Regrets III

Was it her? He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him again. No doubt, for he had had a long day, didn't expect to come here. He wouldn't have, if one of the servants hadn't leaked the information, that Lady Mary was planning on coming to the village "for one of her charity works." Unusual, he thought, for the event was out of the way from Downton. And not immediately for a cause Mary would be quick to support—women's knitting contributions. She, who had scoffed at convention, told him about how boring women's duties were, how they kept them perpetually in a "waiting room". But that was all so long ago and things could have changed. Then he remembered the toy rabbit she had given him when he boarded the train the last time he had seen her. He could still feel the softness of the baby blue yarn, the comfort the dark eyes had given him during his war, his moments of fear, horror, surrender. Yes, so much could have changed.

He had been surprised to see her at the train station. She had been smiling, like so many women sending their men off to war. But of course, he was not hers. His mother was trying to put on a brave face, but Mary was not quite readable. But maybe he had imagined that, the mystery around her. For she had been well, as if nothing had happened during the garden party, when he had left her in tears. She was never down for long.

"If you like a good argument…we should see more of each other," he had said. And yet, he was the one who had run away, unable to handle an argument.

But it didn't seem so long ago, now that he saw her. He was sure it had to be her. There was no mistaking the dark hair that framed her face in a style he always remembered her wearing—with a side parting and folds gathered just above her neck. There was no hair loose, out of its clasp. Then he saw her perfectly arched eyebrows, which moved with such quickness that he sometimes thought they were more honest than her eyes, those black pools he could drown in.

But there was something changed, unmistakable. He was surprised at how thin she had become. She had always been slender, like a rare reed standing tall in the riverbank, a dandelion just about to scatter into shimmering dust. But the woman he saw was far from this. She was much thinner and pale. Her collarbones, the swell and fall of which he had spent hours imagining in earlier days, seemed to protrude out of her flesh, giving her a starved appearance. The transparent satin of her sleeves clung to her like skin so he could make out her arms, which were lank and weak, not like in the past when he remembered them as being firm, taut, quick to parry if she had been allowed to fence. She had once been fiercely athletic. "You know Mary. She likes to be in at the kill," Edith had said.

A small thought flickered in his mind. Had something terrible happened? Had she been ill? Did someone hurt her?

But he brushed the thought aside. He would have heard, surely, if something awful happened. He had heard about Sir Richard Carlisle, after all. But however unpredictable that liaison must have been, he was sure there was nothing alarming. Not yet. Then, what could be the matter?

Was it the war? He knew it must have been hard for her, for all of them. What, with having to convert their house into a home for convalescing soldiers. How shocking it must have been for the ladies to come face to face with men and wounds, blood and brutality.

But was it really? Was he sure she would have been shocked at the sight of humanity at peril, the cruelty of mortality? How much did he really know about her?

He had seen her struggling, attempting to say or do what she wanted, unencumbered by duty and family, like a fledgling trying to escape the nest. He remembered her sly comments during dinner, her words heavy with allusion. He recalled his mother telling him how she wanted to do right by William. He remembered—painfully—their row about the proposal.

"Matthew, you always make things so back and white!" she had said, her voice raw, her lips dry, her form fragile in the warm, cruel summer. He told her that it was a simple matter of yes or no, as if a switch could be turned off and on.

"I want to…"she had said, forced by his urgency, the pettiness of his request. He still remembered her that day, on the threshold of something. She was wearing a white suite and hat, her face and person open, and for a moment, free. The sincerity of her remarks should have purified her. He should have been kinder, more patient. And now, it might be too late.

His eyes met hers and he felt himself thrown back, lightheaded, like he had been the first time he had seen his men brought back to the camp without their limbs. It was a sight that made him feel worthless, lost, helpless, bitter. He had to blink again and again, standing motionless, to catch the details: the strands of hair pasted on the throat, the missing eyelashes, the colors of the layers of skin exposed by the gash on the surviving leg, the balloon of blood in the soiled bandage. The room had spun at the look of recognition, at the sight of the familiar in the sea of chaos.

