Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, February 1911
Matthew walked down the hall, taking his time and trying to appear as casual as possible. Each time that a nurse came into view, he would look over, then turn his gaze away when he identified who the woman was, or more importantly, who she was not.
He glanced about once more as he came to the familiar office doorway, looking in both directions before finally exhaling and shaking his head ruefully at his behaviour. What was the use? Even if she did appear, what would he say to her?
'Oh, hello! Imagine seeing you here again…in the place where you work every day…'
Matthew grumbled under his breath. He could argue with lawyers and judges, question clients and drone on to junior associates for hours without so much as a cue card or scribbled note to guide him. But just the thought of saying hello to a nurse's assistant left him tongue tied.
But she wasn't just a nurse's assistant was she?
"Papa," he called, leaning against the doorway.
Dr. Reginald Crawley was writing away at his desk, a large pile of file folders on one side of him. Even when he was busy, his father always left the door open. As he often told Matthew, he wanted everyone to know he was busy, but never unapproachable.
"Ah! Matthew!" Dr. Crawley smiled, continuing to write his notes and not looking up as he addressed his son. "Come in and have a seat. I'm finishing my notes on this last patient. I'll only be a moment."
"Of course," Matthew nodded but he didn't move to comply with his father's offer. Instead, he stood in the doorway, his hat in his hands. Matthew looked idly down the hall, and then turned his head to look in the opposite direction. His fingers played with the brim of his hat, running around and around it.
When Dr. Crawley did not see his son come into the office and did not hear the familiar creak of the chair moving as he sat down, he looked up from his notes and observed his son standing in the doorway. Smirking to himself, Dr. Crawley went back to writing.
"She should be by in a few minutes," he said, his eyes still focused on writing down the symptoms that Mr. Atwell had presented with moments earlier and the treatment he had prescribed.
"Pardon?" Matthew frowned at this statement, looking back to his father's hunched form.
"Mary Crawley," Dr. Crawley replied, still looking at the page in front of him. "She's attending to a patient and I expect she will be finished shortly and come back here for further instructions."
Matthew cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, Father, but I don't see how that should interest me," Matthew said, feigning a bored tone and failing horribly, producing a rather strange high pitched croak instead.
Dr. Crawley looked up from his notes again and grinned widely at his only child. It was a tiny detail, but he had always observed that Matthew only called him Father when he was annoyed or frazzled; normally he always used the more affectionate term of Papa. He shouldn't necessarily indulge Matthew's personal matters – that was a job for his mother to handle. But, Dr. Crawley lived by many creeds and medical oaths, and a significant promise that Isobel had told him shortly after they had first met.
"Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost."
The Henry James quote spoke volumes to him, as that was his very mission as a doctor, and she had diagnosed him and his ambitions so skilfully. So, now as he observed his son, his attitude was fittingly bemused.
"Perhaps then you'll be content to wait outside the hospital for me, if standing in the hallway and glancing about to see which nurses pass by does not interest you at all?"
Matthew's mouth opened to protest, but he was silent before he shrugged and stared at the ground.
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to see Mary again, Matthew. Although you only met her last week, you've been by to visit every day since, hoping to run into her again, and you've been successful every time. It's perfectly understandable," Dr. Crawley said patiently, going back to his notes.
"I haven't come by hoping to see her," Matthew said defensively, "I came here because I have an appointment to have lunch with you and Mother."
"As much as I enjoy a visit, daily appearances here are a rare bird, even for you. Anyway, I'm merely saying that I expect…"
"Matthew!" a cheerful voice called from down the hall.
Matthew's head snapped in her direction and his eyes brightened. He turned and placed his hands behind his back, squeezing the brim of his hat.
"Mary," Matthew nodded and smiled, "Good to see you again."
"And you," Mary smiled back shyly, coming into the doorway.
