Home of Lady Philomena Grey, Manchester, England, October 1912.
Mary stirred her tea. Her eyes looked blankly at the kitchen counter top. She came downstairs to pour herself a cup, then disappear back to the attic. She found she enjoyed the kitchen. It was usually empty as Lady Philomena's servants only busied themselves around meal times, and on days like today, when Lady Philomena was scheduled to take luncheon out with friends, the kitchen was a quiet sanctuary.
"Lady Mary," a voice called.
Mary frowned and slowly turned. She wondered for a second if another woman named Mary had moved into the home. Surely no one would deliberately address her by name, and most definitely the woman standing in the doorway would not do so for any reason.
"Lady Philomena," Mary said carefully. "Hello. I wasn't expecting you."
"I need to give the staff some instructions before I depart for luncheon," Lady Philomena explained in a bored tone. "I noticed that you weren't at Church last Sunday."
Mary blinked. She kept her expression composed, but her mind was working quickly through the numerous reasons as to why Lady Philomena would even know she went to Church, and why she would bother ever looking for her.
"I wasn't feeling up for it," Mary said, deciding there was no harm in being honest. What explanation did she owe her distinguished landlady, after all?
"Of course you weren't," Lady Philomena nodded. "Weeks later and I imagine many at the hospital are still vexed."
Mary frowned in confusion.
"The passing of Dr. Crawley," Lady Philomena continued. "Must have been a horrible shock."
"Yes," Mary said plainly. She was surprised that Lady Philomena even knew about Dr. Crawley.
"I'd met him once or twice, at a fundraiser or some other hospital event," Lady Philomena waved her hand. "And he seemed a nice fellow."
"He was," Mary replied a bit too quickly. "A very nice fellow," she looked down at her hands.
"My dear brother told me that Manchester Cathedral was overflowing for the service," Lady Philomena noted. "The hospital will be full of people wearing black for months I expect."
Mary could only nod and remain silent. She felt horribly that she could not properly mourn her father-in-law. She had worn black for a week after the funeral, but then had to change to colours to avoid suspicious questions as to why she was mourning Dr. Crawley for longer than an employee ought to. Despite Matthew's repeated assurances that he understood, she felt she somehow was letting him down, that it was yet another example of how she could not be a proper wife to him.
"Well, I'll need to round up the servants," Lady Philomena declared. She turned and walked off towards the dining room without giving Mary a proper goodbye.
Mary stared after her for several moments, replaying the bizarre and unexpected conversation in her mind. It was almost as though Lady Philomena was showing a basic form of courtesy to her. Mary shook her head, took her tea cup and made her way towards the stairs. It was far more plausible that Lord Merton had instructed Lady Philomena to inquire as to why Mary was at the funeral and what her relationship to Dr. Crawley actually was. Whatever the mission, Mary was confident she'd revealed nothing. As she reached her room and began picking out a dark navy blue outfit to wear to the hospital, she reminded herself that this strange encounter with Lady Philomena was yet another reason why she needed to be vigilant in her discretion about her marriage to Matthew, and why he needed to as well.
After she finished dressing, Mary sat down at the small desk in the corner. She had just enough time to finish her letter to Sybil before leaving for the hospital. Her youngest sister was the only family member that Mary kept in touch with – the only link to her old life that still existed really. Any contact with her parents would be too angry, and any communication with Edith would be too indifferent. Mary still adored Sybil to this day, and so their letters were heartfelt and warm. Sometimes a short note from her Granny was contained in Sybil's correspondence – nothing longer than a few words of support. Still, Mary did take solace in knowing that the Dowager Countess continued to think of her, even if the rest of her family did not.
Sybil's latest letters contained news of the family's time in London during the Season and their father's fervent belief that James and Patrick would still be found, despite it now being over six months since the disaster. Mary shook her head at this information from her sister. Lord Grantham still seemed to be delusional, or lack common sense, when it came to some things.
As Mary reviewed what she had written so far, her fingers played with her locket necklace. Matthew had bought it for her on their wedding day, telling her she could store all of their memories inside it, thereby keeping him with her even when they could not act married to the outside world. Any threat to the life she had built here was unwelcome. She longed to hear that her cousins had survived simply for her own reasons, as it would confirm once and for all that she did not need to think of Downton again and could continue on with her life in Manchester without further threat. Every day she secretly scoured the newspapers, reading for any sign of the esteemed lords of Grantham returning triumphantly to England. Thus far, there had been nothing.