Was he in danger too? Was he next? Was it somehow his fault? Could he have helped, prevented some of this? Should he have acted? Could he cause even more harm? He stood motionless, unaware of what was around him.


She had been careful, she thought. But they wouldn't leave her alone.

"Where is your mother?"

"Are none of your sisters in town?"

"And your aunt wasn't able to attend today?"

People still expected her to come accompanied, as if she was a mere debutante of seventeen, on the threshold of the biggest ride of her life. But she wasn't seventeen. She was far from that green girl who only dreamt of parties to show off in, conquests to win. She wasn't even twenty-four, when she had experienced what it was to lose. She had been happy in Matthew's presence, though not always—one never could with someone so clever and argumentative, who would find glitches in your speech, catch you for your petty thoughts, chastise you when you complained off guard. But she had liked his attention, even his displeasure.

She remembered the conversation they had once in the garden. She had been reading and Matthew had come looking for her father. He had walked over to her side, sat by her on the bench, kept her father waiting while he talked about Sybil and simplicity, politics and passion. He had told her they should see more of each other. She couldn't argue with him. The silence was so pleasurable that they had sat for a few minutes, her trying to stifle a laugh, him trying not to give in. Words were never really her strong suit. Matthew had then walked away, looking back at her with a boyish grin, as if to say "This argument isn't over. Just you wait!"

When his eyes met hers, it was as if the two years hadn't passed between them, as if he had kept his promise and come back, as if she hadn't seen him off in the train station, his uniform collar so starched she was afraid they would collapse under the wait of goodbyes.

She felt his eyes pull her in like a whirlpool, much as they had done that time they shared a kiss during that tempestuous night. She would, could spot that blue anywhere. But his eyes didn't seem welcoming tonight. His expressions were blank. His face looked so grey she thought he was a ghost. In earlier days, she might have teased him for his dull sight, befitting a "dull boy." But she could no longer do that.

The distance seemed insurmountable, even though they were only a few yards away. She still had to tend to the many voices grabbing her attention like tentacles, forcing her to break the chain that held him to her, search and lock it again, fearing his escape, another time, another loss. She was glad the gathering was large, no one would suspect. Besides, there were many men in uniform in that room.

She caught his gaze again, when she had rounded a corner, having managed to ward off a few provincial matrons. He had moved little, perhaps just craned his head towards her direction. What was the matter? Why didn't he walk towards her? Why couldn't he rescue her from this throng of admirers, cloying, stifling her with their thanks?

She didn't think they needed to thank her. She didn't deserve much of that. If only they knew about the fires that had to be quenched at home. Her heart quickened at the thought of Downton, her family, and the scandal that threatened to destroy it all. And her part in that ordeal filled her with remorse, fresh shame. Had Matthew heard? Surely, nothing was certain. And he couldn't have been told this soon. Mrs. Crawley had promised that much, at least. More for his sake, she was sure, than for her own.

Her head was throbbing and she suddenly felt weak, so much that the lady next to her asked if she wanted to lie down. She asked her to bring her some water and as soon as she had left, she made way for the nearest door that led outside, taking one last look at Matthew, hoping he would understand.


When he had seen her shake a little—the cold, perhaps?—and seen the glass she was holding tilt so it spilled its contents, blood-red on the white floor, he had roused from his own thoughts. He had wanted to rush to her side, tend to her.

He could only blame himself. Did he do wrong in coming? And now? His mother's letters had hinted at some sort of tension in the big house, but he had tried to dismiss it. He didn't want Downton to dominate his thoughts day in and day out. He had gone away with that explicit purpose. He was no Lord Grantham. Besides, he had Lavinia. Still.

But seeing Mary now brought a surge of guilt. Lord Grantham's affections he had taken for granted. But how could he have turned his back on them all, especially Mary? Did he think he could escape that easily?

Then why had he come tonight? It couldn't be because the party was a convenient distance from his quarters, so far from London and Lavinia and everyone he knew. What did he expect to say to Mary? He was so caught up in the thought seeing—or not seeing—her that he had thought of little else.

He followed her out slowly, his pains in his leg forgotten. It was as if he she was all that mattered.

