be able to try anytime soon, and you know Paul, he won't let me try until I'm ready."
"You'll get there, darling," Mary said softly.
"Yes, I will," he smiled, pulling her toward him. "What is it you—and Granny—always remind me? May flowers."
.
It was a glorious day in early June when Trent pulled up in front of the Dower House. He opened Mary's door; Paul opened Matthew's, ready to assist if needed—but he wasn't. Matthew lifted his legs out, then grasped both sticks in one hand and held onto the door with the other and pulled himself up. Taking a moment to get his balance, he shifted a stick to the other hand and began to walk toward Granny's steps.
.
The sessions with Paul and with the therapy equipment at Royal York had paid off: he had regained his most of his strength and mobility. Of course, he was behind where he would have been before the fall. Although he no longer used crutches, he still needed two sticks and was far from trying walking with one, much less to walk unaided. Still, it was great progress, and he knew eventually he'd recover what he'd lost. And then there were the stairs.
Matthew and Paul hadn't wasted any time. The day after their talk on the bench, they were at the servants' stairs at the back of the corridor, Paul holding onto the belt, of course, and for once Matthew didn't grumble. It was a hard slog, but every day it got easier, until finally Paul took off the belt, and Matthew managed to get up six stairs on his own.
But the servants' stairs, with a wall to rest against if needed, weren't the Dower House stairs. Then began a conspiracy—all Mary's inspiration—between Mary, Cora, Isobel, and Collins, Violet's lady's maid. Whenever there was an invitation to tea, Collins would call Mary when Violet left, and Matthew and Paul would drive over to practice. When Violet left to return home, a call was made to Collins, who let Matthew and Paul know they needed to stop.
But the best practice session had happened just two days prior, a week after Edith had her baby, a healthy boy. All the ladies were invited over to tea and to have a visit with the newborn, giving Matthew and Paul the time that they needed to make sure Matthew was ready. And he was.
.
Matthew, Mary, and Paul stood at the bottom of the steps. The curtain to the right of the door flicked open, then quickly shut, indicating that Collins was watching. Granny knew only that Mary was coming to tea.
"All right," Matthew nodded. "Let's give it a go." He raised his foot to the short first step, started to bear weight, brought it back down, then placed it again in a different spot.
Paul nodded. "Good. The step's more even there."
Mary reached for his arm. "Shouldn't Paul go up with you?"
Matthew started to answer, but Paul interjected. "He doesn't need me. I promise you, I wouldn't let him do this alone if he did."
"Paul will catch me, if I fall," he assured her seriously.
"What? Oh, you!" She slapped his arm when he no longer could suppress his grin. "You shouldn't tease me like that!"
Matthew leaned over and pecked her cheek. "Sorry, darling. I couldn't help it." His mouth pulled up in that way that always made her melt. "Why don't you go on up? I always walk better when I'm walking to you, you know."
Mary rolled her eyes, but couldn't repress a pleased smile, and climbed the steps. However, looking down at him, she shook her head. "This isn't better."
"Well, it is for me!" Matthew returned cheerfully, gazing up at her before getting down to business.
"Careful, careful," she admonished.
He was careful as he slowly placed his sticks and began his ascent, step by step, until he joined her at the top. Mary squeezed his arm, as Collins opened the door. "Be right back. Don't go anywhere!" And she disappeared inside.
Matthew made sure of his balance, then set a stick against the door frame, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face.
"You did it!" Paul exclaimed. "Not that there was any doubt that you would."
Matthew started to reply, but the door opened, and there was Granny, Mary, and Collins behind her.
"Oh, my dear boy," Violet exclaimed, leaning on her cane, shaking her head in amazement, her eyes wide and glistening.
"Cousin Violet! It's June, but I bring you May flowers—metaphorically speaking that is!"
It took her a moment to remember their conversation from weeks ago, then nodded, smiling. "You do, indeed. Well, done!" She cocked her head. "And your hair has grown enough that you look quite respectable again!" Everyone laughed.
Violet looked down the steps. "And who is this?"
"Paul Phillips, my physio-therapist. He's the reason why I'm standing at the top of your steps. He's also how I'll manage to go down—I'm not ready to try that by myself yet."
"Well then, Mr. Phillips, you must join us for tea."
"Thank you, m'lady," Paul smiled, and he started up the stairs.
.
Mary closed her book as Matthew entered their bedroom. He paused, set a stick aside next to her dresser, then continued on with one stick, slowly, carefully to their bed.
"Darling!"
"Yes, look at me showing off," he grinned. "I should be too tired to try this, but I'm not."
Mary pulled back the covers, and he sat down, then pulled himself back into bed. He sighed as she drew up the duvet. Not too tired, but it did feel so good to be horizontal.
"You've accomplished a lot today," Mary observed softly, combing his hair with her fingers.
"I have. And it's made such a difference. I know it's silly, but it feels like I climbed a mountain, not six steps."
They kissed, then kissed again. And again, long and deep.
"You're sure you're not too worn out?" Mary asked solicitously as she moved on top of him.
"Oh, my love, quite sure," he assured her softly, then reached up and turned out the light.
Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are like Christmas!