A few weeks had passed since her father's death. Since then, Mary had been invited to several parties, as the new Countess. She had heard so many condolences and sympathies. She had attended one shooting party, and was complimented on how much like her father she was.
"You're a great shot. Probably good at riding just like him." This was from a man that was ancient and had known her grandfather as a young man.
"Yes."
"Come back with me, my child. This awful mist is getting into my bones. What a damnable climate we have."
"It does the same with my husband. That's why he wasn't able to come. I completely understand."
"Yes. I've heard about that. It is quite unfortunate." But Mary was too caught in her grief to retort back. They left the others and started back to the estate. "Your mother's having a hard time of it, I hear." A wave of anger washed over Mary, wanting to remind this man that Rachel wasn't her mother. She never had a mother. But when the man added, "Misses your father dreadfully." She realized just how much Rachel was hurting too. "I liked your father so much. Always a kind man."
"He was very kind. We all loved him."
"Yes." His wife, the marchioness said, a lot of people did." But the words felt empty. They all knew her father had been a difficult man for most people to get along with.
She was only able to make it to one of the parties, not wanting a repeat of that, but had to come home early due to stomach ache. Rachel no doubt had felt the sting of betrayal that Mary had been invited, and probably felt as if she didn't exist. Mary felt that Rachel blamed her somehow. Was she giving her 'looks' every time she passed her. She thought that she and her step-mother had gotten on alright. Maybe it had just been for her father's sake.
Maybe it was her feeling of quilt that was making her have the stomach aches.
Mavis, the young maid, knocked on the bedroom door, then opened it. Since her father's death the maid had grown close to Mary in a short amount of time, and Mary enjoyed her company in a strange way, though she had been the one to deliver the dreadful news; not how she imagined her husband being announced as the new Earl and she the countess. She had always dreamed of this, though sometimes she felt like she wanted to curl up into the sheets and hope this new existence would disappear. But she couldn't. She was Lady Mary, and she could not neglect her duties as a wife and mother just because she was a countess, like her own mother had done. It was a childish and irrational fear that this would change her and Matthew. He would never let this change him.
She'd get out of bed. Once she felt better. She tried to move to get up, but her stomach lurched in protest. But unfortunately, not today.
"I'm sorry Mavis, I'm not feeling up for breakfast." She placed the pillow back over her head, wanting to scream into it.
"It's noon my lady." Mary lifted the pillow. Already? "I brought you something that will settle with your stomach."
"His lordships request, I take it." She finally was able to sit up, tossing the pillow aside.
"And mine."
"Put it on the table." She had gone to bed last night after she had gotten home. She couldn't be pregnant again, at least she thought, keeping it to herself. Matthew thought it was just her grief, the stress and constant worry. He had his first meeting with the board last night. She'd been 'fussing' over it more than he was. "Thank you, Mavis." She lied back down, facing away from her, pretending to fall asleep so Mavis would leave. But she stayed, tidying up the room. Mavis took Mary's coat with her unbeknownst to Mary.
The telephone rang throughout the day, probably calling to wish the new Earl good luck and offer their condolences. Rachel apparently stayed close to the phone as if glued to her hand. That's when she thought of Rachel's pearl inlayed comb that had been in her family of generations. She had it in her coat pocket last night. Frantically she got up to go over to the vanity where she usually set her coats. It wasn't there. Her hand rested on the empty back on the chair.
Don't panic. Where else would I put my coat? If I wasn't feeling well...
The door.
But it wasn't there either.
The only thing Rachel probably had left of her family. Her father had died last year at the ripe old age of ninety-eight. He wasn't as much a charmer and still stiffer than a board when he went to his grave. He disapproved of her and her father's marriage, as Rachel considered herself and her son unorthodox Jews, none practicing, (though she did take lent and stuck to a Jewish diet of avoiding pork) instead celebrated Christmas and had not set foot in a synagogue since she met her first husband.
Now that she had lost a second one, Mary had to go and lose the one other thing that mattered most to her.
She could have left it at the dance. If that was the case, it would have least been found by now and possibly stolen.
Another reason for her to hate me.
If only Rachel would leave the phone, I could call. Preferably before they called about it.
The door started to open, rather slowly, that she had enough time to dive back into bed and pull the sheets back over her. She could tell it was Matthew, by his breathing. He had come to check on her. She felt him brush her cheek and leave the room.
It was six-thirty when he returned. He came over to her again, his warm hand resting on her back. She slowly stirred, the warmth of it rousing her. She must have fallen asleep.
"Are you alright?" He asked. His face was drawn, dark semi-circles beneath his eyes. She dared to think what she looked like. He no doubt was exhausted from immediately jumping into his duties nonstop, unable to rest. He must allow himself to. He probably had been up all night and day, nearly forty-eight hours, in his dressing room. At least he had made it into his pajamas. She was still in her dress slip. Despite that, she discovered that she felt well rested, like she hadn't for ages.
"I could ask you the same thing. How'd last night go?"
"Fine. More than I expected it would." He went over to his side of the bed and sat down, swinging his legs onto the mattress, she could imagine him doing so. She could tell without looking when he was using his chair to transfer himself to the bed, the differences in movement. Even when he wasn't using the chair, he still got into bed using his upper body first, then would swing his legs in. Though there was no need for it, they were remnants left over from his old days as a complete paraplegic. She and Matthew referred to his condition as being an incomplete one or partially paralyzed.
She heard his breathing coming in huffs and felt the bed move and could hear the mattress squeak. He was flexing his legs, one of his exercises. When he stopped she could sense him move closer towards her. "Are you? Fine?"
"Not really." She rolled over and finally sat up so that they were facing each other.
"What's on your mind, darling?"
"I'm worried about Rachel. She does nothing but sit by the phone all day in her room." She saw the look he was giving her, "This is different. I wasn't feeling well last night and all day today...I lost her hair comb, Matthew. Her hair comb!"
"I'm sure she has more important things..."
"It's been in her family for generations. And I took it without asking. And then I lost it!" She could feel herself almost on the verge of hyperventilating. She never was one to lose her cool.
"Calm. Just breathe." She did. "There, you are. Now, think. Where did you have it last?"
"In my coat pocket. But my coat is gone."
"Do you remember where you left that?"
Mary shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed tight.
"Alright, well...We could call the Danby's, see if you left it there."
"Rachel has been glued to the phone all day as if it's attached to her hand. How could I possibly make the phone call with her listening in? If they call first..."
"She has to go down after getting dressed for dinner, right?" His eyes went to the tray that had been left, it's contents untouched, then flickered back to her.
"I'll try to eat something at dinner. But I can't promise anything. I'm thankful for you and Mavis trying though. She brought it up this afternoon. I had my back to her pretending to sleep so that she would leave but she ended up staying. I could hear her pace back in forth but couldn't see what she was doing. She probably was cleaning the room."
"Well, there you go. Maybe she has your coat."
She was pulling back the sheets, pulling a robe on and putting on her slippers, rushing out of the room. Matthew felt the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. He turned on the bedside light and picked up the book on the table, turning to the page where he had left off.
He got through two pages and a half when she returned.
"Well, did you find it?"
She produced it from behind her back and broke into a grin. It quickly vanished. "How could I have been so stupid?" She placed it down on the vanity. "Why couldn't I have thought of that in the first place?"
"You're not stupid. You got a lot on your mind. It took a while for me to figure it out too."
"How could I possibly do without you?"
He wanted her to come over and kiss him, on the cheek at least but alas she didn't.
"Now we have to think of a way to get it back up to her room without her knowing. She has to change for dinner."
"Right. Just like I said." He looked at the clock. "She'll be up to dress for dinner in a few minutes, when she goes back down, we can return it then."
"You'll come with me?"
"Of course."
Before they were to be expected in the drawing room for cocktails, they crept down the hall toward Rachel's room, hiding behind corners until they were certain no one was around. He'd lean against her or the walls of the alcoves for support.
"Can you imagine trying to hide while you're in a squeaky wheelchair?" They waited till Rachel left her room and was a considerable distance away as she descended the stairs. Before took a step from their cover, something then tugged on both of their pant legs. They looked down to see Andy.
"Are we playing hide and seek?"
"Yes. Yes, we are." Matthew answered.
Mary would thwack him one if she didn't think it would knock him off balance.
"Mummy and daddy are." She corrected. "Go on downstairs and join the others."
"And if you finish all your food and don't say a thing about us hiding, you can join in later."
"Ok. I didn't see a thing." Andy pretended to zip his lips closed and lock them before he ran off. Both parents could see him smiling as he ran, half skipped down the hall.
"Walk, don't run." Matthew called after him.