"Dr. Crawley," she said looking away from Matthew as she stated her business. "Mrs. Bell claims she is ready to be discharged, but I don't think she is," Mary said plainly. "In any event, her son cannot come to collect her until later this afternoon. I told her you would need to see her one last time but you're having lunch with your son, so you'll be by around four."
Dr. Crawley appraised the young woman and smirked.
"You do enjoy making me the villain, don't you?" he asked with a smile.
"You can blame your wife. She's the one who told me to use that strategy," Mary smiled back.
"Except in her case, it isn't just a strategy," Dr. Crawley replied easily.
"Papa!" Matthew frowned.
"I'm only joking," Dr. Crawley smiled good-naturedly, happy to hear the return of this less formal moniker from his son's lips.
"It seems my notes are taking a bit longer than I expected, and Mary, I see you have a break in your schedule. Why don't you join us for lunch?"
Mary's eyes widened and she glanced at Matthew nervously before looking down at Dr. Crawley's office floor.
"Oh, that's quite all right. I was just going to eat in the commissary," she replied.
"Nonsense," Dr. Crawley said, looking back down at his notepad. "We'll be glad to have you. I'll pay. We're going just around the corner and the place has fantastic food. Please go and fetch Isobel and meet us by the front entrance. Matthew and I will be along once I'm finished."
Dr. Crawley returned to his notes.
There was silence between the two young people as Mary cautiously looked at Matthew.
"Better do what he says," Matthew advised politely. "Trust me. When he puts his head back down, it means he doesn't want to talk about it any further."
Mary smiled and nodded. She left and walked quickly down the hall in search of Isobel, biting her bottom lip at the prospect of having lunch with Matthew and his parents.
"You're welcome," Dr. Crawley said, still not looking up at his son. "But, my boy," he said warmly, "Next time I will expect you to show your own initiative and give her a proper invitation, knowing you have my blessing. After all, there is only so much I can do for you, Matthew."
Matthew laughed and rolled his eyes.
"Thank you Papa," he said dutifully. "I'll keep that in mind."
Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912
Matthew stood outside the door to his parents' bedroom, his feet rooted to the floor. He knew this door so well. The brass knob had always looked golden, inviting somehow; even when it creaked slightly because it had been turned too fast. The door was walnut, and heavier than stone when he was a boy and needed comforting from a nightmare; but as light as air when he was an adolescent seeking out his Papa to share his latest grade. Standing before the door now as a grown man, it seemed strange to him – different and foreboding. He did not want to open it. The brass knob was worn out and tarnished, in need of polishing; it had lost its golden gleam, as though the room within no longer held any pleasant memories for him, but just the threat of misery and despair.
Matthew took in a shaky and ragged breath of air. He did not want to step beyond this threshold. Matthew's hands balled into fists, his eyes narrowing.
How dare his father keep this from him! He called upon the fury building in his stomach to push his tears back. How dare he think of him as a child that needed to be coddled and protected from the harsh realities of the world! He was a lawyer for God's sake! He saw the worst of people every day and did not flinch. He could take it. Matthew knew that not all truth was ephemeral and beautiful; he knew it could be ugly and raw. He could handle this. He could have handled it when the first suspicions had formed in his father's mind. He could have been part of the solution, instead of being told later on when there was none to be found.
Matthew exhaled and closed his eyes. The tears washed over his fury and threatened to spill from beneath his eyelids. He swallowed hard and blinked several times. He reached tentatively for the brass doorknob, finding it seemed further away to him than usual, and opened the door.
His parents' bedroom was dark; the lights all out except for a dim lamp next to the bed. Matthew did not need the light. He had come into this room in pitch black darkness hundreds of times. Matthew heard his father's laboured wheezing first, then made out the shape of his thin frame under the blankets. He walked deliberately to the bedside and sat down in the chair placed there. As a child, he had often sat in this chair as his parents lay in bed and his father read the newspaper or a favourite book aloud for both he and his mother to hear. He hated this chair now.
"Son," Dr. Crawley said his voice quiet but the timbre still strong and possessive.