When thinking about so many lives lost and dreams snuffed out when the great ship sank, Mary inevitably turned to her own personal loss, and all the memories that she and Matthew would not get to share with his father. She knew now that the real tragedy in her life had not occurred at Downton, and that if she could change anything about the past two years, oddly enough it would not be her banishment.
Mary stared at the page, her pen poised above the parchment. How easy it would be to share every detail with her youngest sister – about her life, about Matthew, about how she never wanted to return to Yorkshire, never needed to set foot there ever again. But even though Mary was certain that Sybil would be happy for her, committing such details to paper was dangerous and unadvisable. She was certain that Sybil was not the only one who read her letters.
"Dearest Sybil,
As of late, I've had an absolutely wretched time in Manchester. Everything that was going so surprisingly well here has now faltered and seemed less encouraging. It makes me heartsick, and reminds me that life can be terribly unfair, can't it? Everything seems so golden one minute, then turns to ashes the next. I suppose everyone feels this way at one time or another. If facing these same emotions just last year, I would have thought my life was somehow slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
And yet, truth be told darling, I still feel more love and support here in my surrogate home than I ever did at Downton. It's rather like I'm through the looking glass, the mirror reflecting where I have been.
I now know what is truly paramount. I know what to value and what not to take for granted. And I know what it feels like to be valued, Sybil. I'm actually lucky, and darling, I hope that you get to experience this feeling of safety and warmth for yourself someday. The odd thing is, despite some rather sad recent events, I feel I understand what it is to be happy, and I know for certain now that we all truly deserve it."
Mary concluded her letter with a fond salutation to her little sister. She addressed and stamped the envelope before placing it in her purse. Her task completed, she made her way downstairs. She had a short shift ahead of her, and afterward she wanted to take lunch with Isobel. She remembered her promise to Dr. Crawley to take care of both Matthew and his mother, and she thought it helped her, and them, to spend as much time together as possible.
Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1912
"What do you do when you're sad, Mary? To comfort yourself, that is," Dr. Crawley rasped. His quiet voice struggled to form the words, a severe contrast to the strength of his question. Mary looked at him, pondering his question as he observed her reaction.
"Isobel ignores it, soldiering on despite whatever emotions are swirling inside of her," Dr. Crawley explained. "Matthew retreats into himself," Dr. Crawley coughed before continuing. "But, you my dear, I think you face sadness straight on. Directly. Am I right?"
Mary fought back tears at the accurate diagnosis.
"Of course, you're right," she said, nodding her head. "As a child I wasn't ever allowed to be sad…"
Mary shuddered at the memory of how this harsh rule had been drilled into her from a young age. Her nanny, her parents, and of course Cousin James all repeated to her that stoicism was expected, without exceptions and that sentimentality was pointless.
Mary had developed a hard edge as a result of this indoctrination, but there were moments where she questioned this attitude. Sybil had been such a fussy baby, always crying, always seeking comfort, and it was Mary who often soothed her. Edith had never cried that way, and Mary had never felt the need to attach herself to her middle sister. But Sybil needed more attention, particularly when Nanny and Mama were more likely to scold her than soothe her. Mary discovered for herself the satisfaction of being useful, of being valued, of taking pride in being able to help others.
"Well," Dr. Crawley said, his raspy whisper still filled with confidence. "I'll tell you what I've told them in the past, hopefully with more success. I give you permission to feel sad if necessary, Mary, and to not feel as if you must be cold and careful. You don't need my permission of course, but we never know what we really need, do we? Not until we need it, anyway. And you do not need to hide yourself, not around us."
Mary nodded and sniffled quietly. Every conversation could be their last. She found it especially difficult to maintain her composure when Isobel or Matthew was in the room with Dr. Crawley. Watching this family that had taken her in, that had rescued her, fall apart day by day was crushing and made their loss all the more tragic.
"I think about my first day at the hospital rather often, you know," Mary whispered. "You found me at my lowest moment. I was adrift, confused, I didn't even think to clean the pills after I'd dropped them all over the floor. If you hadn't gone out of your way to speak to me, my life now would be…well," Mary couldn't finish as her chest seemed to tighten.
"We can't go back in time. It is unhealthy," Dr. Crawley said kindly.
"Mary," Isobel called from the doorway. "I'll take over. Go and rest."
