1908

Isabella Anne Crawley was born on the seventh of July 1905 in her parent's house in rural Scotland, prompting her brother's return from Downton a couple of months afterward. Isabella was a beautiful little girl. She possessed gorgeous blonde curls that hung neatly above her shoulders and bright eyes that were almost as piercing in their brilliant blue as her proud elder brother's were. Despite her tender age, she was wholly ruled by her heart; she was sweet and gentle and kind and thoughtful- much alike to her brother. The siblings were similar in not just their looks but also in their mannerisms as well as their innately caring disposition. But where Matthew was shy and sheepish as a young child, Isabella was outgoing and confident- she sook out conversation- or as much talk as one could manage at such an age- and although Matthew was often messy in appearance, especially in regard to his unkempt blonde locks, and Isabella was always pristine in her looks, he naturally smiled like his sister and laughed just as freely as she did. But Isabella was born with a weak heart and she died whilst asleep in a peacefully still night, but months before her third birthday.

The house was quiet after that. Still and subdued in the loss of the beautiful spirit that had left it. The large garden was barely ventured into, the sight of the flowers the girl had so loved being the consequence of their vision which was too difficult to bear. Isobel worked. She increased her hours at the hospital and worked through as much of her time as was possible, the heartache that came with being idol was abhorrent to her. She needed to be useful, so she found a use for which she was needed. Reggie did the opposite, stopping his work and finding a purpose in revolving his world around his son. He found solace in spending his waking time with Matthew, he walked him to school every morning and back every afternoon. He took him on outings in the car, invented and recounted swashbuckling tales of heroism and gallantry to send him to sleep every night and, when he did return to part time work, brought the young boy along on his rounds. Only the house had become too much of a reminder for them all, a constant recollection of the child they'd lost. Matthew would squeeze his eyes shut every time he passed her bedroom on the journey to his. Reggie would find himself staring at the promiscuous empty chair at the breakfast table. Isobel would be greeted with a different flash of memory upon the entrance of each room and every time she crossed the threshold of the front door. The move was inevitable- a step they had to take on the road to, if not recovery, simply choosing to make do and live as best they could. At first, they planned to move to Manchester. The city would certainly be the necessary change they were seeking, but when the news reached them that Lord Grantham had died, leaving his grieving son to step unto the breech, Reggie proposed they move back to Downton under changed times. After all, they had missed their friends over the years, Matthew especially, and Reggie felt that it was his duty and his allegiance to pay homage and respect to Patrick Crawley Sr as well as to help his dearest friend through the time of grief and hardship so he could become evolved into the responsibility that was bestowed to him at birth. For, Mr and Mrs no longer, Robert and Cora were now entitled as Lord and Lady Grantham.

The Great House, it seemed, was impossible for Matthew not to fall in love with again. In the three years he'd been apart from its beauty to behold of its serene setting, perhaps some of its more magnificent qualities had been lost to him. Upon his return, however, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the splendour of the place. The sloping grounds and vast gardens were a wonder to any child and after so much sadness held in the silence following Isabella's death it was more relief than anything else that filled his heart when the warmth of the world and the joys of other families were still existing in the people he'd once known in the village. In all the grief and anguish that had plagued him over his sister, and then the addition of the late Lord Grantham, Matthew felt ashamed that after a mere few months he had begun to wish that it was all just over. He felt inordinate amounts of guilt and compunction over the feelings that he pushed away in order to not offend or disgust anyone. It wasn't that he didn't love his sister- on the contrary- he had loved her with all his heart and her death had pained him beyond imagining, but as the time passed he had come to find enjoyment in more things. He had smiled when Mary hugged him on greeting, he had laughed when Pharaoh knocked him to the ground and proceeded to lick his face eagerly, he had fun when talking to Patrick and had felt elated when he was picked for cricket try-outs at school. And the truth was, he didn't want to feel guilty for being happy anymore. He loved Isabella. He had been so fond of Lord Grantham. He missed them both dearly. But he didn't think they'd want him to be unhappy, and yet he couldn't help but feel that if he showed any kind of joy it was insulting to their memory.