"I'm here," Matthew said quietly.
"I can see that," Dr. Crawley smirked, his eyes bright in the dim light. "I may be dying, but I'm not blind."
"Don't joke!" Matthew snarled. "Don't make it small, not when I'm trying to understand."
"You understand perfectly well," Dr. Crawley replied complacently. "You just don't want to accept it, and I do not blame you for that. I still haven't myself, despite all evidence to the contrary."
"You didn't have to keep it a secret," Matthew said, his expression softening. "Why didn't you let us help you?"
"Sometimes people have to keep secrets," Dr. Crawley said softly, "Besides, you did help me. You helped me by showing me what a wonderful man you have become. By being a good man, a caring man, a doting son to your mother, and a loving partner to Mary. Don't you think seeing that has been the most-soothing balm I could ask for?"
"I would rather have cut you open and remove whatever vile thing lies beneath," Matthew answered grimly.
"There aren't enough scalpels and forceps for that operation, I'm afraid," Dr. Crawley said frankly.
The two men sat in silence for several moments. Dr. Crawley continued to wheeze, a smile never leaving his face while Matthew continued to stare blankly at him. He had heard that wheeze before, though it sounded deafening to his ears now. Every cough, every gasp, every clearing of his father's throat – how had Matthew ignored them all?
"Papa," Matthew finally whispered. "How long?"
"A month? Maybe less? One can never be sure about these things. Someday we may be able to look inside a patient and see their condition and accurately predict how much time he has left. Today, all we can do is guess, and Albert thinks it's three weeks, based on the amount of fluid he thinks has accumulated."
Every few words would cause Dr. Crawley to gasp or catch his breath. Matthew cringed at first, and then forced himself to hold his father's gaze and show no reaction. A Crawley hated to be pitied.
"How do you expect me to endure these next few weeks or months knowing that I'm losing more of you each day?" Matthew said.
"You're never losing me," Dr. Crawley smiled defiantly. "Don't you see? Every lesson that I teach you, every piece of advice, and every moment that we share is me pouring myself into you, my son. And you have handled it all brilliantly, and have taken what you need and left behind what you don't and become a man that I am proud of beyond words. If I don't last the night, I am already blessed for you have turned out better than I ever could have dreamed. So, a few more weeks with you and your Mother is a rare gift."
"Papa," Matthew swallowed. "I had plans. I had moments in my mind that we would be sharing as I got older. I was going to buy you a retirement home, somewhere near the City, but not in the City."
Dr. Crawley laughed, which caused him to cough several times. He nodded to Matthew to continue.
"I was going to get you season tickets to Old Trafford," Matthew said, speaking quickly. "The good ones, near the players' bench."
"How many?" Dr. Crawley asked.
"Four," Matthew smiled weakly. "Mother doesn't like to watch, but Mary would go, at least at first, and we would need an extra seat eventually for…" Matthew grimaced and bit his lip.
"For my grandchild," Dr. Crawley continued.
"You're going to miss all of that. We're going to miss all of that," Matthew groaned.
"It's a lovely plan," Dr. Crawley said. "But like all grand plans, things change, and as the architect of this plan, you must adapt, Matthew. You must keep your vision, and change the pieces to adapt."
"I…I just feel so lost…" Matthew said sadly.
"Lost," Dr. Crawley repeated quietly, "Yes, I sympathize. I remember strolling through the park with you in your pram, your mother by my side; strangers would make assumptions and congratulate me on my grandson. I was mortified. I felt lost," Dr. Crawley said nostalgically. "Not for myself, but for Isobel, this stunning woman saddled with a fussy old coot like me. But, it never bothered her. What was important was the end result – we had you, we had our baby, and the manner in which we got there was ultimately inconsequential."
Matthew nodded his head reluctantly.
"Anyway, there will be time to talk about many things. For right now, before your mother brings Mary in, I want to talk to you about something of paramount importance."