Mary glanced back and saw Matthew waiting in the hallway. Mary nodded to Isobel and rose from her chair. She looked back at Dr. Crawley and smiled, then left the room to give Isobel and her husband privacy, moving quickly to Matthew's side and taking his hand as she led him to his bedroom.
Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, October 1912
The hospital was full of tributes to Dr. Crawley in both evident and subtle ways. His picture that hung with the other members of the board of directors was shrouded with black cloth, as was the clock by his open office door. He had worked at the hospital since he was a youth of seventeen, a volunteer apprentice and had given fifty years of service to the institution. A plaque was soon to be placed recognizing the achievement. Everyone it seemed was wearing a black armband in remembrance. Even Cassandra looked sombre as their paths crossed. Mary worked quickly and without emotion. She would only smile in nostalgia when she saw Dr. Crawley's handwriting on a chart or dealt with patients who knew him. Otherwise, she wanted to be done and out of the hospital as soon as possible.
When her pledged hours were completed for the day, she went in search of Isobel. She found her sitting with a middle-aged woman, clearly waiting with her for news on a patient. Isobel was dressed completely in black, with only a white nursing apron above her clothing. It reminded Mary of Matthew's white vest and she smiled at the image. Isobel patted the woman's hand kindly as Dr. Boyd approached. After a brief conversation, the relief was palpable on the wife's face and she thanked Dr. Boyd profusely before being escorted to the recovery room. Isobel and Dr. Boyd excused themselves and walked over to another hallway. Mary approached them, but stood off to the side, waiting for the right moment to interrupt and get Isobel's attention.
"I'm glad I was able to bring good news," Dr. Boyd said. "Her husband will recover and be able to provide for his wife as a husband should."
"Yes, a good outcome today. Thank you for your kind speech to Mrs. Allen," Isobel said politely. "I've grown used to you acting in your administrative capacity with the Board that I sometimes forget you're still a decent doctor."
Dr. Boyd smiled at the joke. "I try," he said kindly. "I know how concerning it can be to face the idea of losing one's spouse. When my Barbara passed, I didn't think there would be a way forward for me. Thankfully I had my work, but you know, Isobel, sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes, we need more, and…"
"Everyone is different," Isobel said, abruptly interrupting him before he could finish. She paused and smiled courteously. "Thank you Dr. Boyd."
"That's so formal," Dr. Boyd said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. "You used to call me Albert," he said. "I would enjoy it if you did so again."
Isobel glanced away and noticed Mary waiting for her. She smiled, relieved at the diversion.
"Miss Crawley," she said brightly. "Excuse me, Dr. Boyd," she said as she moved away from him. "I must return to my work."
"Of course," Dr. Boyd nodded. He watched as Isobel walked past him, then quickly went in the other direction.
"Before I leave," Mary said quietly. "I would like to treat you to tea and biscotti in the commissary."
"Not today, my dear. I'm afraid I've fallen behind," Isobel smiled. "Though we should eat together sometime this week. Consider it a thank you for your help with Dr. Boyd just now."
Mary chuckled at Isobel's implication. It was strange how her mother-in-law could use humour to help her through this difficult time, but Mary was impressed all the same.
"Will you be at dinner tonight?" Isobel inquired.
"Yes, of course," Mary confirmed.
"Good," Isobel said graciously. "Now, I know you're done for the day, so go along. Don't fret about me. And don't hold anything against Dr. Boyd. He is right. We've known each other for a very long time. But I'm afraid he's too late. There was only one man for me, and no one's good intentions will change that," she said as her voice almost broke.
Mary nodded in understanding.
Isobel cleared her throat, "Go to Matthew," she said with encouragement. "He needs you. I had to leave him at home with all of Reginald's belongings to go through, and I fear what he may have gotten himself into."
"I'll go there now," Mary said.
Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, October 1912
Mary walked around the manicured lawn of what was now Isobel's home. The black crepe with black ribbon was still on the front door. Bouquets of flowers left by well wishers were arranged in the windows, so abundant they seemed to form a virtual shrine. In the week of the funeral, it seemed there was a constant line of people passing in and out of the house. Even now, weeks later, she knew that letters and cards were still coming in each day.