Mary lightly tapped him, shaking her head disapprovingly.
"What?"
"Only you would bribe our children." She left the alcove and headed to Rachel's room, the door at the end of the hall. He sat down on the bed for a few minutes as she tried to remember where she had taken the comb from. She finally placed it in the vanity drawer, (as she would do with her own combs) hoping Rachel wouldn't notice if it was in the wrong place.
At seven-thirty, they met at the top of the stairs. After she had bathed, and they had both dressed.
"Are you ready?" He asked.
"Absolutely not." She had been waiting for this day, had imagined it many times when she was a little girl, a young woman. But never imagined it like this, so sudden. Papa, how can I do this without you? I wouldn't be. That's the whole point. She had to stop to think how it was drastically different for Matthew. He had been thrown into this life by her father no less, a stranger, an outsider, a distant relative but a relative. He had become much more than those things. He hadn't imagined for it to happen quite like this either, still thinking it was years away.
"You?" She asked.
"Courage, my dear." He offered his arm. She wrapped hers in the crook of his elbow as they walked down the stairs, for the first time together as Earl and Countess.
That was all she needed.
After dinner, the party moved to the drawing room. Lord Ivan, a member of the House of Lords and Parliament was in attendance, mingling with the other guests.
"What's he doing here?" Matthew whispered to Mary.
"I invited him." Rachel stumbled over a bit. "He was one of your father's old friends." She directed at Mary.
"Happy Birthday, mother." Atticus and Rose came over to them, Mary feeling grateful that she was saved. Atticus and Rose had come to visit for the weekend with their children, their daughter and two sons. Their youngest son, Ronald was several months old. "I hope you're feeling better."
"Happy Birthday." Mary added. Rachel's gaze on Mary made her take a step back.
"Better? Am I feeling better? Are you referring to my migraines?"
"Of course." Atticus began.
"We know how you suffer." Rose finished but quickly realized her mistake. "Oh..." Her mouth opened and closed, lost for words.
"Do you?" Her eyes narrowed but then softened. "How kind. Both of you."
Matthew straightened in his chair and went over to pour drinks, by the time Lord Ivan was walking up to the table.
"You pour your own drinks. How peculiar."
"How so?" Matthew was already on guard, with years of experience under his belt.
"You have many servants here." Lord Ivan looked around, then to Matthew. "And one would assume with your condition..."
"Ah, you see I've come prepared for this one. You see, though my condition effects my body, does not mean that my mind is compromised. I don't recall you at the meeting last night, or you'd have known it went exceptionally well, that they'll be talking about it."
"I bet they will." Lord Ivan muttered, not intending it to be heard but Matthew had.
"The board accepted me. They've decided I'm more than fully capable." Matthew's response was a candid way of saying, you don't like it, deal with it.
It was immediately clear that nothing got past Ivan.
"We'll see about that. Allerton Sharp is nothing but sharp, a charlatan. His mind was shot way before he lost his son in the war. They only keep him on out of sympathy I suppose. He only has sympathy for you. If I can find something on him, I can on you. By the time I'm through..." He then spoke loudly for everyone in the room to hear. "Everyone will know that you're incompetent to be a lawyer and unfit to run this county..."
"How dare you speak that way to my son!" It wasn't Isobel but Rachel who had shouted it. She had never raised her voice in her life. Isobel was frozen, speechless. "He can't help the way he is as just as any...cripple born with a clubbed foot."
"Mother!" Atticus's voice was filled with shock and worry, thinking his own mother had lost it. "Mother, you're not thinking clearly."
"No. I am. He is my son. More so in the last few years than you have been." She shot back at him. "You left, to have your own family and conveniently chose to show up after my husband dies." She hiccups.
As Atticus stepped closer to her, he smelled the alcohol on her breath, his mother who didn't believe in it, had never touched a drop in her life. "Mother, you're drunk." He tries to grab her arm to get her to a chair.
"Get your hands off of me..." Rachel pulls away and almost stumbles.
Matthew and Tom make eye contact from across the room. Tom nods and heads toward Rachel. He took her arm gently as she is bent over, staring down at her shoes.
"I said..." She lifted her head up. "Oh, hello Tom." She greeted him as if she was seeing him for the first time, despite him being present since dinner.
"Lady Grantham. Mind if I help you to a seat?" With his words he manages to get her to sit.
"That was quite the scene, wasn't it?" Matthew asked when they had gone up to bed for the night. "I hope she's alright."
"I'm surprised Tom managed to get her to bed."
"He has his ways."
"Tell me how it really went last night?"
He shuffled the pages of the newspaper. He tells her the honest truth. "The board did have an issue with me. Mainly Al Sharp. He softened up and was convinced after I told him how I was wounded. He said his son was...like me but he didn't make it during the transfer to hospital. He barely survived a week."
"I'm so sorry."
"Sympathy doesn't butter no parsnips." As Miss Patmore would always say. "But he said...if his son had lived, he wouldn't have let anyone treat him like he did me."
"I'll have to thank him for that." She yawned, turning over on her side. She fell asleep. He wished she'd curl up and lie her head on his chest.
"I don't think I can eat much more." Mary set down her fork. She and Matthew were taking their usual breakfast in bed. "My stomach's still iffy. If I try to take another bite..."
"You have to, you're as thin as a rail."
"Please, that's how you like me."
"I'd like you any way. But...if you get too thin your face will suffer."
She looked up at him horrified as she recalled how thin he had gotten during the war, how his clothes had hung off of him.
"Are you sure you're not pregnant?"
"I went to the doctors, and he says otherwise."
"Caroline is almost two now." She would be next month. He could hardly believe it. He was still marveled by how much the children grew each year. He would be open to having more if she was. This might be their last chance but if she didn't want to, he'd understand. But there were other, safer measures to take to prevent pregnancy. Thinking about her having this hysterotomy, he felt it an unnecessary and potentially harmful procedure.
"You're not still planning on that operation?"
"Now's not the appropriate time to be asking questions like that!" She snapped back.
"Right. I'm sorry. Actually, no. I'm not."
"What?"
"If you're not planning on any more children, I have the right to know of any procedures..."
"I want more children." After the trays were cleared away, they tried to make love, but he remained limp. "Damn it." Cursing, she rolled off of him.
"We can try again." He put his hand on her shoulder, but she turned away from him, pulling the sheet around her exposed flesh. "We can't do this like last time. We can't make that mistake again, pulling away from each other."
"No." She sat up and moved closer to him.
"You still have me and mother and the children. And don't forget Rachel. She'll be needing you."
"Right now, I need you." She tried again, with no such luck. She flopped back down on her side, even more frustrated than before but this time she did not show it. Her brows furrowed as she thought how it must feel like to him every time. He must feel humiliated. It didn't show on his face. Sex to a man and able to perform were essentially what made them men, at least according to them and society. It could be his age. He would be forty-five in six months; sexual drive began to decrease in men that age (for women it was forty) especially it had already been down with his condition.
Yet, the next morning when they tried a third time, he was successful. They spend a few hours in each other's arms till Anna knocked on the door with their breakfast.
"I can't believe that man was a friend of Cousin Roberts." Rose said over luncheon.
"Some people show their true colors in the end." Matthew informed her. At twenty-six, she was still virtually a young girl to him, still naïve and shielded from the world.
"He was an old friend." They all turned to see Rachel, a bit unsteadily walking towards the table, still fighting a hangover, her eyes straining against the bright sunlight.
"Mother you should be resting." Atticus said.
"I came down to apologize..."
"Forgiven."
Rachel was evidently shocked, feeling she didn't deserve it at least this soon. She raised her son well, of course he would forgive her. A mild, proper English gentleman, that Matthew was. It reminded her of Atticus and how much she had missed him and desperately wanted him here, that she had become angry that he wasn't. She had lashed out. "I didn't mean those words, all except for..." She lifted her head to Matthew, who remained passive for what seemed like several seconds. He then blinked and smiled. Rachel did as well, acknowledging each other.
They continued the rest of the lunch in silence.
Mary invited Charlie, Chuck, Evelyn and Adeline over for tea. She apologized for not being able to get together with them.
"We should have done it sooner but with everything going on..."
Chuck completely understood. Mary continued speaking.
"We saw that you were unable to make it to the funeral. Evelyn came because he is a family friend and Adeline being his wife, it was natural that she came by default..." She eyed their other guests from across the room talking with Matthew, Charlie listening intently to what Evelyn and Adeline were saying but he was more off to the side as if he was out of place. "We sent a letter for you to come. I'm sure you would have gotten it."
"We did get it. Charlie was under the weather." He appeared fine to Mary. "and we didn't really know your father. And Charlie's mother was in town. Griffin is becoming quite the handful."