"Which is?" Matthew asked, frowning at the seriousness of his father's tone and the change of subject.
"Downton."
"No, Papa," Matthew shook his head vigorously.
"Matthew, if what Lord Merton and Mr. Murray told us is true, the clock ticks away and the cousins can't be found, this means that you will soon be the last heir to the Earl of Grantham."
"No. No, please," Matthew choked. "I can't listen to another word of this."
"Listen to me!" Dr. Crawley said firmly, and Matthew was once again ten years old, standing rigid as his Father stood tall and imposing before him. His anxiety stopped and he sat still, waiting for instruction.
"If you are the last heir, then the Earl of Grantham will summon you. It may not be this year, it may not be next year, but you will be summoned at some point in the future. They will expect you to go to Yorkshire and take up your position."
"I won't do it, Papa," Matthew said resolutely.
"You will," Dr. Crawley nodded.
"Do not ask this of me," Matthew cried. "Let them have their world, Papa. Let them leave us in peace."
"They will not, if what we have been told is true," Dr. Crawley replied. "And the more that I think about it, the more I believe that we should not let them off."
"Why?" Matthew pleaded.
"You will go to Yorkshire. You will take up the title of heir to the Earl of Grantham, and you will use that position to make things right. You will make things right…for Mary," Dr. Crawley said pointedly.
Matthew's eyes went wide. "She doesn't want me to, Papa. I told her that I would go in your stead if you were ever summoned and she forbade me. Don't you think we're better off here?"
"You would do very well here, Matthew, and you can always return if you wish. This is your home, and always will be. You're a Manc, through and through," Dr. Crawley smiled wistfully.
"But," he continued. "A great deal was taken from Mary before she arrived here, Matthew, as you know. A very great deal. As much as I have tried to ignore it, I do not believe we can any longer. She deserves to have all that was lost restored to her, Matthew. I have always believed this to be true, but never had the means to do anything about it. It was never a question of money. It was the need to first be in their world. You can't change anything with that lot unless you are first part of Society. And now we are. Not just on the periphery or by loose association. You will be the Earl of Grantham one day. So, you must take up this cause. You must do this for her."
"But, Papa, I can provide a life for her here. I don't need her family. I don't need their wealth. I don't need their title. I can give Mary the life she deserves without ever setting foot in Yorkshire," Matthew objected.
"This isn't about you, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said patiently. "This isn't about money. This isn't even about just the Earldom. This is about what is right. And what is right is to not ignore or cast a blind eye to all that was done to Mary in the past. What is right is to give her the choice that she was denied. The choice to choose the life she wishes on her terms, not anyone else's, including yours or mine."
"She will fight me on this," Matthew shook his head. "She doesn't want any part of it. She already endured so much pain to leave that life behind her. She will be very difficult to convince."
"She only did so out of necessity," Dr. Crawley shook his head. "She believed that there was no use fighting. She believed no one would fight for her. She gave up hope because to do otherwise would have torn her apart inside. That's different now. You can be her hope. You can fight for her."
"Against her own family, Papa?" Matthew asked doubtfully. "Against all of London Society? Against their traditions and conventions and beliefs?"
Dr. Crawley narrowed his eyes and looked at his son sternly. Matthew swallowed. Even though he was bedridden, even though his breath was growing harsher with each passing moment, he appeared tall and magnificent, commanding and unavoidable. His voice was strong and firm.
"What did you promise, Matthew? What did you vow?"
Matthew closed his eyes. His promise. The words sang through his mind as though they were uttered mere moments ago, rather than last year. He could never forget them. They were the most beautiful melodies he had ever spoken or heard.
"To love and cherish her," Matthew whispered, opening his eyes and finding his father's softened expression.
"To love and cherish her," Dr. Crawley repeated tenderly, nodding to his son with pride. "And does that include protecting her?"
"Yes."
"Does that include defending her honour?"
"Yes."