She proceeded to the back door of the house. Though it would appear normal for an unescorted lady to call at the home during this time of mourning, she never could be sure who she might run into, so she kept to the less conspicuous route. As she rounded the back of the home, she saw Davis appear. He was emptying tobacco from the large humidor that had belonged to Dr. Crawley. The large wooden box had an immaculate carving of the Roman god Janus on it. The double-faced heads looked in opposite directions symbolizing beginnings and endings. Davis frowned as she went about the task. The loss of Dr. Crawley had hit him especially hard, it seemed.
"Good day, Lady Mary," Davis nodded as she approached. "Mr. Matthew wanted me to clean these as soon as possible," he said quietly. "He is rather upset having such reminders still in the house. Anything to do with his father's smoking is most unwelcome."
"Of course," she concurred. She had to admire such loyalty from a servant. That Dr. Crawley's passing affected the butler so strongly was yet another comment on how beloved the man was.
"Where is Mr. Matthew?" Mary inquired.
"He is in the library," Davis replied politely.
"Thank you," Mary said with a nod and she proceeded on her way.
Mary was more at ease once inside the house. With Isobel still at work, no visitors would be coming by, and she did not need to be afraid of revealing herself to the wrong person. She saw Matthew standing by the far bookshelf along the north wall of the library. He had rolled up his shirt shelves, and there was a pencil behind his left ear. In his arms, he carried several large books, which he deposited on a nearby desk. He removed the pencil and jotted down scribbles on a notepad. Matthew frowned and his lips moved as he mumbled to himself, erasing what he had just written. Although she enjoyed watching him, Mary could see the rigid set of his shoulders and the stress of his posture. He seemed distracted and agitated, the usual meticulous and careful manner he applied to any task was missing.
He needed relief.
She approached him, his addled mood stopping him from detecting her presence. She groped his bottom, then covered his eyes playfully.
"Guess who?"
"Davis, I told you, not now. Mary could come in at any moment," Matthew chuckled. He removed her hands and turned to face her. He attempted a smile and failed miserably. He embraced her and he inhaled her scent deeply. When Mary tried to step back, Matthew held her in place. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers for several moments. As she finally broke away, she fussed with his hair, stroking the floppy locks as she looked at him with concern.
"What are you doing in here?" She inquired gently.
"Well," Matthew said softly, gazing about the room. "I'm donating Papa's medical books to the hospital and the university. I also want to purchase new editions of his favourite literary classics for the library."
"Quite the project," Mary said kindly. "It looks as though you have been busy."
"Not nearly busy enough to keep myself from thinking maddening thoughts," he said in exasperation. He squeezed their joined hands before releasing her. "I'm not nearly as good as
Mother about focusing in the moment. I keep thinking backwards or forwards and neither is helping."
Matthew's hand raked through his hair just as hers had a few minutes prior. He glanced this way and that, seemingly uncertain as to what he should settle his attention on.
"Every morning when I wake up it seems like the previous day was just a bad dream. My mind plays tricks on me. Father is just at work, or out bird watching. I even tell myself that he'll be home soon before I realize how ridiculous I'm being. And the scene repeats itself the next day," he sighed.
"You're not being ridiculous at all," Mary said kindly. "Everyone deals with loss in his own way, and this is yours. It's perfectly all right."
"I'm afraid when left on my own, this is what ends up happening," Matthew said. "My mind is far less jumbled when you're lying next to me."
Mary smiled slightly.
Matthew's eyes widened.
"I'm sorry, Mary!" he exclaimed. "I didn't mean to imply that…"
"It's all right," she nodded. "I know exactly what you mean, darling."
Mary turned away from him, and went to the table to inspect the books and the list he had compiled. Her hand stilled when she saw a letter on the table. It had the emblem of the Earl of Grantham, and she frowned at the discovery.
"He wrote to me," Matthew explained, noticing she was looking at the letter. He continued to glance around the room absentmindedly. "Something about assuring me that I wasn't needed at Downton Abbey as he was still confident that James and Patrick would return soon."
"For once, I agree with him," Mary said bitterly, still focused on the letter. "Besides, your place is here."
"He did offer his condolences," Matthew said. "He wrote that reading about my father's passing reminded him of when your grandfather died. He mentioned that he felt his loss profoundly."
Mary could not help but laugh angrily.
"If he mourned my Grandpapa, it wasn't out of love," Mary said. "They were never close. If anything, Lord Grantham was probably terrified that he now had to manage on his own without someone telling him what to do at every turn."