Even so, it was comforting to see familiar faces with happiness graced upon them. It was cheering to be greeted with the frequent call of 'Duck' from Robert and Cora and the warmth of a hug from his old friend and playmate. But during the times when the forced conversation between his parents and false front of forgetfulness over their grief became unbearable at home, Matthew retreated to the library at the big house. The welcoming sight of Mr Carson's smile at the front door was soothing and he would choose a book from one of the shelves and read to forget. Literature was not just a deep-seated passion of his own though, and there came occasion when, on these excursions from his own house, on these excursions from his own house, Robert would find the small boy nestled comfortably under an old desk with an interesting volume of novel for a ten-year-old just as he was on his way to bury himself in the artistic works of fine authors also. The pair of them found ties in the ancient shelf-lined room- a comfort that nurtured their separate dwellings of heartache quite unexpectedly. It was never the less splendid all the same. Robert had found- with unprecedented joy, as it meant he might be the one to introduce the pair- that Matthew had not yet discovered Dickens, and therefore handed to the boy a beautiful leather-bound copy of 'Oliver Twist' one afternoon when his astonishment at this fact drove him to productivity and somewhat paternal investment.

"Look after this, Duck." He had said kindly. "It was mine when I was a boy. Perhaps I was a bit older than you are now – but I believe it will prove a challenge as you're already so advanced."

Matthew had taken the book with an awe of gratitude and begun reading it that same minute.

It felt strange for them all to be back, just as much as it felt nostalgic and both familiar and unfamiliar to have them back again. Mary felt stuck between a two realities that she couldn't negotiate. Her friend from young childhood had come back and moved into the village with his parents that she so adored and yet it felt as though it had marked the change in her life so to speak. Her father was now Lord Grantham, her mother Lady Grantham. Her granny had moved out to the Dower house and now her beloved godfather, Isobel whom she'd always secretly admired, and Matthew with whom she shared the very best memories that she'd treasured and kept for so long on her own, were back living in Crawley house in the village. She felt somewhat out of place, unsure how to initiate any kind of revival of their previous friendship because she simply did not know him anymore. They had been seven years old when he'd hugged her farewell at the crowded train station and since then it seemed they had both changed.

Patrick stepped back, his nimble feet bringing a short halt and then switching it to a jog forward. He made a low jump, bringing his right arm swinging back and then up in a swift semi-circle he released the ball and sent it flying at Matthew who held his bat steadfastly and brought it plunging forward towards the perfect bowl Patrick had thrown where it came into a neat and hard hit that, with a loud and satisfying crack, sent the ball flying straight over Edmund's unsuspecting head and caused his slightly pompous jaw to drop in awe. Matthew grinned at his handy work and Patrick laughed heartily, slapping his friend on the back on his way to fetch another ball from the bucket.

"Well done, Matthew!" He exclaimed happily. "That was a terrific bat!"

"And an even better bowl," Matthew told him. He was modest, probably too much so, and Patrick acknowledged this with a short roll of his eyes as his head crooked into a fond shake of disbelief. Edmund looked on, disgruntled; being Patrick's friend from Eton he was a year older than this middle-class newcomer, and was not best pleased to be shown up by him for yet another bout of cracking bat-man-ship.

"I don't think it was quite as good as my first, eh Patrick?" He put in, trying to boost his own appearance in the eyes of the onlookers as well as his own friend and new acquaintance. Patrick ignored this comment, and Matthew followed his lead, not at all put out by this statement as it meant very little to him whether Edmund was better than him or not. Patrick was used to Edmund's pride and he did not dislike him for it, even if his claims at comments did irritate and disgruntle him at times. He was proud, like so many others that went to his school, and he had good reason to be as he was talented in most areas apart from perhaps tact. Which all came down to why Patrick had taken such a liking to Matthew; when he'd first came to Downton they'd been friends, Matthew was shy and timid at seven and since then he'd come out of his shell, a bit but not much, and perhaps this contrast to his other friends was what endeared Matthew to him so fervently. He was glad he had come back, and told him so upon his return. A sentiment Mary had been too caught up and confused to remember to cast. Despite how neither of them, nor any of the children, had known the precise circumstances as to why Matthew's family had returned.

"Oh honestly," Mary said wearily. "You seem to be under the impression that you're so much more superior at cricket to the rest of us." Her scowl of irritant gave away her disdain for Edmund very effectively. He, annoyed by this aforementioned disdain, challenged her.

"It's not like you could prove any better," he sneered, "girls can't play cricket." His statement was firm and unyielding, even as his indignant gaze was met by Mary's own one of cool collected certainty.

Edith scowled at him from the other side of the side lines, for once agreeing with her sister that this comment was impertinent at best and offending as she was fairly certain that Edmund's assured self-confidence was more than slightly misplaced.

Mary stepped up closer to where the boys were stood and rolled up the sleeves of her dress. "Try me," she glared.

Patrick and Matthew shared an amused and slightly apprehensive glance of mutual concern, both feeling that perhaps Edmund had bitten off a bit more than he could chew by challenging Mary in such a way.