The door led into to small garden, with a path leading to an archway, and beyond that, an area enclosed by clipped hedges. He could make a faint outline of a white bench in the dark space.

It was a breezy night and the air pregnant with the sounds of harvest. As he walked, he could make out bottle-blue shadows and a graceful silhouette, heard the clip-clap of heels, and when the moonlight shone through some clearing from trees moving in the wind, like bursts of lightning on a stormy night, he saw the outlines of a form he had memorized long ago.

He watched her walking, still taking in the view, savoring it, storing it in his trunk of memories. When she disappeared through the archway, he almost sprinted forward, wincing in pain as his leg took a sharp turn.

He saw her facing the bench, her hands folded against her chest. He stood in that archway, unsure of whether to go in or leave.

What was he doing here? Why did he follow her here? Why couldn't he let her go?

He wanted to ask her if she was all right. He wanted tell her to sit, rest on the bench. He wanted to hold her, care for her, make her well again. In the darkness, he made out the gentle angles of her face, the curve of her waist. The ribbons on her dress teased him, inviting him to trace their length, over her bodice to the dip in her stomach, to her skirt and lower. He pictured her dark hair splayed against the white bench, the rouge stains of her lip cream branding forever the place, the moment as their own.

And he could have closed the distance between them, the limp obliging, in that place where no one else was about, occupied only by his muse and the world he knew and missed—the fullness of nature, the loveliness of the tress, the fragrance of the flowers, his place in the order of things.


She had folded her hands instinctively, more to protect her heart, to stop her from doing something rash. She had seen his limp. Though she wasn't supposed to be surprised, she had let out a gasp, the sight taking her by force. Matthew injured—actually injured! And no one told her. Did his mother know? What else had happened? Was that why he was silent, with that expression on his face? Would he recover, or would he be permanent scarred, like those poor men in the house, shell shocked and raving mad? And then how could she bear it? How could she lose him completely? She had even borne his engagement, as long as there was hope me might return as he used to.

Yet the war was unstoppable. It could very well take him away.

The sudden reality of this, of seeing him, hit like a blow, made her head spin. She wrapped her arms around herself to steady herself, remind her of the reality of her own existence.

She could have walked over to him, pulled him past the archway, taken him deeper into the garden and into that peaceful fog of darkness and dreams. She could have held him in her arms, kissed the skin above his eyes and made him forget the scenes he had seen. She could have whispered a tune in his ear, something they both remembered playing during the nights he had dined with them, when they had talked and laughed together. She could even have given herself, hoping he would be soothed by the warmth of her skin, her hair smelling of the fragrance of the flowers from Mr. Molesley's garden, her stockings sprayed with mud she had accidentally slipped into when Branson brought the car that rainy morning, her breath tasting of the sweet eats Mrs Patmore had made from the recipe passed on for centuries, the jewels in her choker shining like the lights in the great hall.

But would he want her? Would he be insulted by her behavior? Would he push her away?

She knew he deserved more, that somehow the war made one want bigger and better things, to live a more just and quiet life. Maybe he wanted to start something new, get away from the dirt of the past, the crushing burden of history.


Would she talk to him? Accept him? Forgive him? He was worse than before, changed in ways he couldn't fully comprehend. Could she bear it? Could she have him as less than what he was before? Did she not deserve better, something far removed from the futility of war?

Downton. The name was like a mantra on his lips. He yearned for its light and beauty, its strength and days of innocence, its comfort and unquiet peace.

Downton. She wanted him to come home, to recover in her presence. She yearned for the old days of comedy and companionship, of long walks and stolen kisses. Instead of oppressing her, the past seemed like an elixir, all she had amidst the dangers and uncertainties of the present.

She walked towards him. She reached out a hand so her fingers felt the cross stitch of the pattern on his chest pocket.

He moved towards her, one hand holding onto the archway, the other reaching for her so he felt the coolness of the satin on her sleeve, the warmth of the skin beneath. Just.

"Mr. Crawley, there's someone asking for you." The servant had retreated politely. But it was too late. The spell was already broken.