April 19th, 1917

It was as if I truly saw him, all of him, for the first time. He was beautiful and haunting all at once. His shoulders were stiff and his arms were lean. His skin was pale with patches of deep purple. He was scarred all over. To be sure, I had never seen him this bare before and it certainly wasn't what I had imagined. He was just like the men in the photos from the newspapers. The glow in his eyes was fading. The gentle soul, that I disdained so painfully in my foolish youth, had withered and grown numb. He wore the posture of a broken man and the expression of a ghost. He was adept at hiding his anguish when he was among officers and the family. He spoke with a cheerful voice and carried himself with a friendly demeanour. On some level, I knew that he was just trying to shield us from the horrors of the front. I did not fully appreciate, the extent of this deception.

How painful he was to behold. How I longed to love him; to hold him in my arms and to kiss him. To try to make him believe, when he had lost hope in all things and all people, he did not have to bear the weight of this war alone, as he had committed himself to doing. That I did not want him gone, that even if he had made me his heiress and left Downton in my sole charge, I would not want it.

And despite everything, despite his bruises and his scars, despite his frailty and his heavy posture, or even perhaps, because of it. I never wanted him more. This was Matthew Crawley as I have never seen him before, raw, authentic, unhampered by the expectations and dress of society, and if he was a little sad, it made him all the more desirable. In some strange way, in a way that I don't fully understand myself, I found his vulnerability alluring, his ruffian exterior exciting. Perhaps, the years of propriety and manners have taken its toll on me, or perhaps it was simply the fact that it was Matthew and even after all these long years, I still love him fiercely, but I wanted him in a way I've never wanted anyone before. Not even Pamuk.

Is there something wrong with me? Had I been permanently damaged by that horrible experience? Was Edith right? Am I a slut? I'm not married to him. And what of Lavinia? Poor sweet Lavinia, I can't help how I feel about him and if I am to hurt you in the coming days, I am truly sorry. But he inspires in me something that I should only feel for my husband.

April 20th, 1917

I had a dream…

No, it wasn't just a dream. It was something more. I can't describe it fully, words would never do it justice. It engulfed all of my senses and more. I saw him, in the pale glow of the moonlight. We were in the middle of a field, caressed by the gentle breeze of spring. He told me that he loved me and that he never wanted to be without me. What cruel tricks the mind plays on the body. He asked me to cling to him, so I did. He was like a mountain and I held onto his crevices. He was rough and gentle at the same time. He entered me with the fury and desire of a man who has not known to company of women for years, desperate, hungry, and wanton. I took him as best I could but of course it was nothing I was prepared for. I remember look into his eyes scared. What did he think of me? Was I a slut to him? Did he want me inspite of it? Or because of it? I was such a vain flirt when we first met. I thought him not good enough for me. Now I know it was the complete opposite. But he cradle my head and stared deep into my eyes, those eyes, sad and lonely, how I wanted to take all of that away from him, lay that burden upon me, so I took him instead, again and again. It felt like the first time, it was my first time. At least it was when I was there, in the dream. All those of Pamuk, all worries, and consternations; gone.

I moan, with every kiss and every caress, I can't help but moan. Is this what it is to make love? Is this what it is to be with Matthew Crawley? Then I wake up, in a cold sweat and a shortness of breath. I slowly come to my senses, as if calming down from a sense of euphoria. What is this feeling? I wondered what just happened. I lay in my bed for a while longer, retrying to reconstruct the memories and desperately trying to relive them. That's why I'm writing all of this down. I'm keeping this extremely private. Which is why I started this diary, separate from my usual one. For the love of God, Edith cannot find out about this. Anna doesn't even know about it.

It may be foolish to record these thoughts at all, dangerous even.

But I don't want to forget.

A/N: There's a little (well not so little) continuity Easter egg in this chapter, 2 points if you know what it is.