A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read/reviewed/favorited/alerted, I'm so glad you enjoyed the first installment and hope you like this one, too :)
A big thank you to my lovely beta, whose support is simply invaluable.
April, 1918
"We must do all that we possibly can to keep spirits up," her father declared, though his expression was, Mary thought, not altogether congruous with the words that had been his mantra for the past several days.
"I quite agree," Edith added with much more enthusiasm from her place at the piano.
"But is a concert really the thing?" her mother mused. Mary rather agreed that a night of haphazard magic tricks, amateur juggling, and mediocre singing accompanied by Edith's careful prodding of the piano did not seem a convincing remedy for flagging morale – but as it had been set for that evening, she did not see much point to her mother's hesitation.
"The men are looking so forward to it," Edith continued. "We shouldn't let our own personal troubles effect them, not when they've already given so much for the war effort. I think they deserve a little fun."
"Personal troubles? Matthew is missing and you're agonizing over this stupid concert?" Mary regarded her sister with an air of unconcealed disgust; Edith's cheeks flushed a little and she looked away. Hearing her sister refer to Matthew's disappearance – the possibility of his death or imprisonment – as a personal trouble made Mary want to slap her. This was something, as Mary had not struck Edith since they were both very little, having learned early on that words, or better yet silence, were a much surer way of causing her sister pain. But her nerves had been on edge for the past three days, her head full of an undirected rage that spilled all too easily out of her mouth. It was anger at the War Office, who apparently knew approximately nothing about Matthew's whereabouts; anger at her father who felt he could do little else to press the matter; anger at her mother and sisters who seemed to have submitted to the inevitable – even anger at Richard, whose work kept him in London, denying her the most convenient distraction at her disposal. Most of all, and though she knew it was entirely irrational, she felt anger at Matthew. Matthew, who might be dead or dying or shivering in some enemy encampment – a hard knot of fear and something else rose in her throat at the very thought. Although he had denied any such intentions, she could not let go of the suspicion that he had played the hero, been too brave or too stupid. Did he care nothing for the woman – the women – who prayed nightly for his safe return? It made her furious, and she had quite resolved to put him in his place the moment he arrived home.
So rather than allowing herself to snap at innocent bystanders like Anna, who had mistakenly fetched the wrong pair of shoes the previous evening and received a few sharp words she had not deserved, Mary had made it her practice to keep as silent as she could, and as out of the way as possible. And if not for the damned concert, she thought, she would have succeeded.
"Edith is quite right," her father was saying as she dragged her attention back to the scene before her. "This will be a real treat for the men, we must try to make it all go as smoothly as we can."
Even as Mary rolled her eyes at the assembled crowd of men in various stages of wellness, she felt a little flutter of pleasure. The whole thing reminded her of their childhood: her Uncle James at the piano, clumsily plucking out songs the children knew while Mary, Edith and Patrick made up the choir. Mary sang well, Patrick and Edith not at all poorly, and her mother had loved to watch with Sybil on her knee as they all made a spectacle of themselves. Mary had outgrown that pastime once she'd begun proper music lessons; she had loved the art most when she did not understand it, when the simple tune her mother hummed to lull Sybil and the hymns at church had been exquisitely mysterious, with the power to transfix and move her.
Mary let her eyes pass over the seated men until she found Sybil amongst them, a more suitable focal point, she thought. It was not the state of the men that disturbed her – she was well used, by now, to the boys missing hands, those in wheelchairs or who walked with a stick, the bandages that stood out white here and there amongst the crowd. It was the sight of all those uniforms so very like the one Matthew wore; the one he had worn the time nearly two years ago when she had gone to see him off at the station. Surrounded by billowing steam in the early morning light, the world still regaining its color around her, she had fought hard to remember every detail of him, knowing they were all she would have in the coming months.
Sybil gave a little quirk of her lips just then, and Mary came back to herself. She clutched desperately to the rapidly receding memory of childhood and song, and her attention snapped back to Edith waiting at the keys. She began to play and then everything came easily; she knew with a little flash of pride how well they sounded, she and Edith. The song was a popular one, yet she had not expected the others to join in, and the look on Granny's face was nearly enough to make her laugh aloud in front of all these people. At the back of the room she saw that Anna's lips were moving too, a smile about her eyes, and she felt a surge of warmth as her gaze moved along to Carson, straight-backed and dignified yet singing right along with the rest, and then –
Everything stilled – first the song curling back on itself in her throat, then Edith's playing and then the voices of the others trailing off into silence. Her world narrowed to the two men in the doorway, to his body – whole, upright and unbroken – his dear face, the blue of his eyes, so bright and sharp that she felt it like a blade; it cut her to pieces.