"Does that include putting right all libel and slander, attacks, complaints, smears and besmirches to her name and reputation?"
"Yes."
"You will do this, Matthew. You will do your duty to Mary. You will do your duty to your wife," Dr. Crawley nodded.
Matthew exhaled and kept his father's gaze, an entire discourse passing silently between their eyes alone.
"Yes, Papa," Matthew said firmly, his heart swelling.
"Swear it to me, Matthew," Dr. Crawley demanded, and in that moment, Matthew thought he had never heard his father appear so desperate. "Swear to me that you will not allow the world to continue to believe a lie about your wife. Swear to me that you will restore her to where she belongs – that you will give her the chance to be Countess of Grantham."
Matthew reached out and clutched his father's hand. The grip was still firm, the warmth still evident.
The door behind them opened.
"Reginald, Mary is here," Isobel said softly.
"I swear it, Papa," Matthew said quietly, keeping his gaze locked on his father's eyes.
Dr. Crawley seemed to smile in relief, squeezing Matthew's hand in thanks.
"I swear it," Matthew whispered.
Old Nags Head Pub, Manchester, England, October 1911
"Are you sure? There's still time," Matthew said, keeping his voice low even though there was no one else in this part of the pub. "We can just have dinner as planned and not mention anything."
"I'm sure," Mary sighed. "They need to know."
"No, they don't," Matthew shook his head. "They won't care, Mary. You're going to be my wife. It doesn't matter what they think about it, and so it doesn't matter if they even know."
"I don't want any secrets, Matthew," Mary said firmly. "It destroyed my last family. I won't let it harm my new one. We have to hide our marriage from the world, but not the world we care about."
"All right. I understand," Matthew nodded.
They heard a familiar cheerful laugh from outside their private room as the bartender greeted Dr. Crawley and Isobel. Matthew's parents soon appeared at the doorway, laughing and smiling.
"Mary!" Isobel beamed, taking her hands and squeezing them as Mary rose to greet Matthew's mother. "I've heard superb things about your work today."
"I'm sure it has been exaggerated," Mary blushed, sitting back down.
"Certainly not!" Dr. Crawley laughed, holding out his wife's chair, and then taking a seat of his own opposite Matthew. "Matthew, would you believe that your Mary saved a man's life today?"
Matthew grinned at her.
"It was nothing," Mary shook her head, attempting to deflect the praise. "I merely noticed that we were missing a sponge."
"Merely noticed!" Isobel laughed. "A sponge that was left inside the patient!" she said pointedly. "Why, Christopher was about to sew him back up, and Lord knows what would have happened then!"
"At best the patient would have had to have been operated on again, at great cost. At worst, the sponge could fester and damage his internal organs. The reputation of the hospital would have been in jeopardy in any event," Dr. Crawley shook his head.
"Very well done, darling," Matthew smiled, kissing her hand.
Mary smiled politely. Her stomach fluttered, and it was not out of nervousness this time.
"Champagne is in order!" Dr. Crawley declared. "A congratulatory drink for such a wonderful achievement!"
"Papa, wait," Matthew grew serious, looking at Mary in reassurance. "Before we order, there's two things that we need to tell both of you."
"Nothing bad, I hope?" Isobel frowned.
"No, certainly not," Mary shook her head. "Although it may…change things."
Dr. Crawley and Isobel cast a concerned look at each other.
"Well, by all means, Matthew, please, tell us," Dr. Crawley said.
Matthew opened his mouth to speak and Mary touched his arm.
"Matthew is just being gallant, as always," she said. "It's actually my story to tell."
All of them turned towards her and Mary clasped her hands together, trying to calm herself.
"There was a reason that I came to Manchester back in February, a reason I have not told anyone except Matthew," she began.
"You don't need to share any secrets with us, Mary," Isobel interrupted. "We are very fond of you, you must know that, but we don't mean to be nosey."
"No, you need to know," Mary nodded. "You see, I came to Manchester quite unexpectedly. It was essentially the last place I could go…because of my reputation. I chose Manchester because very few people knew me here, and I could start over."