After Evelyn and Adaline's departure, Matthew made plans with Charlie to have dinner that weekend. He had come over to the two woman to announce it. "We were deciding on having dinner this weekend."
"That would be wonderful!" Chuck said, excitedly.
"Just Charlie and I."
"Oh." Her face momentarily fell, it was a blink, and you'll miss it, "Well that would be wonderful too."
"We figured you'd need the night off." How much had Charlie told him? He obviously read her expression, "If that's not too..."
"No. We have May and her family staying with us to help out." May was Charlie's sister. She had become fond of Matthew for helping her brother and had sent him and his family a Christmas card last year. She had called Mary stunningly brave, and Matthew had been flattered. If it had been back in the real early days, he would think it was meant as an insult and if she had been someone else. Her letters borderline past flattery or that's what it sounded like to him. It reminded him of the letters Mary had written to him for six months in 1916 before he had proposed. He would have to put a stop to them.
They had never met in person as she lived in the States with her husband but now, she was here in England. Could someone fall in love with a faceless stranger? The answer is yes. Such things had happened when a group of young faceless women had written to soldiers in the war, as a way to boast their morale. Perhaps she was having trouble with her husband or was just projecting her brother onto him, her ideal of a preferred outcome of his condition or he was misreading things. He hoped that was the case. He would find a way to stay clear of her and hope he was wrong.
"Alright then."
"Darling are you sure you can manage yourselves?" Mary asked.
"We thought of that actually. We could take Charlie's nurse with us, and I'll bring Molesley. We'll be dinning at the Ritz and booking a room for the night. Separate beds of course. We wouldn't want anyone thinking something's going on between us."
"Oh, Matthew!" Mary, shocked that he would make such a joke, shook her head. When Chuck was looking down at her empty teacup, her head turned away, (secretly not at all happy about their decision.) Mary shot her husband a mischievous gaze.
Isobel never invited Rachel for tea. It must be important, Rachel thought, about the hospital perhaps.
"I appreciate you coming to Matthew's defense."
"But?" She had sensed it something on.
"But he is my son."
"That you have neglected until it was convenient for you when he was injured now since he's recovered..."
"We might agree on some things, but he is not fully recovered. He might never will. But he has his wife and children. That's why I've given them a wide birth."
"You're right that we might agree on somethings but let us not fight Isobel." She had just gotten along with Violet; she didn't want to fall out with more members of the family.
She is right, Isobel thought. It wouldn't be fair on the children, after having lost their grandfather to have their two grandmothers at odds with each other, especially on the holidays. It appeared that Matthew had a close bond with Rachel (than Mary ever had, which was virtually nonexistent) she wondered when, what, and how much he had confided in her.
"The first wave of Jewish immigrants came over in 1881 with the programs of Alexander III in Russia." Isobel wondered where this was going but she listened patiently. "Many were from the polish part of Russia. They would travel to Hamburg then by boat to Hall, more intending to go on to Liverpool and from there America. Some hadn't had the money and hadn't known any English. "Leeds" the name of their destination was the only word they knew. I came over in 1885. I was twenty-two and hardly spoke one word of English." A lifetime ago.
You would have never known. Her accent had faded over time, and she had been hesitant to speak German, (her mother had been German but had grown up most of her life in St Petersburg and had married a Russian) during and before the war, and now saw no reason for it.
"That's when I met Daniel, my first husband. Well, I was invited to a party hosted by the Baum's. The Baum's were not strict orthodox Jews and had lived in Leeds for twenty or thirty years, no children." The strict rules of her religion that had been smothering her like a blanket, had finally lifted, as she discovered that the way the Baum's lived would be the basis on which she would live her life. "They took in Jewish immigrants, taught them how to speak English and find us jobs. We'd even help out during the parties. One such party was how I met Daniel. I just stood there with the bowl of fruit salad, staring, till he smiled at me and took it straight away and started eating!"
"I remember the first time I met Reginald. I was so in love that I was sick with it."
"I can't say that was how it was for me. Yes, I had thought him handsome. When the food was all served and the entertainment began, I went over to speak to him. I discovered he was a few years older than I and had come from the same province that I had. He had escaped his widowed mother and older sisters and younger brother. He had inherited his uncle's fortune. His Uncle had owned a Jewelers where he had been an apprentice. I had learned all this from two young girls that had to translate his English for me. He was obviously very proud and confident of himself that he had learned so many English words in just a few months since his arrival. That's when he invited me to Mrs. Baum's classes, "to better my English." and how beautiful my voice would sound in the language." Mrs. Baum had been teaching English classes for three or four years, but she limited the numbers to those who wished to read and write as well as speak. Since she was sweet on Daniel, she had an opening for me. She was so thrilled when we were to be married a year later."
"Reggie and I were married young as well, I believe I was much younger than you." She had been just shy of eighteen.
"Then you were much smarter than me and wiser. My marriage to Daniel was far from perfect. It turned out to be nothing more but attraction, but I found out too late. For years I tried to have children. It had caused friction between us. Then I finally had Atticus."
Isobel felt her pain on a similar but perhaps deeper level. First there had been the three miscarriages, then Teddy's death at six months, then Emma Elizabeth's stillbirth (so much like Beth's) and then finally she had had her Matthew, her perfect healthy son, whom had scarcely ever been sick. She thought that she would finally be happy, but she had been distant. For the longest time she had been afraid to touch him, to even go near him. Five of her children, gone. She had feared she'd lose him too. But years had gone by, and Matthew had thrived.
When he had been old enough, she had sent him off to school, to keep him safe, when she could have kept him close. Yes, she always had wanted the best for him, hovering over him about it, about her expectations for him, more so than Reggie, had made Matthew a rebellious child and in his teen years. After his father's death he had become the man that he was, until the war, what little left of that man remained. At times he did feel like a stranger, but he was still her son.
"In the end I did love him, in a way, but not the same way I love...loved Robert." Rachel continued, nearly choking on her words, before she tightened her jaw to remain firm. "I fell in love with his family first." When Rose had taken the refugees, that had been displaced since the war, under her wing, everything had come full circle. Then there had been sweet Matthew, as sweet as her Atticus. Maybe she had been clinging to something to feel the void when Atticus had left. Maybe she should stand back a bit now. She couldn't help but be proud of them both, proud that they had found true love the first time, and hopefully last time around. They were marriages that would last. "True love only comes once for some people. I just had to wait longer than most for mine." And it had been the best five years that one could ever ask for.
Charlie greeted him outside the restaurant. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
"Thought I wouldn't show? I'd hate to be predictable."
"What?"
"Nothing. Something Mary says." Matthew muttered. "I hope you weren't out here all this time."
"No. Just came out when I got the word you were arriving. Wanted to keep my word to the Mrs. Let's go inside to the restaurant, shall we? Have a drink, a toast to the good old times."
"The best yet."
"It's no doubt packed because of the Christmas holiday and the eleventh anniversary of the armistice." Charlie's theory was proven to be right. Most of the members of the crowd were ex-soldiers wearing their old uniforms. A man on crutches moved past them, his right trouser leg was empty, the fabric pinned up to below the knee where the limb ended.
He could almost forget that that the war ever happened, despite himself being proof. He took an intake of breath as he looked away, back at Charlie. Matthew suddenly realized that was ok with it.
"I almost lost my leg." Charlie still had his eyes on the man. "The doctors thought they'd have to amputate. Lost my legs, anyway, didn't I?"
"We both went through hell, but we survived."
"But I've found a new job, thanks to my sister."
"That's great! What will you be doing?"
"Her husband's brother works in publishing in New York."
"The great crash hadn't effected it?" The wall street crash of 1929, as it was called. America was still suffering. The stock market crash of October 1929, which sent Wall Street into a panic and wiped-out millions of investors. He had heard horror stories of people leaping off of office buildings. His family were lucky that he had not invested overseas, Robert's stock in the Canadian Railroad company had made him cautious of any overseas dealings. Still, the effects were beginning to be felt all over Europe, some nowhere near the extent.
"No. His family has millions. They're safely cushioned with their own hard made fortune. As long as we retain a budget and the bestselling authors that want to publish. His family is the type that take care of their own and are willing to keep the job open for me."
They would have to keep on a budget as well. Then he was brought out of his thoughts by Charlie's mention of his sister.
"My sister will be thrilled to have me living nearby."
"How is your sister?"
"Feeling better because of Liam, that's her husband. He's improving every day."
"Has he been sick?" There was a clue, a reason May might want to reach out to someone, perhaps as only a friend, someone who would listen, who wasn't family. And the fact that he was faceless to her gave her confidence to confide in him.