Most of what Mary knew about her Grandpapa came from her Granny. She spoke often about his strong personality and competitive nature, and most importantly, that Mary's Papa and Cousin James would be hard pressed to follow his lead. 'Uneasy is the head the wears the crown,' Granny would say, and not entirely in jest, Mary thought.
"Regardless of his motivations, I'll need to reply to him. He did take the time to write to me," Matthew said.
"I don't think you need to respond to him at all," she said firmly. "But do what you feel you must. I won't discuss Downton, or my father. He spoils everything."
Mary looked at Matthew's handwritten notes to distract herself from becoming upset.
Papa's favourites: Nicholas Nickleby. Kim. Ivanhoe. Collected Poetry of Emily Dickinson.
Dr. Crawley had eclectic taste in fiction, she mused. She smiled, thinking it would be a fitting tribute to re-read these works herself in the coming months. She could convince Matthew to read them to her. It could be their small acknowledgment of what Dr. Crawley meant to them.
"Mary," Matthew said, coming up to her and caressing her cheek.
"No," she said intently, turning to face him again. "We can't discuss it. I won't."
Mary gave him a loving peck on the cheek and then picked up a magazine from a box on the table.
"Bird Notes and News," she said nostalgically. "Oh, how your father loved this magazine. I remember the way he would bring it to work, even though he never had time to read it. But, it sat on his desk as though he couldn't part with it," Mary paused as she recalled his simple joy over this publication. "I think it was especially significant to him since you gave him the subscription."
"I hope so," Matthew said emotionally. "Did he ever mention it comes from the Royal Society, which was founded here in Manchester? Father had been a member since its creation, before I was even born."
Mary rolled her eyes fondly. "It may have come up, oh…perhaps a dozen times. One of you seemed to mention it every time we picnicked together in the botanical gardens darling, like clockwork."
"He was always so particular about certain things," Matthew sighed. He turned away and paced around the room, running his hands nervously through his hair again. It was as though he was a top spinning about, wobbling here and there, close to teetering over.
"I've got an idea," she said, trying to catch his attention. "Since you're making lists already, why don't we make one of your father's favourite places here in Manchester? You can take me to them and tell me all about them. Even the ones I already know."
Matthew stopped pacing and looked at her gratefully. "That's brilliant, Mary, thank you," he said, his voice shaking. "I've been mulling over a number of tributes, actually. I've been thinking of buying all of the caged birds that are always being sold in the street markets in Piccadilly Gardens. Papa always did that. The first time he took me when I was a little boy…"
His voice caught in his throat.
Mary stepped towards him and came into his arms.
"Go on," she smiled.
"Well, I didn't realize that his intention was to free them all. It was utterly amazing to watch them all fly away. They soared up into the sky chasing the sun, flapping their wings. I don't know if they even knew where they were going or what they were going to do to survive on their own. It was enough that they were free in that moment."
Matthew's eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be far away. His eyes looked back at her, then he stepped away. He ran his hands over his face, then squeezed them together in front of him. He turned away and stretched his arms out at his sides, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching over and over.
"Matthew?" Mary frowned.
"I just…" he growled. "There's so much that he didn't tell me. There's so much that we didn't get a chance to talk about, even in the last days when we tried to talk day and night."
Matthew reached the sofa and dug his hands into the back of it. His shoulders tensed and he took deep breaths. He finally spun around and collapsed down on to it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.
Mary looked at him in alarm. She turned and quickly crossed to the door, closing it so no one would see or hear him break down. She went to his side and sat down next to him, running her hand up and down his back.
"Matthew," Mary said softly. She reached over and gently lifted his head out of his hands. He turned to look at her. His eyes were dull and seemed to sag. His face seemed lifeless, as though the colour had drained from his cheeks.
"Darling, have you been sleeping at all?" she asked quietly.
"A little," he said, swallowing nervously. "It sometimes feels…wrong…to sleep."
"Oh, Matthew," she said sadly.
"I don't know what to feel, Mary," he said, looking at the floor. "I'm sad, and angry, and frustrated, and depressed, and just…numb. One moment I think I'm supposed to be strong, to be the man of the house and not show any emotion, and the next I'm crying and shaking like a child."
"Darling," Mary shook her head. She did not realize Matthew was suffering this much.
"It's all right if you have to cry yourself to sleep. I know I have," she offered.
Matthew's eyes widened in panic and he glanced at her, then glanced away.
"I haven't been crying myself to sleep," he said defensively.