Matthew.
Then her father was on his feet, the tone of his voice finally warm and alive as it had not been in days. "My dear boy. My very dear boy."
"Thank God," she breathed, truly meaning it for perhaps the first time in her life. Thank God.
In the moments that came next there was a flurry of noise and excitement such as Mary had rarely seen from her family. They all hovered about Matthew as if he might suddenly be snatched away once again. Mary noted that things seemed to be much the same for William, beaming from within a circle of maid's caps while Carson stood glancing between him and Matthew, apparently very nearly overwhelmed with emotion. Finding that it was quite impossible to continue watching Matthew and Isobel together – both smiling fit to burst, the latter wet-eyed – Mary interested herself in the uncertain hovering of the little kitchen maid at William's elbow. She seemed not to know whether it was altogether appropriate to touch him, though Edith had said something about their being engaged. Mary smiled to herself – what had come over her? This morning she'd barely been able to summon the strength to make conversation at breakfast and now she was grinning like a madwoman at the sight of the kitchen maid and her beau. War did indeed produce extraordinary effects, she thought.
"Hello again." When she turned back to the group, Matthew had stepped closer. He too was smiling, though a little shyly. "Sorry to have cut in like that," he said, ducking his head in apology, "Terribly rude of me."
"Terribly rude indeed," she quipped, and then, softening, "I'm so very glad to see you safe and sound." Strange, how standing face to face with Matthew made her feel suddenly alright, cradled in a moment of perfect calm slipped between the worry and fear she knew were stretched on either side of it.
The night before Matthew was slated to leave, the Crawleys joined them for dinner at the big house. Richard had only just arrived in time to change, and his agitation at his late train and some difficult point of business only increased when Mary informed him of the guest list. They were, thus far, the only two in the drawing room, and she stood with her back to the window, taking in his annoyed expression and not succeeding altogether in keeping the archness out of her voice.
"He is returning to the front tomorrow, I'm not sure why you're surprised."
"Of course," Richard mumbled distractedly. "This house does rather revolve around him, God knows I should be accustomed to it by now."
Before Mary could find an appropriate retort – all the ones that leapt readily to the tip of her tongue were far too cutting to be allowed, even by Granny's standards – Carson announced their guests. Matthew, Lavinia and Isobel entered, and Mary quickly distracted herself with inoffensive talk of the plans for the hospital and the health of Lavinia's father. When the Dowager Countess arrived, Mary thought she had never been so glad to see her grandmother, who quickly drew Richard into a conversation that would likely give both parties ample reason to complain profusely later – most probably to Mary herself.
Everyone was making an obvious effort to be cheerful at dinner, but Mary noted that Richard would not be coaxed completely out of a brooding silence. Only when her father engaged him in a conversation about the state of a rival newspaper did he finally show an interest in the conversation. Mary took the opportunity to turn to Matthew, seated at her other side, with a small smile.
"It's almost like old times, having you up for dinner," she ventured. "You must promise once more to come back safe and sound, and preferably with fewer dramatics than this time, if you please."
"I shall try to stay safe," he said. "Though I don't know that any of us can really be called sound."
She raised an eyebrow, though eager fingers of worry plucked at her stomach. "It must be unthinkable. Is it – how is it?"
"Do you know," he said haltingly, "I can never seem to find the words. It's as if any of the things we say here don't translate, don't – mean enough."
"No," she said, "No, of course. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." His smile returned with surprising ease as he looked at her.
"We all miss you terribly, you know."
"Try not to worry too much," he said, a smile reaching his eyes as he set down his fork. "I'm sure it's the last thing you need, more worry."
"Never mind our troubles at home. Have you still got my lucky charm?" She was finding it more and more difficult to keep her smile appropriately sedate.
"Of course," he replied.
"Then I really will not worry; he's kept you safe thus far."
"Your sole concern need only be the mocking I may have to endure on his account."
"Oh dear," Mary intoned with a little shake of her head. "I do hope you haven't gained a reputation amongst the men."
"It will please you to know that I have kept him well hidden," he said seriously. "But I expect they will find it rather more difficult to respect my authority should they ever find him out." They both laughed at that, Mary feeling positively giddy as she covered her mouth with her hand. She looked up in time to see both Edith and Lavinia watching them from across the table, the latter with an expression of innocent amusement, the former more sharply.