"Shell shocked." Matthew went pale. "He was like a zombie for a very long time. It's the memories, you know. They don't go away."
Matthew never thought that someone else would understand. Charlie was not aware that he had gone through something similar, that he himself had felt like a 'zombie' for a long time, until about a year ago.
"So many walking wounded still. Might as well be dead, the life they will have. Well, I really shouldn't say that, should I?"
"We shouldn't say things like shouldn't when it comes to war." Charlie lifts his head curiously because Matthew had said it almost callously. The truth hurt worse when it was said. Some of them would have been better off dead, having no one to care for them and love them. It also reminded him of the dark days when he had wished those dark thoughts. Enough of that now. "That's what my wife says." He quickly recovered.
"She's very wise. My sister is too. Very strong women in our lives to get us through. Most of them are just starting to get their life back." He refers back to the crowd. "Liam lost ten years." For him it's still 1918. "She's convinced that he will make a full recovery. She sends you, her love."
"Does she?"
"To you and your family."
"She sent a Christmas card."
Charlie cut into his steak. "I'm glad we were able to get a room here. But I'm an old client, they were happy to oblige. May and I would stay here whenever she was in London and could afford it. Better than the trenches though, isn't it? I know you understand how I feel. How horrible it was. The constant shelling, the mustard gas, the mud...I saw my men die all around me. My whole battalion. I was the only one to survive." His voice broke on these words.
You're not the only one that's happened to. Matthew had wanted to say. It had happened to him.
"Perhaps we shouldn't be talking about it." Charlie said.
"It's alright. It's better to talk about it, especially with a friend."
"You do manage to cheer me up, you really do."
"Well, I wouldn't be much of a friend now, would I?"
Charlie suddenly sat straight up in his chair. Matthew did the same.
"What is it?"
"A friend of mine just came in. Lieutenant Hawkins."
It couldn't be Lennie Hawkins. Matthew didn't recognize the man. It had been over ten years since he had last seen him. Why risk coming back here for his fraud to potentially be exposed? There was no way of knowing if he was American or not just by looking at him. Even if it was him, others would not recognize him either, he had gained a bit of weight and his hair was thinning. Two women came in, hanging onto each of his arms.
"Is his name Leonard or Lennie by chance?"
"Could be. We never knew each other's first names. Why do you ask?"
"I knew a Hawkins. Still, could be a common name. Is he American?"
"Yes, or he could be Canadian. He never specified."
How likely was it that there was another American named Lennie Hawkins? How many could there be?
"I heard about his actions in the Battle of the Somme. Saved a lot of men, with great risk."
Matthew felt sicker than angry and hoped he hadn't come back to start making up stories again. He could not protect him this time. "So, he told you about his victories, did he?"
"No. I heard it from one of the surgeons at the hospital. He had quite the reputation. Several of his men were under heavy bombardment from the Germans, got them to safety, he carried the first one wounded, even though he was dead. Tried to even go back for a second one."
"I bet he did." Not only had he taken accomplishments that other men but for Matthew's own. Everyone had similar stories but not everyone had been awarded medals, as he had, that he had given to William's father. He would have to go visit the man again sometime. He and Daisy, both visited him last month, a framed picture of William overlooking the sitting room and next to it the Victoria Cross in its own case. Matthew had traced it with his fingers, not taking it out. It was something to be observed as if it were a piece in a museum.
"It just as much yours as it is his." Mr. Mason said.
What he hadn't known was that Mary had visited Mr. Mason that same day. Mr. Mason told her he had left the V.C. to Matthew in his will and hence he hadn't let Matthew draw it up, which Matthew had been understandably upset about when Mr. Mason withdrew his offer to have Matthew write it. Even if they wouldn't allow it, he would give it back to him.
"If he knows...I don't want him to refuse it, I know he will and he might one day come to regret it. It is rightfully his and he should have it. He saved many lives." Mr. Mason had clasped Mary's hands and she had her own tears in her eyes.
At what cost? She had thought.
He had received it for saving his men's lives while they were missing and had taken over a German machine gun nest before they were found. Half of those men had gotten sick and ended up dying or were killed in action later. For the longest time he thought it hadn't made a difference. It had only delayed the inevitable. Now he accepted it. He couldn't have changed things.
"He went on to fight at Ypres in 1917." Charlie continued.
"I was injured at Aras, earlier that year."
"Yes. Your wife's told me about that."
"Did she tell you; I'd gotten fool myself and my men missing for six straight weeks? Ran a foul of a Hun-machine gun nest as they retreated North. Lost several men before I could get a grenade in among them. We were eventually found by reinforcements. Then I lost consciousness and woke up in a base hospital for the better part of the week with nothing but a bad stomach flu to show for it."
"I've heard similar stories. Men single handedly taking over German Machine guns. One such from Hawkins." Of course, he did. Matthew thought. He wouldn't be surprised if some of those tales were fraudulent or exaugurated. War sadly produced opportunists, thinking they had ought to have done more or were too cowardly to take such actions. It didn't surprise him that Hawkins would take credit for what he had done. It was wrong, an utter disgrace, to those who had actually done those things, especially some of those who eventually lost their lives for King and Country. But it didn't bother Matthew as much in the way of Hawkins taking credit for his, because he didn't care much for the notoriety. "I was injured at Passchendaele, but we ended up at the same hospital. Chuck was fortunately the nurse stationed there."
"And that's how you decided that you would become husband and wife." Matthew smiled.
"Not till much later. She and I had been best friends for such a long time." They hadn't decided if a relationship was worth the risk of sacrificing their friendship. "That's how I met Henry. Chuck was the one who actually introduced us, that he had been driving the ambulance that brought me there. I was too out of it when I came in. The more time I was in the hospital, we got on. He was the one to convince them not to take my leg. I don't know how much of a difference it makes now, but at least I can't feel it. The doctor's said that what caused me to crash. They were right, lost my footing on the break. And the rest you know is history."
Matthew wanted to warn him about Lennie. I know I can trust him. "I'd like to speak to you in confidence about something. Can I trust you?"
"You know you can."
Matthew told him the whole truth about Lennie's lies.
"You can't be serious."
"I am. I know it sounds far-fetched. Why would he risk coming back here and facing me again? Do you think there can be more than one Lennie Hawkins?"
"I don't know but it's possible. It's not like John Smith, is it? And you want to be sure if it is him or not?"
"Well, yes. I would like to talk to him. Can you arrange that?"
"I could, I suppose."
"I don't want him to think I'm fixing to oust him. Because I'm not, I assure you that. But if he's continuing with this fraud, I can't protect him."
"I can ask him before we leave if he can dine with us for lunch tomorrow."
As they went up to their room for the night, Matthew was beginning to feel anxious, not only from anticipating the encounter with Hawkins. It was the nightmares. He had to tell Charlie so he would know to expect.
"Charlie, there's something you should know. I still have nightmare sometimes about the war."
"Who doesn't, mate?"
"I mean, not recently but after today, I might. It's not only the nightmares. What you experienced, I've had as well." Matthew paused, hesitating. "Can I trust you?"
"I've said you could."
"What you described what happened to May's husband, something similar happened to me. I haven't had an episode in a few years and before that, five years. I had...have shellshock."
"Jesus. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I've learned to live with it." He turned over to turn out the light. Surprisingly there were no nightmares or episodes. At any time, they could come back. He should not take it for granted.
The next afternoon came and went without Hawkins showing up.
"You didn't tell him that it was me that wanted to meet with him?" Matthew asked.
"No, of course not. He must have recognized you last night when he looked over at our table."
Meaning it had been him after all. That was one less thing he had to worry about.
"I mean you don't look as old as you are. You probably hadn't changed that much in the past ten years."
He hadn't. Mary was always telling him how jealous she was, even though she still looked like most woman in their early thirties, despite being almost forty.
"He's not your problem anymore."
He was right and yet Matthew wanted to know what Lennie was doing here and if he had stopped claiming other soldiers' victories. Probably fleeing the crash, his financial problems, which was just equally punishable by law. That was one chapter in his life that needed to remain closed. There was the Christmas Holidays to look forward to, despite the sobering effect of Robert's death, he was going to make it the best Christmas for his children and his family.
It came as a surprise that his oldest daughter had sought it upon herself to take over that role.
Jo organized a concert on Christmas day, gathering the others at the top of the stairs. "Granny Violet put me in charge of you, so you must do what I say. We're going to walk downstairs orderly, then go down to the library and we will stand in line like I put you yesterday."
"But I'm hungry." Andy wined, rubbing his eye. Nanny took his hand away.
"Now, Master Andrew, you must be careful not to rub your eyes like that before you've washed your hands." Nanny tutted. "Master George is already sick and must stay separated from your father until he feels better."