Dr. Crawley frowned.
"Before I came here, I lived in Yorkshire, at Downton Abbey, to be exact. My father is Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham."
"Oh my Lord," Isobel gasped, her eyes wide. "No one ever mentioned her name when…"
"You're the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter?" Dr. Crawley asked. "The one who…"
"She's Mary Crawley," Matthew said firmly, staring directly at his parents. "The woman I love."
Dr. Crawley and Isobel looked at each other, and then back at Mary and Matthew.
"Mary," Isobel said quietly. "I am so sorry. I cannot imagine what you have been through."
Mary's eyes widened as Isobel reached out and touched her hand kindly. She looked at Dr. Crawley and instead of finding scorn, saw only sympathy.
"You aren't shocked?" Mary asked. "Disappointed? Angry? Disgusted with me?"
"Why would we be any of those things?" Dr. Crawley frowned in confusion. "This doesn't change what we think of you, Mary. It only lets us know what a horrible past you have had."
"But aren't you concerned? Aren't you afraid that I may ruin Matthew?" Mary asked, ironically beginning to think of all the reasons that Matthew's parents should be angry with her.
"Ruin Matthew?" Dr. Crawley repeated incredulously. "But how could you possibly…"
"What does what you've done before have anything to do with Matthew?" Isobel asked. "That was your past life, and it shouldn't stop the two of you from getting along."
"It isn't important," Dr. Crawley agreed.
"Wait," Isobel interjected, her eyes widening. "You mentioned that you had two things to tell us."
Matthew grinned at his parents.
"God in Heaven!" Isobel gasped. "Are you telling us…"
"Yes, I've asked Mary to be my wife, and she has very kindly accepted my proposal," Matthew beamed.
Isobel and Dr. Crawley looked at each other, and then burst into wide grins, getting up from their chairs and embracing Matthew and a completely stunned Mary.
"My daughter!" Isobel laughed, squeezing Mary quite thoroughly. "Oh, I am so very pleased!"
Mary stared at Matthew in shock. He winked at her, accepting his father's handshake and his mother's embrace. Once they composed themselves and sat back down, Dr. Crawley called for champagne with strawberries and Isobel looked over the menu.
"If I realized this would be such a celebration, I would have chosen a different restaurant rather than your father's old smoking haunt," Isobel frowned, turning the menu over to examine the back page. "I do hope they have a proper cake of some sort."
"I'm sorry, I still don't understand," Mary shook her head. "You both have heard what all of London Society thinks about me, and yet you seem strangely happy that I am marrying your son?"
"Happy doesn't begin to describe it," Isobel smiled at Matthew.
"Over the moon wouldn't begin to describe it," Dr. Crawley chuckled, "Finally," he said with relief.
"You're that desperate to see Matthew settled that you would be content for him to marry a…a…" Mary stammered.
"Oh, Mary, no!" Isobel exclaimed.
"What my parents are so eloquently trying to tell you, darling," Matthew smiled, holding her hand. "Is that we have far more faith in what we know from our own experience with you than what anyone else would tell us about you. So, as you will recall I previously said, my parents don't care about your past, and neither do I."
"And what we know about you is that you are a very fine young lady, Mary," Isobel smiled. "And we are so happy that you want to spend your life with Matthew."
"How could we possibly care about your past when the future is so very bright for the both of you!" Dr. Crawley smiled.
Mary could only smile back in astonishment.
"I may not be as worthy of your son as you think I am," Mary said quietly.
"You underestimate yourself, Mary," Dr. Crawley laughed. "Or you are overestimating Matthew."
"We may also not have the type of wedding that you envisioned for him," she added carefully.
"Do you think we are all about the pomp of the ceremony, my dear?" Isobel laughed.
"So long as the two of you are husband and wife, have whatever wedding you choose," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Matthew could use someone to shake him up a bit, and you are just the woman he needs."
