A/N: Many thanks to all those who have continued with this storey. Your persistence is greatly appreciated.
At the end of this chapter (because it contains a small spoiler) is a mea culpa regarding Miss Swire and my tardiness in 'going around the barn' .
The versions of the chapter title song by Hugues Aufray and Hart Rouge are recommended.
Dieu est à nos côtés
May to November, 1915
During the summer of 1915 Matthew joined the French Foreign Legion. Harper went with him.
The French had been so impressed by the success of Col. Flashman's programme of gathering intelligence via trench raiding that they had wanted to learn more about it. But being French they could not just ask for help from the English; so instead they invited Col. Flashman to send a couple of representatives to learn how the French did things. And if it happened that those English representatives happened to impart a few bits of information it couldn't be helped, n'est pas?
Matthew and Harper learned that the French ate better than the British army, at least the officers' and sergeants' messes. They learned that Legionnaires were as hard as their own hard men. They learned some Savate and some additional ways to kill men silently and quickly. And they learned, or at least Matthew did, for Harper neither received nor sent mail, that the French postal service did not function for an Anglais, at least in a war zone.
Matthew yearned to receive an explanation from Mary about this Sir Richard Carlisle. He was fearful that all he would get was a postcard with the single word 'goodbye' scrawled on it. But he got nothing. He assumed that a pile of mail was waiting for him at Col. Flashman's HQ but that thought did him no good. The not knowing was eating away at him.
The action helped. He had been worried about the language barrier but a surprising number of the Legionnaires were Americans. His translator was from Brooklyn. The French seemed surprised at the amount of planning and choreography he did before a mission. He got the impression they were rather insouciant: point at the objective and say 'Allez'.
All the planning he did was of no use to him on his last mission of 1915, which nearly cost him his life.
It started simple enough. They took out the sentries and slid into the German trenches. There was no one there. There were a lot of metal cylinders marked 'Cl' and marked with the skull and crossed bones that in any language indicated that you did not want to be in the vicinity if those cylinders were improperly opened. There were hoses attached to the valves. Matthew assumed that sometime this very morning, as soon as the wind was in the right quadrant, technicians would aim the hoses towards the French lines, open the valves and the chlorine gas attack would start.
"I've got a bad felling about this" Harper said. "I respectfully suggest that we get the hell out of here" The unspoken thought was especially as they didn't carry gas masks on raids. Matthew could feel the eyes of the Legionnaires on him.
"I agree" Matthew could feel the sighs of relief "But before we do we spread our explosives amongst these cylinders and try to rupture as many as we can. The gas will follow the bottom of the trenches and give the Boche a nasty surprise" There were nods of agreement.
In under five minutes they were slipping back over the parapet on the way back to their own trenches. Two minutes later the timers went off on the explosives and the cylinders were blown open. The gas posed no threat to them, chlorine was heavier than air so it would flow along the bottom of the German trenches. It would not catch them as they scurried across no man's land. The German artillery barrage did.
Matthew cursed and pushed Harper into an old shell crater they were passing. Of course the Germans would launch an artillery attack before the gas attack. It would keep the French pinned down in their bunkers not knowing a cloud of poisonous gas was going to trap them there for all time. It was his last conscious thought for a long time.
-0-
Matthew looked up from his cards. He was playing Manille with three other habitues of the French military hospital. Between them they had enough functional body parts to equip two and three quarter men.
He had heard his name spoken, or more accurately shouted. He squinted with his left eye, his right eye still being bandaged. It was Col. Flashman, speaking loudly in English, that being the preferred method of the Englishman abroad to overcome the language barrier, enquiring as to the whereabouts of his Captain Crawley. Matthew started waving his left hand, his right arm still in the sling. He tried to yell but all he could manage was a croak. Lucky for him, Harper, who was with the colonel, saw him, and they started his way.
"Well Crawley, when you didn't return at the appointed time from your little sojourn with the Legion I thought you and your sergeant had decided to take French leave and were heading south and east. Hated the thought of having to have you shot. But then Harper showed up a day late and a pound short and convinced me to come looking for you. Although, now that I've seen you I'm not sure the trip was worth the fare. The Legion said they'd keep you. Put you up for the Croix de guerre for foiling that gas attack you know"
All Matthew could do was shrug. He had perfected his shrug, even with only one operational shoulder, it was Gallic in scope now, he was confident he could do everything in French society, from ordering a meal to fighting a duel, via shrug.
The colonel rattled on "Well we've come all this way we might as well take you back with us. I'll send the ambulance people up to get you." and he spun on his heel and left.