Andy only pouted. "I want Georgie to come sing with us."
"He can when he feels better. Come on now, don't fuss. Take my hand and we'll go down together." The three-year-old clung to her hand.
Such a baby. Jo thought as she rolled her eyes. "We'll have our Christmas lunch after we've sung."
Morrison, the butler, greeted them in the hallway. He had been with them for a year now, under supervision of Carson. The butler had a sixteen-year-old son, Billy. His mother had left them when he was young, for another man. No one was aware of this but Mary and Matthew. Jo was very fond of him, Billy especially. She would be old enough in another eight years or so. She would get any boy she wanted without the promise of anything, to test if they would be as good enough as papa. No one would be but it would be fun to watch. She loved her papa the most.
"We're going to sing our first Christmas Carol together, Morrison!"
"Yes, Miss Josephine! Lady Grantham, that is your Grandmother Rachel, has told me that luncheon will be served until after. I already moved the piano for you to the library."
"Thank you, Morrison." She took her youngest sibling's hand. "Don't forget to stand in a proper line." She hissed as they arrived at the door, ushering them forward. "Here we are, papa. We're going to sing a Christmas carol for you and Mama."
"How nice, Josephine." Her father smiled at her. "I didn't realize we were going to have a Christmas concert before lunch."
"It's just one song." Jo was becoming worried. "I had to teach them all the words so they could memorize them because they're too little yet."
"How clever of you, Josephine, how clever of all of you actually." She wished he would call her Jo, but she couldn't help but give him a smile.
His eye's swept over his four children. How beautiful they were, his children, with their bright blond and brown hair. Four pair of eyes varying shades of blue and brown stared back at him. He turned his head, looked at Mary, and smiled warmly.
Mary went up to check on George, telling him all about how the concert went. It had only made him sad.
"I wish I could have sung with them."
"I know you love to be a part of everything, and you practiced so hard. Next year alright?" She sat down on the bed and hugged him close. "I know you probably would prefer your father and not the strict parent you're stuck with."
"I don't mind and I'm not so stuck." He said, returning her hug, snuggling closer to her. He fell asleep with his arms around her. He was already feeling better. Then the door opened. It was Clarkson coming to check his progress. Clarkson said his fever had broken but still might be contagious. She knew she would have to decontaminate herself, if she were to be near Matthew.
After she took a bath, she joined Matthew up in the day nursery. It was used more as a playroom now, temporarily being occupied by Rose and Atticus's children to take their naps. Carrie and Andy were the only one who still slept in the night nursery during the night, but they would be transitioning to their own rooms in a few years.
It was relatively empty when she went up, safe for Katie who played quietly, as Ronny slept in one of the cots. Rose and Atticus had decided to stay through the holidays.
"The nannies already wakened them." Matthew explained. "The other's joined them to play outside. Katie didn't want to leave. And Tally figured they ought to let Ronny sleep."
Katie was putting plasters on all her stuffed animals, using a stethoscope to examine their imaginary hearts. Clarkson had given her the stethoscope as an early birthday/Christmas present. This had made the others jealous that they didn't get anything. It first started with Jo and then Caroline, who both made their case that their birthdays were closer to Christmas. Then finally George and Andy. Their grandparents, Isobel and Clarkson had given in, giving them one present each. They were cautioned that, that might be their only presents but Father Christmas had provided. She walked up closer behind him and put an arm around his waist, one hand against his cheek. Consciously or subconsciously, he leaned into it. He gave a passionate sigh.
"Another successful and happy Christmas, despite the circumstances."
"Yes. She's still glued to that thing. Our little nurse." Mary said, proudly.
"Or doctor."
"Who would have thought that she'd be more like Sybil than Sybie?"
She followed him out of the room. He reached around her to pull the door closed.
"We shouldn't compare the living to the dead." His voice was a whisper, filled with caution.
"Did someone..."
He shook his head. "No. The board had accepted me, like they had any choice, but that doesn't mean they'll simply welcome me with open arms. But I think that will soon change. The younger people are replacing the majority of the older ones."
"The younger, more progressive ones. Papa would have loved that."
"Most were too young to be in the war, less than half are from our generation. They'll be more accepting and sympathetic."
"I thought you hated that."
He sighed and released a sound that sounded like a grunt. Was it his muscles that were bothering him or was he just annoyed. Then out of nowhere he changed the subject. "They used to compare me to my father while I was growing up. Back in Manchester. They wanted me to be my father. When I didn't go through with their expectations of me after he died, they were disappointed in me."
"That's terrible."
"It's been...twenty-four years. I can't believe I almost forgotten how long it's been, that I never talked to you about him."
"Your mother talked to me about him."
"Information and facts. Don't quite do him justice." Though he smiled there was still a deep hurt behind his words. They would want him to live up to Robert. Not his family of course, but he still had a great duty to uphold, to preserve all of this for future generations.
He went back over the conversation he had had with Robert in his mind. He had been in the library as usual. Robert had finished talking with Mary. He asked if it was about Carrie.
Matthew had furrowed his brows. "No, not about that." Mary must have been voicing her concerns about their daughter and asking him for advice, something that he wished she would just come to him about, then again when she had, Matthew had unable to give her a straight answer, just to wait. But in a way this had to do with her as well.
"I have something I must discuss with you."
Robert didn't look up from whatever he was writing.
"I've written a will."
His father in-law finally looked up at him with a worried gaze.
"I'm not sick or dying or anything like that. We know it could be a possibility somewhere down the line. I wanted to go over the estate rules, the entail. I need to update it. My will, that is."
"Why the entail? You know that it can't be broken."
"There might be a way I might be able to change the rules. The laws have changed since the war and there's bound to be some sort of loophole. Even so..."
"Even so, I doubt you can do that. What rule do you want to change anyway?"
"The rule pertaining who inherits Downton and my half of the estate if anything were to happen to me, if I were to die before you and then you were to after me..."
"George would inherit when he comes of age."
"Yes but if you and I both were to die before he is of age, someone would have to be in charge of my half until it becomes his. And if something were to happen to George..."
"Then Andy would become your heir."
"But if something were to happen to them and there was no male heir..."
"That's a lot of what if's. I think we're treading too close to uncharted territory. There's really no need to go to such extremes..."
"Robert, please. Let me finish."
"Alright, twist my arm. Who did you have in mind?"
"I want to be sure that if there is no male heir after me, a female can inherit."
"A woman? Run Downton? My God, Matthew, what are you thinking of? I can't imagine the board sanctioning that." Robert gave a chuckle.
"You may be right. They'd no sooner want a woman than a cripple." Robert said nothing to that. He was still uncomfortable with the word. "I know they wouldn't have a say in the matter, and times are changing, but my life is truly unpredictable as you know my condition can be. So I would like to know that Mary can inherit, and if something, God forbid, should happen to her, I would have Josephine inherit it, if she's the only Crawley old enough to step into my shoes if their is no male heir and her mother predeceases her. Then there's the matter of my money, the difference would be split between the girls."
Robert's mouth went into a grim line.
"It might be the only way to break the entail, at least in part. A female would inherit but not the title."
"Are you sure it's the only way?" Robert pressed. He was more concerned with the way Matthew was talking.
Matthew nodded. "Please, Robert. I need to know that I have your support, and if Mary or Josephine inherits my half, that you won't do anything to undermine them. You most likely will outlive me."
Robert was trying hard not to argue, smiling instead. "Of course, you do, my dear boy. But I still think you're being a bit rather drastic."
"Yes, well, you can never be more prepared. I remember what you said to me after those first few times I met with you, before you brought me to Downton. I believe the very exact words were, "Has no one ever told you that life is a catastrophe?' Almost fifteen years ago, that. "
"That I did." He sat back in his chair. "Perhaps there is a way to change the rule about women, though some would say it's inadequate. I have a feeling that you could pull it off."
A sense of relief rushed through Matthew. Maybe he'd be able to sleep well tonight to know that he's one step closer to preserving Downton for his family and for future Cawley's.
"I can be very pervasive Robert, very persuasive indeed."
"Oh, I know that. Only too well." Robert replied, giving him a knowing look. "You are a lawyer and a Crawley, first and foremost." He stood up and shook his hand. "You want my support, you have it. Loyally binds me." They grasped their hands tighter together, Robert putting his other hand on top and Matthew vice versa.
"Loyally binds me."
Only a few weeks ago they had been talking about the possibility of his death, now Robert was the one that was dead. It would be too irrational to think that conversation was what killed him, yet he couldn't bring himself to tell Mary. He thought about his own father again.