"That's good," Mary smiled bravely. "Perhaps focus on that. Focus on whatever you're doing to help you through each day and it may get a little easier."
"No!" Matthew said fiercely, sitting up straight. "I…I just need to be stronger…for Mother…for you…I need to not let it affect me so."
"Matthew," Mary scolded him lightly. "You're not Atlas. You don't need to hold us all up. You need to take time for yourself. You need to deal with whatever you're feeling."
"I don't think it's wise to do that," Matthew said ruefully. He then blinked as though he did not mean to say the words out loud. He looked at Mary again, then looked away.
"Matthew?" Mary frowned. "What is it?"
"Nothing!" he said immediately. "I'm just trying to get through each day, as you say."
"Matthew…" she said carefully. "What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"
"It's nothing, Mary," he answered. "I don't want to concern you with it."
"I am concerned!" Mary said firmly. "And I want to help you. What can I do?"
"No, it's not appropriate," Matthew shook his head. "I should be honouring my father's memory, not thinking about…it's nothing."
"Matthew?" Mary said after a lengthy pause, entirely confused now. "What isn't appropriate?"
Matthew sighed and his head fell back against the sofa. "You'll think me horrible," he rolled his eyes.
"Never," Mary shook her head.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he closed his eyes. "But over the past weeks, at night, it seems all I can think about is how long it's been since we…" he opened his eyes and frowned in disgust, unable to finish.
Mary blinked in realization. "Matthew," she said slowly.
"There," Matthew spat. "Now you see what an absolute monster you've married. I can't even control my stupid urges long enough to mourn my father properly."
Mary swallowed, her mind racing.
"It has been months," she said faintly, her cheeks reddening in a fierce blush. "We've never gone this long since we've been married."
"Mary, please don't talk about it," Matthew pleaded. "I can't…"
"Shh," she said, her hand reaching over and caressing his cheek. She kissed him lightly, moving from his cheek to his neck.
"Mary!" he gasped, his arm closing around her and drawing her closer. "Please, stop!"
"It's not wrong, Matthew," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear before moving back to his neck. Her hand ran down his front, sweeping across his chest. "Let me help you. Let me help you forget."
She turned his face towards her and kissed him.
"Let me help you feel like yourself again," she said.
She eased backward on the sofa, pulling him with her. His hands shook and his weight settled on her. He grabbed at her, his mouth against her neck, then her shoulder, kissing her skin as he tugged her blouse apart and revealed more of her to him. He was frantic, his hands moving all over her and his mouth constantly seeking contact.
Mary closed her eyes as long dormant feelings flooded back. She tried to remove his clothing but he captured her arms and pushed them down to her sides, stilling her movements. He eventually rose up long enough to remove his shirt, then he was upon her once more, the heat of his bare skin against hers making her cry out as he parted her legs and lifted her skirt.
He stopped suddenly, his eyes wild, staring down at her, his lip quivering. She calmed herself enough to reach up and frame his face with her hands. She nodded slightly, then brought him down to her and kissed him. He groaned and his arms circled her back. He was inside of her and it was as though he still wasn't close enough. She hung on to him, holding his shoulders and the back of his neck. Her legs squeezed around him. Her lips found his ear and she called his name, again and again, a reassuring chant that became tangled and choked as he moved faster.
"Mary," he hissed, and she couldn't answer with words. She felt him release and her eyes shut tight and she called out as she fell apart.
She watched him.
Matthew stared intently at the notepad, his brow creased in concentration. Despite how serious he looked, Mary could only grin at his dishevelled hair and how he had done up his shirt incorrectly, missing several buttons.
"What?" he asked, not looking at her.
"You're rather a mess," she said.
"I know," he smiled conspiratorially and kissed her quickly before looking back at the notepad.
"Well, I think the list might just be complete; from the bells of Manchester City Hall to the Portico Library," he declared. He tapped his pencil on the paper and nodded to himself.
"Fletcher Moss Botanical Gardens and Albert Square," Mary read with approval. "They all sound lovely."
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Matthew called out for their visitor to enter and Davis opened the door.
"Dinner is served," he said astutely with a small nod.
"Mother must be finally home," Matthew said, rising from the sofa.
"Then you had best fix your clothes," Mary smiled. "Unless you want her to suspect what we've been up to in here."
"What we've been up to is none of her business," Matthew smiled, leaning down and kissing her. "And no matter how sordid it was, it helped me, and I love you for pitying me."