Matthew extended his left hand to Harper "Thanks Patrick, I've been told what you did getting me back to the aid station and making sure they didn't triage me"
Harper shook his hand. "It was nothing, I'd do the same for anyone who saved my life. Besides I had a couple of Legionnaires backing me. You know the colonel wasn't kidding, we have an open invitation to join the Legion. Speaking of which" and he pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to Matthew.
Matthew looked at it. It was a stylized fleur-de-lis with flames shooting out of it. It was the emblem of the Legion Etrangere. He looked at Harper who explained:
"We're honourary Legionnaires now. They threw quite a party for us. They had a great appreciation for not being gassed. Don't worry, I drank your share for you. I tell you I haven't been kissed by so many men since I quit being an altar boy."
Matthew laughed although it hurt his ribs on his right side to do so,
-0-
After much travail Matthew ended up in a British Army hospital where the doctors pored over him looking for things for which they could criticize their French colleagues, but to their disappointment there was nothing. The French had done a bang up job on Matthew.
The day after Matthew arrived Harper arrived with a manila folder. Inside were letters, six from Mary, five from his mother and two that looked to be from Robert. They were all sealed, the censors didn't bother with incoming mail. He played with them with his left hand and then asked Harper to open them for him.
After all his anticipation he could not bring himself to read the letters from Mary just yet. So he read the letters from his mother first, sequentially; there was news of the hospital and Downton Abbey, friends in Manchester, reading between the lines, for his mother would never be so crass to mention war deaths to him while he was in a war zone, he could tell which families had suffered loss; mention of Dr. Richard Clarkson seemed to occur at frequent intervals, he was going to have to enquire of the doctor as to the honourableness of his intentions; was he keeping warm and dry?; as the letters progressed enquiries about why he wasn't writing back became shriller, as he sensed she became more and more worried for him.
The letters from Robert were bluff as was to be expected from one soldier to another; news of the management of the estate; best wishes from his wife, mother, and daughters; speaking of which he couldn't help notice the lack of letters to Mary; and well, he was sure there was a good reason for not writing, but a letter or two would be most helpful. Matthew sighed.
Matthew considered the stack of letters from Mary. That there was six was a good sign, wasn't it? He read the oldest letter first. He skimmed through looking for the word 'goodbye' which was thankfully absent, and then he started again at the top. It contained Mary's account of her aunt's perfidy. He curled his lip. You will pay for this Aunt Rosamund. Someday, some way you will pay. But.. but Mary, how could you be so stupidly naive? Couldn't you see a pattern developing?. Couldn't you just say no? Matthew wasn't completely satisfied with her explanation; there was an undercurrent of fascination for the world that this Sir Richard Carlisle represented; was there still a chance that he could lose her to that exciting life? The remaining letters were much like his mother's with news of Downton; although thankfully there was no further mentions of 'Richard', whether Carlisle or Clarkson; building to a crescendo of why don't you write?, is something wrong?; are you angry at me?
He had to write Mary first, but how. The medicos assured him his cast would be off the next week but that was too late; he needed to write her now. But how? He was on the verge of asking Harper to write for him the next time he visited when one of the Red Cross ladies who passed through the ward distributing candy and cigarettes noticed him with his stack of letters and his right arm in a cast.
"Would you like some help writing a letter Captain?"
Matthew looked at her. She was slight, with ginger hair and a very pleasant smile. She was pretty while Mary was beautiful, but she was very very pretty. He smiled back. "Yes please miss. If it wouldn't be too much trouble?"
She cranked up the smile another notch. "Not at all, it's part of my job. Just let me finish with my tray and I'll be right back." she turned to go and then turned back. "Oh, I'm Lavinia Swire"
"And I'm Matthew Crawley".
She smiled again and was gone for five minutes. When she came back she had a clipboard and some stationery. She pulled a chair over to the side of Matthew's bed and sat down. She gave him an expectant look.
Matthew started dictating. "Top right corner put the date" he waited "then next line on the right put 'Somewhere in France' he waited 'then down a line, left hand side put 'Darling Mary colon'"
"You've done a lot of dictation" she said.
"Yes, back before all this I was a solicitor"
"My father is a solicitor"
"Oh? Where at?"
"London, maybe you know him? Reggie Swire?"
"I'm sorry I don't, I practised first in Manchester then in Ripon, in Yorkshire"
And for the next five minutes they bounced names of solicitors back and forth but the only one in common was Henry Buckley, a classmate of Matthew's who had been with a firm in London before the war. Lavinia opined that Henry was a pig for unspecified actions with respect to a friend of hers; and Matthew knowing of Henry's character, would have agreed, but, on the principal of not speaking ill of the dead, for Henry had been killed at Ypres this past spring, passed on judgement.