After he told Mary what kind of man his father had been, the very definition of a Victorian gentlemen, with a kind nature, he had to be, being a doctor. With slightly modern values but never strayed from the path of right and wrong. A man he had strived to be. The thing he most remembered from his childhood was of his very tall hats and the way he would always twirl his mustache in amusement or when he was deep in thought.
"I didn't feel sad at first when he died. I felt happy that he wasn't in pain anymore and that he was safely in the presence of God. But I did feel guilty, in the end, that I should have been there in his time of need."
"I'm sure he understood. You were with him in spirit."
Matthew nodded. "There's one thing that I want you to learn from this Mary, I don't want you to feel guilty. Don't ever feel guilty. Your father was one of fortunate to die in peace."
"I don't feel that at all."
"Good." He motioned her closer, pulling into her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.
"But I don't feel quite very fortunate. I still feel lost without him and yet I feel I'll be even more lost without you."
"I'm not going anywhere. We will figure out our place." She looked up at him curiously. "Your father wasn't given Downton by God's decree. We have to work to keep it. And if we continue to raise our children in the Lord's ways, he will bless us."
"I've never heard you talk so...passionately." She was going to say religiously. He never really talked to her about it because he knew how she felt about religion. And yet one look at his unnatural blue eyes were proof that a God had to exist.
"In times like these we always need faith." Faith and hope were all they had. What did they have if they didn't? "We don't need to worry about a thing. We'll be the best Countess and Earl of Grantham there's ever been."
"And to be envied."
He put a hand to her cheek and kissed her this time on the mouth.
"I envy myself. That I have such a beautiful family and loving wife." A second kiss. Mary's mouth opened partially. "Ready to go to bed, Mrs. Crawley?"
"After you, Mr. Crawley." She helped him to their room and into their bed. After a round of lovemaking, they laid together in each other's arms. "How did it go? With the board?"
"Better than expected." He always answered with that which made Mary assume that it hadn't gone very well. But on the contrary, he added, "Great, actually. Lord Ivan resigned. He up and left."
"Just like that?" He had been so hell bent on ruining her husband. She had redirected her focus from her grief on a plan on ruining the smarmy bastard.
"Well, he had an audit."
Mary gasped, surprised. "You didn't?" And proud of her husband that she hadn't had to do the dirty work.
"I didn't have to dig far. With taxes being raised, he was unable to pay them, even though he has a record that says he has."
"And you think he was cooking the books?"
"I don't think. It was blatantly obvious. And his estate was going under just like a lot of other big houses."
"But ours won't?"
"No. I have seen to that. And I think your father would have been quite proud."
"I think so too." She gave a yawn and curled into his embrace once more. Merry Christmas, indeed.
The children went to visit their grandfather's grave. As the family prepared to leave, heading back to the cars, Matthew noticed that Sybie was standing among another row of gravestones; she was facing away from them. From where the two trees were on each side of the row, he knew it was where Sybil's grave was located. Tom was walking toward him.
"She wanted a moment."
Matthew nodded and made his way over to his niece. He got stuck in a rut in the uneven ground. Tom came up behind him, "Here, I'll get that for ye." pushing his chair for him.
Sybie stood at the edge of the grave, staring at the marble headstone.
Sybil Crawley
Branson
1895-1920
Loving Wife, Sister, and Mother
There was no doubt in her mind that this is where her mother was. She had been too small to remember her. If she hadn't had a photograph of her, she'd be unable to picture her in her mind. As she stood there, her uncle and father by her side, she discovered she had no feeling or connection to the person buried there because she had no recollection of her. All she was experiencing was a terrible sadness and the familiar emptiness she had always felt.
She looked up at her uncle, her second father, who had shown her love and treated her with kindness even when it seemed she wasn't accepted by others, (she knew grandpa Donk had loved her but at times she had felt indifferent) Uncle Matthew always cared for her well-being. In his presence she did not feel like an outsider. They were the same so to speak.
She did not blame him for her mother and neither did he.
"Are you alright, Sybie?" Uncle Matthew asks.
"Yes, I am, Uncle Matthew. But I don't really remember her."
"You were just a baby."
"But I can see her in my mind, only because I have a picture of her."
"And she was a real beauty." Her father said, inside and out."
"She was very kind and gentle." Uncle Matthew added. All things she's heard before, but she never tires of it.
"I never came here before." She couldn't say her mother's grave. Then she put on a brave face, "Mama's grave. I was too small and wasn't allowed. I used to think that she was alive and hiding somewhere and she would come out and be my mam." She referred to her mother as mam, except when she wasn't in public, as it wasn't 'proper'
"That's only natural." Her Uncle told her.
She looked back at him and wondered if he still looked for his friends that had died in the war. He had nightmares that he sees them. She had heard him once.
"Now that you know, you're able to have some closure." This was from her Da.
She stepped closer to the headstone, touched it and the flowers she had brought. "It's a good thing Aunt Mary and Auntie Edith insisted I bring a vase for these, isn't it Da?"
"Yes." He merely smiled; his dark eyes full of love.
Sybie picked up the flowers and separated a few of them, making a mini bouquet out of them. "I'll go put some on Bethie's too."
Matthew's eyes watered as he watched her skip over to his daughter's grave, though her headstone wasn't visible, he knew it was there. Sybie bent down, muttering a few words. He could see her lips move, not able to read them but knew they were on his behalf. He could not sit and clutch that tiny headstone. Well, he could but he would need help getting up. He wasn't sure that he'd want to get up. He would lie down on top of her grave to be close to her, where her tiny body lie. Her tiny bones.
The tears were not only because of the loss and pain, it was the scabbed wound over his heart being slowly ripped open again; he hadn't thought about her in a long while. He felt Tom's hand gently grip his shoulder.
The tears vanished as she skipped back over to them. He whipped his face, raindrops, being his saving grace. Within minutes they were headed out of the cemetery, towards the Rolls Royce.
Matthew announced to Mary, who was standing beside the other car, that he'd ride home with Tom and Sybie.
She shifted on her feet a bit, moving her purse to her other hand. "Alright."
The chauffer opened the door for him and Tom helped him inside. He could already feel the stiffness settling into his muscles. It was one of those bitter cold January days with a drizzling rain that seemed to settle into the bones. Not such a nice day to visit a cemetery, he thought, when was it ever nice? These occasions were always sad. He knew this was not only to do with Sybil or Robert, but also all of the other deaths.
He watched the white crosses whiz by in a blur.
"Uncle Matthew, have you ever killed anyone?" She saw her Uncle and father exchange glances when they thought she didn't notice. "I know you were in a war."
"Yes. But it's not something that I'm proud of."
"I shall come back and replace the flowers on mam's grave and baby Beth's. And Grandma Cora and Donk's."
"Yes, you should. Whenever you feel the need." Her Uncle took hold of her hand and squeezed it. "It is important to think occasionally of the loved ones that we've lost but we need to also live for today, and the future and not look back too much. Understand?"
"I understand." She felt his grip loosen and she turned her head to look out the rain-streaked window.
Sybie found her father in her mother's old bedroom. This was where she grew up but there was no evidence that anyone occupied it. There was an inch of dust on the bedside table.
Her Da was over by the mantel piece. She cleared her throat to announce herself,
"I ought to come up here and clean once in a while." She said.
"That's what the maid's job is for."
"I know, I just want to feel closer to her."
He reached down to open the top drawer of the nightstand and produced a leather book. "Here, I have something that might do even better. It was your mother's."
"My mother's?" She never had anything of her mother's before.
He handed it to her. Sybie flipped it over in her hands, the pages yellow with age, discovering it was a diary. She raised her eyes toward her father.
"I didn't have the courage to read it then. I thought that you should have it. I'd forgotten that I even had it, useless man that I am."
"You're not useless, Da. I don't know what I would have done without you. Or Uncle Matthew." Her face wrinkled into a frown, thinking of the ride home, how his voice had changed. She had upset him by asking if he had killed anyone.
"You know he didn't mean to sound harsh. He was just being serious. People tend to get that way when they're hurting. They hide their feelings. He didn't expect you to ask him...about the war. It still hurts him. I think he was sadder about Bethie."
Sybie nodded, sitting down on the bed. Her father sat down next to her.
"I could not bring myself to read it. At first it was too painful. And then for a long time I was sad. You see, I was afraid to read it because what if she wrote something troublesome about me, that she didn't love me anymore. I was always angry and rigid and selfish. It was a wonder she loved me at all."
"Oh, Da, you're not any of those things."
"If I'm not those things now, then it's by the grace of God and you. I don't know what I would have become. if it weren't for you. You can choose to read it if you want to, and if you do decide, you don't have to share with me what it says if you mind."
"I wouldn't mind."