"Mary, may I ask what is so very amusing?" her grandmother inquired from her place down the table. She felt her cheeks flush slightly.
"Cousin Matthew has just been regaling me with tales from the front, Granny."
"Oh really? I should not have thought accounts of the horrors of war would be so very funny. Perhaps all this fund raising has been for naught?"
When Edith spoke up to defend the aforementioned fund raising, Mary had never been so relieved to hear her sister's voice. Only then, turning away from Matthew, did she notice Richard. His jaw was set and when their eyes met, she did not like what she saw – they seemed to read her through from beginning to end; she had the impression that they missed nothing.
When they left the table, rather than follow the men Richard fell in beside Mary. "A word," he said in her ear and she felt his voice go through her, the vibration of it humming in her bones, it seemed.
Richard closed the library door behind them; it was almost completely dark inside, a single lamp illuminating one sofa. Mary stood just outside of its circle of light watching Richard warily where he stood just inside the door. There was a long moment of silence in which she fidgeted with one glove and he stood silent, his lips contorted with displeasure.
"I am not a stupid man Mary, and neither are you a stupid woman. I have been perfectly honest regarding my intentions, and I feel it is only fair that you agree to do the same. I will ask you only once – are you still in love with Matthew?"
She wondered vaguely if anyone had ever been quite so honest with her, and doubted very much that they had. Even alone she had never looked so directly at the truth of it, preferring to keep it hidden, buried somewhere secret and mute, denying the words that would make it unavoidable. In Richard's eyes there was an openness that beckoned to her, though she knew it was fuelled by a terrible, shrinking jealousy.
"I don't know." The words, their glaring bitterness and the flatness in her voice, surprised her more than anything.
"My God, Mary," he breathed the words so that they were almost inaudible, shutting his eyes briefly.
She went on hurriedly, "I suppose you think that makes me very foolish." With an effort, she smiled, "But you needn't worry – it isn't in my nature to try where I know I cannot succeed."
"And what makes you think you won't?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Some men are honorable, Richard; whatever contempt you may have for the institution, there it is."
"So Matthew is too noble to break his engagement to Miss Swire, I see. I only hope I can say the same for you." He took a step toward her, jaw set and hands curled though she knew he would not hit her – she was fairly certain, at any rate. "And what, my dear, would the honorable Mr. Crawley think of you if he knew? He would not take you, such as you are – of that you can be certain."
But you will, Mary thought and felt bile burn at the back of her throat. She remembered the cool acceptance in his eyes as she told him in so many words what she had done, what she was. "Me, throw you over? Leave myself alone and ruined? How should I, when you have made certain that any escape is quite impossible?" She knew that he was perilously close to rage, yet she could not help herself. "Bravo," she mocked, her voice dropping as he took another step toward her, his hand darting out to grasp her arm just above the elbow. "I would have expected nothing less from you."
He was too close now, his voice a fevered whisper. The smell of his pomade turned her stomach. "I helped you, does that mean nothing?"
"Mary?" Sybil stood in the doorway, peering into the dimness, and Mary could not be sure if her sister had heard any part of their conversation. "There you are – they're leaving, won't you come and say goodbye?"
"Yes, of course," Mary said as Richard let go of her and turned, his face composed, to Sybil. She brushed quickly past him toward the door.
"Have you seen Lavinia?" Sybil asked, still peering curiously into the library. Mary heard Richard reply in the negative, but then Matthew was before her donning his coat and her attention became concentrated on smiling – she could not help but think that if this was to be his last memory of her, she would not allow Richard to taint it.
Everyone was crowding around Matthew, even Granny wishing him the best of luck and Sybil forsaking any sense of decorum to hug him tightly. He grasped Mary's hand briefly and gave it one final squeeze – during which she felt that she had never fully appreciated the particular blue of his eyes – before offering his arm to Lavinia, who was waiting rather awkwardly behind Mary. For half a moment, the instant poised between breaths, the four of them were stood there in a tight ring – Matthew and Lavinia with arms linked, Richard stepping up to lay a possessive hand against the small of her back. Something rose in her throat, a thing she could not have explained; when she thought of that moment later it would come back to her somehow whole and perfect as an egg in her cupped palms, and she would remember her chest filling with mingled hope and fear, the sickening twist of regret.