The Lady and The Lawyer

Three

'Waiting For You'

The drawing room was dreadfully quiet and cold, with a war raging on across the channel. Mary had never minded solitude, but in the current state of things, she only longed for a warm and passionate touch. Following the lining on her ivory skirt with her finger, a sort of painful stress made itself known every time she breathed in. Nothing ever really fazed Mary Crawley, and she'd always prided herself in being able to be so untouchable; but this war was personal. It had taken her father, her fiancé, her security, and her happiness. What made men so cruel, as to conjure such a predicament of a feud? Damn generals wanting to flex their newfound military muscles, and old treaties becoming the new law of the land. How could a world become so divided over a little Serbian assassinating a not well liked duke of Austria-Hungary? The questions were asked too late for any answer to be given.

Mary breathed in, tracing the silhouette of her fingers on her skirt. She felt utterly useless, sitting in this ancient house with all the pleasures of the world, as men were getting blown to shreds for a war that wasn't even theirs. It was certainly a gloomy thought, and it affected every resident of Downton. She wished there was something she could do to lull the distress of the soldiers, but something kept her hands stiff against her body. Mary knew it was only wishful thinking that she'd do something for the war effort. It was not that she didn't want to, there were just so many factors and details that kept her from doing so; war only broke the social barriers so much. Running her index finger over her eyebrow, she wondered how Matthew was doing. It had been a week or so since her talk with mother and granny, yet there was still no word from her beloved. He couldn't have been killed so soon, and she prayed he was not to be one of the first victims of this foolish war.

"Lady Mary," Carson greeted in his heavily deep voice, "you've received a letter." She and Carson had bonded over the course of her life, and she was ever so pleased about that. The wall that usually stood between servants and employers was virtually invisible for Mary and Mr. Carson. She smiled pleasantly at the man, and he made his way over to her place on one of the many chairs.

"Do you know who it is from, Carson?" Mary's voice was distant, her eyes locked tightly on the letter he placed in her hands. It looked like Matthew's handwriting, but her mind could certainly be playing taunting tricks on her. Dragging a finger over the square piece of parchment, she was nervous to open it. It did not give her the vibe of being insidious, but looks can be deceiving. Mary had never liked common and overly used phrases, but this one she had no choice but to agree with. This war was savage at best, yet men still threw on their best suits, and held their heads high in their dignified uniforms. Women were even worse: they draped their lavish dresses on as if this massive battle was one large novel to be read for pleasure.

"I couldn't say, m'lady," Carson returned, folding his hands together at his waist. Mary looked up to him, almost silently pleading for him to stay with her as she opened the letter. The elder man therefore stayed in his place, until he was formerly dismissed by the Lady Mary.

"I do hope it is from Matthew," she said, mostly to herself, "I'm not sure how much longer I can last being kept in the dark." She took the letter opener from the coffee table in front of her, and tore the top of it with a nice keen flick of the wrist. Carson had always admired Mary's grace and strong nobility, and it showed in every move she made. She slid the slightly whiter paper from the envelope as if it were the plague, and held her breath when the letter was fully out of its wrapping. She could see the curvy black letters, as the sun illuminated them through the thin eggshell paper. Unfolding the thing swiftly, her eyes danced over the page:

My dearest Mary,

I do apologize for not being able to write sooner. This war is worse than we had previously imagined, and I do not believe it will be over in a few swift months. But not to fret, none of the action I have seen thus far has been lethal. I do not expect that this fact will soothe the stress and nerves I know you have, but I pray that it will let you sleep easier at night.

It is very odd to be with men of so many different backgrounds and ranks. Out here in the frontline, social status is much less important. I suppose that is a good thing; it means the world is changing. But enough of the future, the present is too dense to see even a month ahead. How funny, seeing as how not even a year ago, life ten years from then was perfectly clear; it certainly puts things in perspective.

All that matters is that we will see each other again. This war may hinder our plans, but it can never steal them away from us. I love you Mary, and I pray I will see you again soon.

Warmest love,

Matthew

Mary stared at the letter, emotion running dry in her veins. How was she to interpret this? It was so divergent, that she had no idea how to even begin to dissect it. Mary was rarely left stunned, but this time certainly counted as one of those few.

"Carson," Mary whispered, "do you think this war will drastically change Matthew?" She loathed being so open and uncertain, meaning this crisis was taking its toll on her way of existing. This whole thing could possibly wear her dangerously thin before it even ended. She was strong though, she liked to think, so she would survive; even if she had to force herself to.

"There are many things that can change men, Lady Mary, so there is no way to tell. But I do believe he will come back in once piece—whatever comfort that may bring you, m'lady." He'd always seen Mary as the daughter he never had, and it warmed him to know she viewed him as family enough to share her thoughts with him.