"What makes you think that I gained nothing from it?" she looked at him pointedly, before looking away and blushing at the fresh memory of what they'd done, and what he'd done to her after they'd recovered their strength as well.
He took her hand and helped her up. She helped him readjust his buttons and cuffs and fixed his hair. He escorted her through to the dining room where Isobel was already seated.
As they sipped their soup, the trio was mostly silent. In the earliest days following Dr. Crawley's death, none of them felt like talking. A few days later and their conversation was stunted and forced. Now, weeks afterward, they still were not entirely back to normal – they were missing the most vocal of the family after all – but they were more at ease.
"So," Isobel finally broke the silence. "How was your afternoon?"
Matthew swallowed loudly. Mary remained composed.
"I packed up Papa's medical books as planned," he said quietly. "He has," Matthew paused at the slip of the tongue, "He had," Matthew continued, "two first editions of Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body. I think I may keep one."
Isobel smiled tenderly as she reached for her glass of wine.
"Thinking of changing professions dear?" She inquired affectionately.
"Well, I have always been outnumbered," Matthew returned, "Everyone I love has been involved in the medical profession," he said as his eyes roamed between his mother and his wife. However, then his eyes fell on his father's empty chair at the head of the table. Matthew's gaze turned sad. When he continued to stare, Mary saw it as time to change the subject.
"Isobel," she said addressing her mother-in-law. "We've gathered a list of Dr. Crawley's favourite places in Manchester, we plan to visit each and reminisce. Would you care to join us?"
"Oh yes," Matthew said, his gloomy reverie interrupted. "Please do, Mother".
Isobel's eyes watered at the offering.
"Thank you," she said kindly and was silent for a moment. "I'm quite touched. Although it's a marvellous idea and Reginald would have approved, I think it best if the two of you took this on by yourselves."
"But, Mother," Matthew interrupted. However, he ceased at the look on her face.
"Matthew," Isobel said gently, "This is for you and Mary; this is your time. Although may, I make a suggestion?"
"Of course," he said earnestly.
"If it's not on your list, would you visit the Belle Vue Zoological Gardens for me? Your father took me there on our very first official date," she smiled.
"I haven't heard this story," Mary smiled.
"Neither have I, actually," Matthew noted, looking at his mother pointedly.
"Well," Isobel said coyly. "I was very young, and I wanted to see the place described as the show ground of the world. Your father was good enough to humour me and my interest in the first privately funded zoo in England."
"And I thought his first visit there was when he took me," Matthew smiled.
"I'm afraid not," Isobel said happily. "Though I think there is a wise lesson we can take from that. As you go about your tour, try and gather some souvenirs. I'm going to put together a scrapbook of sorts, combining my old memories with your father with new ones that the two of you create in the same places we visited. He'll enjoy the symmetry in that."
"That seems fitting," Mary nodded.
Matthew nodded and reached for his wine. They fell into a comfortable silence once more. Just having the three of them around the table was a painful reminder of their loss, but they were recovering day by day and memory by memory.
Albert Square, Manchester, England October 1912
"And so she approaches from Princess Street," Matthew said quietly as Mary joined him on the bench. "Seems appropriate."
"You are quite cheery this morning," she said with a small smile.
However, before Matthew could respond, the bells from Manchester's town hall tolled the change of the hour.
"The sound of Manchester," Matthew said as the final bell echoed across the square. He folded up his newspaper and stuck it in his briefcase.
"The bell has a name, but I can never seem to remember it," Mary said as she adjusted her bonnet. It was a windy day with the first chill of autumn having arrived prematurely.
"The Great Abel," Matthew responded fondly as he stared in the direction of Manchester City Hall.
"The first stop on our tour," Mary smiled.
"The clock face has an inscription from the bible, Psalm 90:12, Teach us to number our days," Matthew recited the information he knew by heart. "However," he continued, "Papa preferred the other inscription also carved into the bell. He said it was more fitting for this city. Tennyson's poetic line –'Ring out the false, ring in the true.'"
"Is it true," Mary asked warmly. "That your father's name is on one of the stained glass skylights in the town hall?" She had heard this spoken at the hospital, and while she had no reason to doubt it, she couldn't believe he would have paid to be singled out in such a fashion.
Matthew grinned.
"Yes. You must not know the story behind it," he said.