"Champagne, Dr. Crawley," the waitress smiled as she brought the bottle to the table.
"We'll all take a flute, please! We're toasting a very special occasion."
"Congratulations," the waitress nodded simply, pouring the champagne for them.
"Thank you," Mary smiled, still in shock as Matthew and his parents took brought their glasses forward and clinked them against her own.
Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912
Mary sat down in the chair that Matthew had just vacated. The door closed softly behind her and she blinked several times. She felt small and lonely in this bedroom, despite Dr. Crawley sitting up and leaning back against the pillows before her. Only very rarely had she ever been in her own parents' bedroom, so it felt strange to be in this bedroom now for the first time, especially given the circumstances.
"I'm sorry that it's so dark in here," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Isobel wants me to rest, and she knows if she keeps the lights on, I'll get up to something."
Mary nodded slowly. After her incident, she used to keep the lights off in her own bedroom at Downton Abbey as well. The only light would be the ray entering from the door when Anna brought her tray, or Sybil snuck in to soothe her tears. She felt banished even then, forced to stay in her room by Cousin James, her every movement watched. To turn on the lights would have reminded her of all the happy memories from her home, and she didn't want to remember them, didn't want to keep them with her when her world was slipping from her grasp. That distant room and distant time seemed like going to the County Fair compared to what Mary was feeling now.
"I suppose you're angry with me," Dr. Crawley said softly.
"No," Mary shook her head sadly. "For once you're wrong. There are many things in life that I am angry about, but nothing concerning you."
"That's very kind, Mary," Dr. Crawley smiled.
"I'm just so very sorry," Mary said, keeping his gaze with determination. She sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward. "You've given me so much, and I was looking forward to the day that I could repay the favour. I've never told Matthew this, but it was my private wish to someday put your grandson in your arms, to maybe even name him Reginald."
"Oh no," Dr. Crawley laughed with difficulty. "Please don't do that to a charming little chap. He'd be such a poor fellow saddled with such a name!"
Mary laughed with him briefly; she took his macabre better than his own son.
"You and Matthew are so very similar in some things. Both of you think that only in my retirement, only in the future would you make me happy," Dr. Crawley said kindly.
Mary smiled as she stared at her father-in-law. It had always been easy to smile in his company, but now she found she was doing it more out of sadness and sympathy, and this made her feel even more sad.
"I am thankful every day for you, Mary," he continued. "The best things always happened to me in the halls of the hospital, meeting my darling Isobel of course, but also seeing you."
Mary's clasped hands tightened together as though a vice was squeezing her. She braced herself against his kind words, willing herself to remain coherent and not break down; to continue smiling while her heart broke into pieces.
"Do you know," Dr. Crawley said after clearing his throat emotionally, "We tried for so long to have a baby. Isobel wanted a girl. I wanted a boy. We used to laugh about that a lot as we couldn't seem to agree on anything. Eventually, we thought it would get sorted out the natural way as we expected to have a large family. But, then things didn't work out as we planned and just when we thought we would end up childless, along came Matthew."
"Gift from God," Mary whispered.
"Exactly," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Our saving grace in so many ways," he said contemplatively. "Well, as much as I love my son, I'm greedy and I always wished we could have another child too, a daughter, as much for my sake as for Isobel's. There's something about girls, you know."
"I do," Mary nodded. "I have two younger sisters."
"I always knew Matthew would settle down one day, with a nice girl, a sweet girl. And so I looked forward to it, knowing that one day, we would have our daughter," Dr. Crawley smiled in nostalgia.
Mary blinked back her tears. She didn't fit that description, 'nice' and 'sweet' were not words that could be used about her.
"What I could never imagine, Mary," Dr. Crawley said with a hint of cheer. "Is that my daughter would be a woman like you, a strong woman, who is brave and compassionate. I could not have asked for anyone better to share Matthew's life. I could not have dreamed of anyone better suited for him than you. And so I am thankful. I am thankful that I lived to see the two of you married and revel in your first year of marriage. That is the best gift of all."