"I suppose you're right Carson, I am being sentimental and silly." Mary shook her head, and just like that, she'd locked her feelings away. She'd closed the wound, and poured the salt on it before anyone else could; as she always did. "Is there anything else?" She looked to Carson, almost with a sharp accusation, staring at his still stagnant feet.

"No, Lady Mary, that is all." With that, Carson gave a stiff bow of the head and then exited the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Again Mary was left alone, and she clenched her teeth together. Why was it that her world was falling apart when the catalyst for that hadn't even been sparked yet? Her emotions were a haywire mess of pride jumbling with fear, love melding with logic.

"Sybil," Mary said as she found her sister in a sitting room a few doors down, "do you mind if I join you?" She lingered in the doorway awaiting Sybil's approval. Although in most cases she'd sit herself down immediately, something kept her in her place.

"Of course not Mary, is anything the matter?" Sybil had always understood and respected her in a way Mary could never understand. She'd never been necessarily wonderful to her sister, yet Sybil had always been the one to find her redeeming qualities.

"No, nothing wrong," she replied, easing herself into the seat next to the blue eyed girl on the couch. "I received a letter from Matthew today." Her voice was colder than she'd intended it to be, but she didn't feel the need to correct herself.

"Is that so," Sybil said, noticing her sister's odd behavior, "what did he say?" She'd never had a problem with Mary being with Matthew; in fact it was quite the contrary. The new heir to the Lordship of Grantham embodied every quality Mary was afraid to show, and still found a way to illuminate all of their similarities. The two worked together quite well, but Sybil also knew that it was not easy for Mary to be truly happy and welcoming.

"Oh, it was the generic letter, telling of how different war is, and how he hoped he'd see me soon." As she spoke, Mary straightened her posture and set her chin a tad farther out. What compelled her to be so heartless, she hadn't a clue, but it somehow felt like the right response; no matter how wrong that may be.

"I see," Sybil returned, "but why are you so opposed to what he wrote? You couldn't have expected a truly original work akin to Shakespeare, as he fights in the trenches." Mary was a high class girl, with expectations she herself could not even reach. Sybil's only concern was that her sister may ruin her life with Matthew by being her signature cold.

"I don't know what I expected, Sybil, but I feel like I know less about his situation than before he wrote me. If this war really is to go on for some time as he said, then I anticipate his next letter with agony. I do not care for shallow promises and hopes when he doesn't even know what lies two miles in front of him."

"Mary, I've never claimed to understand your mind, but I've always tried to accept it. But this talk of Matthew can lead you nowhere happy. You cannot hide behind your aloof dignity forever, and if you do, I can promise you that Matthew will not be yours for much longer. You are a wonderful person Mary, but sometimes your righteousness can be quite wretched." Sybil stared blandly at Mary, not about ready to give up this fight. She wanted her sister to be happy, and wanted the same fate for their parents. But she was not willing to watch as Mary's pride ruined all.

"I am the wretched one? You are the one who goes around thinking you have the power to turn the tables of an entire male dominated society…"

"That does not make me wretched," Sybil returned tightly.

"Perhaps not, but it certainly makes you blindly proud. That is always a treacherous trait." Mary folded her hands neatly in her lap, feeling the heat of Sybil's seething body.

"You're becoming cold again," she replied blandly. "Matthew had shown you what you could be like if you would simply let people in, and you were magnificent. You'd shed your skin of the tragic hero. But now with him away, and the war destroying everything, you are reverting back to your old self. How do you expect to move on with Matthew, if you cannot even leave your past self in the dust for more than two months without him here? I do not mean to criticize; I just don't want to see you make an injuring mistake."

"Oh save the innocently genuine speech for someone who hasn't grown up with you. Sybil, I do not deny that your intentions are kind, but your execution is horridly off. My affairs with Matthew have little to nothing to do with you." Mary knew she should apologize. She hadn't meant to be so cold when it came to Matthew that was the last thing she wanted. But Mary should have known better than to trust herself with such extreme feelings of love.

"I do not wish to fight with you Mary; I only want what is best for you and this family. But you are not the only one who is a victim of this war; the entire country is. Not only that, but all of Europe is hurting to some degree. Papa is in this war too—I can relate to how you feel. But do not use this hard exterior as your defense against this darkness; it won't do you much good."

Mary stayed silent, knowing quite well that Sybil was right. If she continued downward spiral, would Matthew even recognize her when he finally returned home to her?

So chapter three! I'm really sorry if Mary is out of character (or anyone else for that matter) but this is an AU, so I think I get a little leeway! Haha. Please tell me any ideas you may have as per usual.

Be good and review