February 1930
Charlie had been living in New York for almost a month and working in his brother in-law's book publishing company and they were already busy.
"We have an author who wants to publish a book about the war." There was a pause and a ruffling sound of papers. I was wondering..."
Here it comes,
"If you would like to contribute."
"No."
"You did one of the many heroic things that Hawkins took credit for. Keeping your men alive when you were lost for weeks, staving off hunger and the cold, taking out a German machine gun like that against all odds stacked against you...That is if it ever gets published."
"I don't think people are ready for it. Maybe in another ten years." They said their goodbyes just as Mary was walking into the foyer.
"Was that Charlie? Give him my love next time and tell me when he calls."
September 1930
In a few weeks, it would be officially a year since her father's death. Rachel had moved out despite her and Matthew's offer that she would be more than welcome to stay. She had moved into a modest house in the village. The children still got to see her. They were getting on with their lives but still missed their grandfather. Josephine kept busy with her interest in school but immediately seemed distracted. Jo was starting her third year in school; it would prove to be a difficult time.
A few nights before the first day of school, Mary was putting Jo to bed, at her request, instead of the nanny, which was odd since it was either her father or the nanny. As she had pulled the blanket over her daughter, Jo partially sat up and said to her, in a whisper "I don't think I want to tell my new class this year that Papa is paralyzed."
Mary froze for only a second, "He's only partially paralyzed, darling."
When she asked why not, Jo shrugged her shoulders and said, "I just don't."
"You certainly don't have to tell your class if you don't feel comfortable doing so. But the topic might come up at some point."
Just a day later when Mary took Jo to meet the teacher, a few days before the official start of school, she again preferred her over the nanny.
As they were leaving the classroom the teacher stopped them and asked Mary if she would be able to volunteer to be on the board with the other parents.
'Jo's father is partially paralyzed," She said. "He still has days where he needs a caregiver. As much as I'd love to come in regularly, I won't be able to."
"Yes. I understand."
Jo was relieved that her teacher now knew about her papa and that it wasn't a big deal.
When the first day of school finally arrived, Jo had a great day - and a surprise for her parents. During a getting-to-know-you exercise in class, Jo wrote on a piece of paper then later shared with her new classmates that her papa is partially paralyzed. She even explained to them what partially paralyzed means.
Later in the evening, Mary asked how she felt about sharing the information she did.
Jo shrugged, admitting, "I didn't know we were going to read them out loud. I thought it was just for the teacher."
Mary observed that her reaction, she seemed removed and closed off, almost cold. Just like her. But the shrugging of her shoulders was masking a nervousness, about her feelings, was something purely all her own.
"I know talking about papa's injury is sometimes uncomfortable, but it's never anything to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. There's nothing wrong with your father." But she knew that she already knew. She loved her papa. She was worried about what other people thought of him. He's smart and funny and has a big heart. He's till my Papa.
She continued to eat her bowl of cereal and warm milk. George came in for his and started slurping, which Jo scolded him for. It wasn't becoming behavior for a prince.
Katie had been different to it than Jo. At a few months old she had adapted to his injury. She'd sit on his lap, she wouldn't wiggle around, like she knew. The others would. They would crawl all over his lap, digging their small feet into his legs, bouncing up and down. Mary feared they'd be too rough with him and leave bruises he couldn't feel. He told her that it was alright, 'we can't be too protective of them, limit their explorations because of me." He'd hold onto them and laugh. He wanted to do things he was still able to do with them.
He had experienced the feelings of "heartbreak" when he could not personally meet their children's every needs. "I cannot do certain things just like other fathers. The more I came to accept that, the more relaxed and calm the children are." Still, he had some fears that couldn't be helped.
It wasn't always easy. He was worried they were ashamed of his condition or that they wouldn't want their friends to know.
He constantly talked to them, even since they were little. He tells them even though he has to use a wheelchair at times, when he's outside or playing with him (or just to hold them), " Remember that I love you with all my heart." He would whisper into their cots late at night. He would tell them now that they were older, when she told him of Jo's uncertainty of telling her class about his condition.
I will do anything to make sure they will grow up healthily. I make them feel that they have nothing to be ashamed of. The physical condition is not a problem, it's the heart that matters.
His mother had given him advice, before his children were born, "You must be confident. If you look down on yourself, your children will look down on you."
He had gotten criticism on how he'd be able to take care of a child. His reply was, "Mary and I are more than capable of taking care of a baby." Especially with the help of his mother who was all in from the beginning. "No matter what happened to me, I'm going to bring up my children like any normal parent. I'm going to educate them, going to teach them well, take care of them, be their mentor, be their role model, not only teach them to study or work, but also teach them to have a stronger heart, so that in the future if they have some difficulty in their life, they can accept any challenge."
As they grew older, they've become more mature and see no issue. I am still their father, though I do things a bit differently.
For a long time, Jo had no idea what condition her father had, just that he sometimes was unable to walk, and while he could stand using a stick, he was unable to walk without it very far. She had seen him try. He would sometimes stand while leaning on a door or against the wall, shuffling his feet carefully while he moved along them on his 'bad days'. She was sure that in an emergency, he could use the walls for support if he had to.
She wasn't embarrassed by it; she didn't want to explain again to strangers. Friends would want to ask about it, but she could tell it scared them. She wasn't sure why. Papa was always… Papa. Yes, he couldn't walk for lengthy periods. But with the aid of a stick, he could still get around or more often than not, his chair. He didn't use it much inside though. He'd sit anywhere else.
Some part of me believes that if he had full use of his legs, he'd still be fairly sedentary. We learned that word. It means stationary. Always sitting down.
He was always seated when she entered a room, weather in his wheelchair, the sofa or his favorite armchair. It was normal to them.
Everyone else feels weird talking about it and that's why I rarely mention it. People are more afraid to talk about it than I am.
I couldn't imagine papa any different. I wouldn't daydream about him and me going for long walks. Sometimes in my dreams at night we do, which I never tell anyone about. I wouldn't wish he and I could play catch; we could play lazy catch and although I have full use of my legs, I honestly couldn't be bothered to go chasing after stray throws, neither do my brothers. My sisters are more into girly, childish things. I like to draw, ride horses, and catch cricket balls.
From the beginning their parents were honest and open, would let them ask questions, but also teach them how to be thoughtful. They learned far more by their example, actions, than any lectures or stern wording. It was just a minor detail that they have a disabled parent. She remembered that asking questions was always encouraged.
"Papa, you know how you and Mama always say that it's good to ask questions?" Josephine asked.
"Yes?"
"What's it like not to feel your legs?" She was cautious in her approach.
"Well..." He never thought of how to describe it up until now. They explained the partial paralysis and how it had happened and what that entailed, that he couldn't do everything that other father's might, that his legs 'got tired' sometimes or didn't work properly so he always needed a stick or his chair. But how to describe to a child, yet alone his old child, what it feels like not to feel parts of your body. "That is a good question. There's burning and sometimes tingling in my legs and lots of other sensations. But none I could really describe right now.'
"What does lying down feel like?"
"It feels the same as it feels for you, but I can't move as easily sometimes. When I was first brought home from the war, I couldn't move my legs at all. I remember once my leg wasn't well positioned, and it slid off the edge of the bed and twisted me in a horrible position and I couldn't do anything about it but ask for help. I learned how I needed to be positioned and made sure that's how it went. Also, I had to move to prevent pressure areas. But, luckily, the full paralysis didn't last." He stopped talking, figuring he was getting to the point where she probably didn't know what he was talking about. It made him start to think.
He thought of the first time George had rolled over. He was getting a sponge bath and he didn't much like it, so he got frustrated and used that frustration to push himself over and nearly gave Matthew a heart attack. After that, he became a master of rolling himself over and would cry when placed on his back, as if to say "put me back so I can do it again." He would lie on his stomach and really work to hold his head up so that he could look around for a while and then flip. He'd squeak out a half-cry, and he'd put him back on his stomach and he'd do it all over again.
It had reminded him of the first time he was able to roll over by himself when he had been completely paralyzed below the waist. It had been a few months after his return from the war, and he had regained enough strength.
After several less than pleasant and uncomfortable attempts, his legs twisted awkwardly, (couldn't feel that) and his back, (definitely could feel that and was uncomfortable and a bit painful above where he could feel) Sybil had suggested he use his torso to turn. He had been just about to give up.
"Try and use your torso to turn, use your upper body strength like you do with most things."
He thought it a good idea. Not knowing why, he hadn't thought of it first. It took a little bit of effort at first. The second time he tried he immediately gotten the hang of it, adjusting his legs into position. Though he was out of breath.
Mother and Mary walked in. He wanted to show off this new skill. Sybil cautioned that he didn't have to, he should take it a bit at a time.