"You give me far too much credit," Mary shook her head. "You always have."
"You're wrong," Dr. Crawley said firmly. "I thought I was doing you a favour by rescuing you from Cassandra that fateful day. Little did I realize that my family would receive a gift in return far more valuable than the small task that I accomplished that day."
Mary cried, the tears falling from her cheeks unabated. It was unfair. It was wrong. It was a reminder of just how much joy had been taken from her life. Dr. Crawley took her hand gently.
"He'll need you, Mary," Dr. Crawley said softly. "Isobel too, but she'll make do. She will go on. Matthew though, he will need you very much. I'm afraid he's a lot like me, stubborn to a fault, and always prefers to keep his pain inside, so as not to burden his loved ones."
Mary nodded, swallowing in a deep breath and trying to calm herself.
"Now, I think I'll get some sleep. Don't worry, my dear Mary. I'll be here tomorrow morning. I can promise you that much."
Dr. Crawley squeezed her hand and Mary returned the gesture. Her father-in-law closed his eyes, his breathing jagged and uneven. She rose swiftly from her chair and walked briskly out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. When she looked down the corridor, she saw that Matthew was standing against the wall, his face downcast.
Of course he would wait for her, Mary thought. He would assume she needed his comfort, rather than look to his own grief first. And she did need him. It was as though the shocking loss of Dr. Crawley was akin to tearing a way a part of the life she had built for herself in Manchester, and she needed to cling to the biggest part left – to her husband.
"Matthew," Mary said, coming into his embrace and holding him tight. His hands clutched at her back, then he moved his fingers up to her hair and held her against him. He kissed her cheek, no words seemed necessary or appropriate in this moment. Neither of them knew where to begin.
Mary closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, kissing his neck lightly. His body was rigid, and he was eerily silent. She imagined that he was gritting his teeth and pursing his lips, hanging on to his composure out of respect for her, when an hour ago he was sobbing against her downstairs.
Mary squeezed her eyes further shut. The tears that had stopped momentarily when she left the bedroom returned, and she rubbed her husband's back in gentle circles.
Matthew gasped, letting out a long breath and sagging against the wall, pulling his wife tighter to him. He had walked down this hall to his father's bedroom full of anger and fury and frustration, mad at his parents for not telling him what was going on, mad at the disease that was defeating the strongest man he knew, mad at fate for showing him a beautiful life for him and Mary and their family and destroying that image in one fell swoop.
When he left his parents' bedroom and waited for Mary to have her conversation with his father, the anger was gone, the grief and despair filling him so profoundly that he could not be bothered to save any room to be mad anymore. His father was dying. How soon after would Mother follow? Wasn't that what people said about couples who had been together for so long? When one passed on, the other didn't remain for much longer. Matthew's world was falling apart, the ones he loved fading away from him. He would be alone. Someday soon, he would be alone, the family he grew up in this house with would be gone. It would just be him. Him and…
When Mary came out of the bedroom and he saw the tracks of her tears on her pale face, his heart skipped a beat and his resolve seemed to flare fiercely. His Mary. His wife. He would make things right for her, just as his father ordered him to. That would be his tribute. That would be his mission. He could not save Dr. Reginald Crawley. But he could try to make things right for Mary, and if he somehow succeeded, he knew that his father would be proud.
Matthew tried to be stoic, and brave, and unmoving. As he took Mary into his arms, he tried to be a pillar of strength for her, to calm the sorrow that he knew she must be feeling. His parents loved Mary, and she loved them, and losing his father would hurt her deeply.
"Don't keep it in, Matthew, please," she whispered. "I don't need to be protected. I need you."
Matthew shut his eyes and buried his face in her shoulder, a wrenched cry flying from his chest as hot tears flowed.
Their combined sobs echoed quietly down the dark hallway.