The topic of mutual acquaintances having been exhausted Lavinia asked "Who is Mary?"
"My wife"
"Oh I see... Shall we continue?"
Matthew would have liked to have poured his heart out to Mary but was inhibited by the fact of his amanuensis. So the letter was perhaps a little too stilted but what could he do?
Lavinia asked what closing to use and he told her to "put 'Love Matthew'".
Lavinia agreed to come back the next evening to help write a letter to his mother.
After she had left with some difficulty he unfolded the letter and read it one last time.
'Darling Mary:
A thousand apologies for not answering your letters (now six). All I can say in my defense is that I was away all summer on a mission (of which I can tell you nothing) at a place (I cannot say where) where the writ of the Royal Mail did not reach.
You may have noticed that my handwriting has considerably improved over the summer. Thing is towards the end of that thing I cannot tell you about the lads and I ran into a bit of bother and I got banged up a little on my right side. Nothing fatal. And I still have all the important parts. The medicos tell me the casts should be off next week and in a month or so I should be playing the violin. Which is great news since I couldn't play the violin before. Anyway, long story short, a very kind Red Cross lady, Miss Lavinia Swire, has agreed to take my dictation, poor as it may be.
I thank you for your answer to my enquiry regarding the matter raised by your aunt in her letter. I think we really should do something for her, poor thing. We will speak more about it when I get home.
Thanks also for all the other news of home. You have no idea how tranquil it sounds, even your bickering with your sisters. I long to be there, with you, in Eden once more.
Anyway I must close, I cannot keep Miss Swire past her curfew.
As I said. I hope to be up and about in a few weeks. My colonel has promised me a long convalescent leave as soon as I am sufficiently mobile so I hope to be spending this Christmas with you. I am very mindful of what we missed last Christmas, being apart as we were. Until then
Love Matthew
XXX'
Matthew smiled at the Xs, he had not told Miss Swire to put them there.
The next night Miss Swire again came to help and Matthew wrote a letter to his mother. Truth be told they spent more time chatting than writing. Matthew found Miss Swire to be very pleasant company.
The third night they worked on the letter to Robert. Replies to questions Robert had asked in his letters necessitated references to the estate and Miss Swire did her sums and came up with four and so Matthew had to tell her about Downton Abbey although he did not tell her about the entail or that he was heir to the Earldom.
"So your wife is a lady?"
"Yes"
"But you had me address the letter to her as 'Mrs.'"
"Yes, having married down she goes by 'Mrs.'".
"How romantic that she gave up her title for you"
"On paper maybe, in real life it is more prosaic."
"In your letter to her you didn't mention any children.."
"We don't have any... we had a little boy ...but he died."
Matthew was silent for a long while. Finally Miss Swire patted him on his hand.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."
"You had no way of knowing. It's been two years but still..."
"And your wife, how is she..."
"Coping? Well I suppose. We don't talk about it"
"There will be more children" she assured him.
"That is the hope."
The fourth night Matthew was wondering who he could write a letter to but he need not have bothered, Miss Swire was happy to just sit and talk.
A week later, just after his casts were removed, Matthew receive orders transferring him to a convalescent hospital in Portwenn, Cornwall the very next day. He was filling a vacancy in the detail being shipped out which had just come open. It did not take much imagination to understand why. Some poor blighter had bought the farm.
That night he said goodbye to Miss Swire. "I'm going to miss our nightly chats" Matthew told her.
"Oh once you're home you'll forget all about me." Lavinia smiled at him. "I'm afraid I must leave early tonight, they're shorthanded in the canteen." She gave Matthew a quick kiss on the cheek "Your wife doesn't know how lucky she is" and then she left the ward without looking back.
SPOILER ALERT
A/N: So Miss Swire ended up playing the role of a red herring. My apologies to you Gentle Reader. What was intended to pique your curiosity caused some fretting. In mitigation of sentence I point out that a certain TV production hyped S3E3 with pictures of Lady Edith in a wedding dress and Sir Anthony waiting at the altar. I submit that mine is the lesser offence.
With respect to the matter of (ahem) consummation I would point that in the aforesaid TV production Matthew and Mary were not ad item until four and half years after the events of this and the next few chapters. Patience people patience.
Please keep your reviews rolling in. I am in danger of flunking my freshman creative writing course and I need all the help I can get.