"No. I want to try."
It took a few tries but he once again, effortlessly got himself over onto his back. The first step had been using his elbows to turn from his side, turning his torso twice, then untangled his legs, lying them flat. He then pulled himself up into a sitting position, once more out of breath but entirely worth it.
Mary's mouth fell open in grateful surprise, while his mother grinned proudly. He was probably grinning back like an idiot but he hadn't cared.
Finally, a feeling other than feeling completely useless. A little bit of independence. The best part of watching them grow, it watching them gain their own independence, and become their own person.
He loved all of his children, but Josephine was daddy's little girl. Once she had learned to crawl, she would crawl to her room every night and sit in the dark, patiently waiting for him to catch up.
"Your mother told me you didn't want to tell your class about me. You know you don't have to feel ashamed."
She came over to his chair but didn't sit on his lap. She was faced away from him. "I didn't want them to know about you because I was afraid what they'd think. Leslie's parents don't let me come over to play anymore. Since they heard more about you." Since they had heard more details about his injury and how it affected him, how easily he could get sick. They wanted her to stay away, as if they would catch his weakness.
"Well." He ran her fingers through her hair. "I say that's their loss."
She turned and they both smiled.
The other children were brought in with their nannies. Jo stayed put, as if she didn't want to leave his side. He gestured for her to go over to them.
"Go play." He encouraged her.
She confidently nodded and left.
Sybie was sitting over at the window seat. She didn't move from it when her cousins were filed out of the room for their dinner.
"In a moment." Was her response. She was always behind in a book. If only his children read more besides Katie. George was slowly getting there.
"What cha got there?" He asked.
She was half tempted to hide the diary. But it was only her Uncle. She watched as he limped, leaning hard on his stick as he walked over to her. His legs are bothering him again. She wished he would use his chair when he was having a hard time.
"Mam's diary. Da gave it to me. I've already read it three times!"
"You know, I have a diary."
"You do?"
"He was only joking, Sybie." Auntie Edith said, looking up from her own reading. "men don't keep diaries."
"Actually, I do. It was your Aunt Mary's and doctor Clarkson's idea. Though this was a very different diary. It's where I wrote down all my thoughts and fears and nightmares."
"I don't want to write about things like that."
"You can use a journal to write whatever you want. You can write about your hopes and dreams..."
"I think I'll write about that. And about Mam."
Dinner was finally called for the adults. Tom was coming out of his own bedroom, coming into step beside Sybie, who was clutching her mother's diary to her chest, one hand in her father's.
"You know my grandfather had a journal too. He was a sheep farmer." He was saying to her.
"Tom, I don't think she'd be quite interested in that." Edith said.
"On the contrary. He fought in the French revolution. He married an English woman, and their daughter married an Irishman."
"Rebellion isn't a trait that is recently inherited, I see." Matthew joked. Suddenly he stopped behind Edith, sucking in his breath as the familiar feeling of electricity ran up his back and down his legs.
Edith stopped on the landing, turning to turn back toward him to see why he wasn't coming. She thought she had heard him grunt.
Off her worried expression, he immediately responded, "Can you have Mary tell Mrs. Patmore to set aside a plate for me? I don't think I'll be making it down tonight."
She nodded but was not at ease. "Sure." She kept glancing his way as descended the stairs, watching him limp back down the hall.
Bertie came up to see how he was, on Edith's bequest, Matthew made a good guess. He had gone back to the nursery after a half hours rest. Mary was probably having drinks in the ladies drawing room and couldn't get away, or she'd be the one up here, badgering him. She would later.
Jay had been the first brought back to the nursery. He was a rambunctious year and a half year old but hesitant when Matthew was in his chair. He didn't get to see much of his Uncle. All he needed was positive interaction. Matthew covered his eyes and then uncovered them, smiling at his nephew. At first Jay was not amused. Matthew repeated the action again this time "Where'd you go?" When he removed his hands. "There you are." Covered his eyes again,
Jay smiled and laughed, then went over to his Uncle and tried to climb onto his lap. Matthew outstretched his arms and lifted him up. "See, I'm not so bad, am I?"
He fell asleep on Matthew's lap. That was when Bertie had knocked on the door and entered.
"Look who didn't take long to get used to me." Matthew said, proudly.
"Wish it had been that way for my mother." Bertie confessed. "We had to cut her out of our lives."
"I don't think you should have gone to such extremes like that, not for my sake. You should give her another chance. She is your mother. You only have one, you know."
"I know. But I think that ship has sailed. And wasn't just that. It was a number of things. How are you? We were a bit worried when you didn't come down for dinner."
"What are the number of things? If you don't mind me asking? Please tell me if I'm intruding..."
"Oh no. You're not. I'm quite relieved that you asked me. I can't talk to anyone else about this."
Matthew gave a nod for him to go on.
Bertie took a step forward, "Here, let me take him." He lifted Jay off Matthew's lap and placed his son into one of the cots. He had Edith's hair color, a goldish red, but he was so like his father in looks. Maybe for his sake he could try to patch things up with his mother.
"She thinks Edith is no good for me. It was the way she was commanding her around, telling us how to live our lives. And the way she would look at her, you'd think that she believes my wife is a woman with spoiled goods." Bertie let out his breath as if he'd been holding it in.
"Edith isn't the type. Far from it. You wouldn't find a woman more honest."
"I know. You don't need to tell me." He took a seat in one of the armchairs. "But I get this feeling that she is hiding something from me. That she's keeping some sort of secret."
"What can I do to help?"
"Nothing. Don't talk to her about this. Forget I said anything." His voice was in a whisper, speaking in a rush. The door had opened. They were no longer alone.
Mary entered the room. Her brown eyes filled with interest.
Back in their room she asked him, "What were the two of you talking about?" He had seemed rather keen on keeping something from Edith that was for sure.
"He wanted some marriage advice."
"That's all? He could have come to me. I could have told him how to deal with her."
"Now dear, play nice." He leaned over and he kissed her forehead. "He came to me because he felt embarrassed to talk about it to anyone else. It was something he felt he needed to speak...man to man about."
"Why not Tom? I suppose he was unavailable." Her tone borderlines on sarcastic.
He had learned to stay out of their squabbles. He couldn't force the two sisters to get along even if they wanted to.
"He hadn't been married as long as you and I have." He explained.
"And since you're Edith's closest friend, you know her best."
"Alright, now you're mocking me." He said playfully, his fingers brush against her bare skin, his eyes staring deeply into hers.
"Don't tempt me. You're not getting out of it."
"Out of what?"
"You were too exhausted to come downstairs tonight. Were you having trouble with your legs?"
"Just the nerves acting up. It's nothing, darling. Nothing a good exercise and sleep can't fix. Now go to bed."
"Not so fast." She stopped him from turning off the light as she heard him grunt. "You stay there and don't move a further muscle. You're to stay there while I give you something for the pain."
He didn't protest out loud, knowing there would be no point. He sat back further into the pillows, giving a sigh, thumbing. But he could in his head.
Like I can go anywhere.
Mary turned around, "What was that?"
"Nothing, darling. I didn't say anything." Damn, how does she do that? Maybe she knows me too much from being married to me for eight years.
She came back with a medicine bottle. "I'm giving you something a bit stronger. And don't complain, it will help." She shook out two pills into her palm and held them out to him, but he hesitated. "It won't make you feel groggy."
After he swallowed them, reluctantly, she walked over to his side of the bed and picked up the glass of water on his bedside table, (they always had one at the ready) and helped him drink it. Then they started on his exercises. When they were finished she went back to her own side of the bed.
"I've been thinking." She began as she got underneath the covers, "that we can have a room converted on the first floor."
"We don't have to..."
"You are getting older, darling." Who knew how his condition would effect him as he aged, in another forty years. He might not be able to get up and down the stairs at all. "Or we can put in a lift."
He suddenly felt faint at the idea, (good thing he was sitting in bed) his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. He instantly thought, what if there was a fire? He couldn't be able to use it or he'd be trapped, surrounded by flames. And if he had a bad day like today and couldn't get down the stairs...
"No. No lift."
"You're right. It might be too costly. If we could convert a few rooms downstairs and turn it into a suite, though we'd still have to watch our budget." She let her words drift off, glancing over at her husband. He was oddly silent. She saw that he was staring straight ahead. His eyes weren't glazed like they would be if he was about to have an episode. He was deep in thought. "What are you thinking?"
"I think...it's a great idea. Though I think you spoiled my Christmas present early."
"You know what, I think I did. Though I might have an extra one hiding away somewhere." She said suggestively. "But we have to be prepared. Who knows what's coming?"