Mary smiled as she looked across the square. She glanced at him, a subtle indication for him to continue. It was moments like this that made Matthew warm with a smug confidence in his marriage. Mary seemed to be able to speak to him without even speaking.
"Papa," Matthew started, his tone reflective. "Made the large donation before he was married and had a family." He pointed at the town hall. "When it opened in 1877, he gave the bulk of his savings towards purchasing the skylight endowment. Although he later told me he was embarrassed by the vulgarity of his ambition to have his name preserved in such a manner."
"Well," Mary said standing up. "I shall require a visit to this spectacle so that I can make my own judgment."
"Very well," Matthew said. "I am happy to oblige." He extended his arm for her to take and then realized the mistake. He pulled his arm back and they walked instead side by side, a polite distance between them.
It was only a short walk until they were inside the neo-gothic structure. Mary had never had reason to be inside this building before. Matthew explained how it was an architectural marvel, very different from other buildings in Manchester. It was unique for several reasons, but most revolved around the same design triumph, the usage of positioned windows to amplify the natural light. She couldn't help but think of Dr. Crawley as a young man as he stared at this structure, so different and yet practical. They climbed the marble stairs walking apart from each other with their hands on the opposite banisters.
"Follow me," Matthew whispered as he turned down a corridor. Mary winked as their eyes met.
They passed a series of murals that depicted the history of the city, and stopped for a moment to admire them. However, shortly afterwards they proceeded and found the window in question. Mary looked around and realized they were at last alone. She took Matthew's hand, and he affectionately squeezed hers in return. As she looked up at Dr. Crawley's skylight, it was almost a heavenly view; his name shrouded by persistent and never-ending sources of light.
Dr. Reginald George Crawley
"I don't find it vain at all," she smiled. "It's quite charming and distinguished, just like your father."
"Mmm," Matthew smiled. He tugged her towards him and she smiled as he took her into his arms.
"Matthew, we're in public," she teased, not stepping away from him.
"I'm just following orders, Mary," he smiled back. "Creating new memories, remember?"
Mary smiled at his confident tone, a voice that had been lacking from him for weeks. She took a small thrill in knowing that her idea to tour Dr. Crawley's favourite places was invigorating Matthew in some way.
They kissed lightly, and when they pulled apart, they were both beaming. They took one last look at the skylight, then separated and went back downstairs.
After leaving the town hall, they proceeded to the street bazaar contained within Piccadilly Gardens. The last of the summer flowers, as well as fruits and vegetables, were on display in the busy market. They passed the numerous stalls and stopped at the merchant selling caged birds. Despite the substantial cost, Matthew purchased every cage available from a very surprised and yet pleased vendor. Mary was somewhat overwhelmed by the vast array of animals. She smiled as Matthew identified the different species from their particular markings and colours.
Mary nervously helped him open the cages, and the sparrows, gold finches, warblers and starlings all flew away without hesitation. They flapped their wings with force and speed sailing so elegantly up into the sky. Mary smiled. It was just as magical a moment as Matthew had told her it would be.
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops," Matthew said softly, his voice soft.
"Did he say that to you?" she asked.
"Yes," Matthew answered. "It's from Emily Dickinson's poetry."
Mary nodded as she once again looked up at the sky; however, the birds were now nowhere to be found in her vision.
"Um," the vendor said as he cleared his throat. "This one won't leave."
Matthew turned towards the cage of a small emerald green cockatiel.
The bird had beautiful plumage, he noticed as he stared. However, currently it appeared to be nervously plucking its feathers. To Matthew it appeared to be afraid of the open door to its cage.
"Is there anything wrong with this bird?" He asked the vendor.
"Not a thing," the man replied, seemingly offended by the question. "He don't talk the way a cockatiel should, which makes it hard to sell. But, you bought him, so he's yours. Good day." The man swiftly went about packing up his stall.
"Come on," Matthew said gently as he stooped beside the cage. "You're free," he cajoled.
The bird continued to pluck its feathers. Matthew turned towards Mary with a sad expression on his face.
"He can't picture life outside of his cage. He never knew what it was like to be free, so he doesn't know he's supposed to leave."
He shut the latch to the cage, and the bird ceased its plucking.
"Let's visit the other places on our list some other time," Matthew declared. "I want to take our newest family member home. I just hope that Mother won't be too cross with me for buying him."
Mary could only smile at her husband's gentle heart. She walked a comfortable distance beside him as they crossed the square and went to hail a taxi to take all three of them back home.