Edmund smirked as Matthew handed her the bat and switched places with her, watching as she took her place in front of the wicket and eyed fiercely as he prepared to bowl.

Again, he took a short run up before he threw. His aim was impeccable and his speed perfect and yet with another, louder, crack Mary sent the ball flying further than any of the boys had managed at all that day. She watched smugly as Edmund's smile dropped quite suddenly from his face. Patrick's eyes widened in appreciative awe, but not surprise, but Matthew's expression puzzled Mary. He looked horrified. Only when she turned back to look at the ball did she realise why.

With a horrible, gut wrenching smash the glass of one of the upstairs windows smashed into the room just as Mary's ball sailed into the house in an incredibly unceremonious fashion. She gasped, frozen still in shock which only doubled when a raucous shriek alerted them all to whose room they'd so unexpectedly invaded. Fräulein Kelder.

"Run!" Patrick demanded, his call stirring all five children into action as they fled as a hurried pack before the woman could poke her head out to catch the culprit.

"Now, I'm not angry." Robert said slowly, pacing before the lined-up children with the offending cricket ball being thrown and caught absentmindedly in his right hand. "I just want someone to own up and apologise to Fräulein Kelder for the disturbance."

He eyed them all with one eyebrow quirked up, a funny feeling at the back of his brain telling him he knew exactly who the culprit was without even needing to ask the question. To his surprise, Patrick stepped forward.

"It was my fault, Robert." He said calmly, hands clasped behind his back. "I bowled it."

"Thank you for your honestly Patrick, it is indeed admirable, but I wish to know who batted it." Robert declared, smiling at the boy all the same.

"I did it."

Robert turned to the other end of the line where little Matthew stood meekly, having taken a step forward and looking, quite frightened, right into Robert's eye. Mary sighed, rolling her eyes at him. For all his gallantry, Matthew was the most horrible liar she'd ever come across and indeed her Papa saw through him in mere seconds.

"I applaud your loyalty, Duck, but forgive me when I say I do not believe you."

Matthew stepped back and caught Mary's eye apologetically, whereas her look was one of exasperated but genuine thanks. He really was an awful liar.

In the end, Mary resigned to clambering, only momentarily mind, of her high horse to give a deliberately, sarcastically overzealous apology to Fräulein Kelder which, if anything, angered the woman much more than the incident itself. (Which, incidentally, was exactly Mary's thought through intention).

Reggie came into the drawing room of Crawley house addressed with a curious expression and a, far more curious still, anonymous letter in, what he assumed to be, deliberately disguised handwriting. Walking up to the desk of his wife and standing in front of it meaningfully, he fiddled with the envelope in hand, clearly distracted in deep thought.

Isobel looked up at him, placing her pen down in interested response to her pensive husband and removing her reading glasses from her eyes before placing them down beside her paper with the intention of alerting Reggie to her attentiveness and regard for what he was clearly mulling over with the intention of telling her.

"Reggie, darling, out with it." She said, her usual instructive tone softening lovingly for the man stood so contemplatively before her.

"We've just got this letter," he mused, his tone that of someone whose mind was far away. "I don't recognise the handwriting, but it seems we have a mysterious benefactor," he stopped, his voice slowing to a reluctant halt, then corrected himself, "or, rather, Matthew does."

Isobel motioned for the letter and Reggie gratefully passed it over, watching her changing expression as she read.

"Good lord." She expressed, finishing by folding it up carefully and taking the other thing from her husbands outstretched hand.

"It's a letter, for Matthew, for when he turns eighteen." Reggie told her. His thoughtful musing suddenly turned to unabashed inquisitiveness and, daresay, unapologetic nosiness. "Do you think we should open it?"

Isobel turned her eyes off the envelope reading: Matthew Reginald Crawley, for when he comes of age and glared at her husband. She bashed his lightly with the paper before beginning her reprimand.

"Reginald Crawley! Absolutely not! I cannot say I'm not curious, but honestly!" Reggie laughed and retreated. "The cheek of it!" Isobel continued, albeit with a fond undertone in her voice and expression.

"Still, there's the other question." Isobel acknowledged. "As to what to do with the money."

"Yes quite." Reggie pondered, pacing over to the window and staring out. Isobel rolled her eyes at her husband's thoughtful unproductiveness.

"How about," Isobel suggested, "next year I mean, when he's old enough…"

Reggie turned to look at her, his interest piqued at his wife's proposal.

"I mean, he and Patrick get on so well, and it's the best school in the country." She continued, more to herself than to Reggie. "After all, the better his education, the more opportunities he has."

Reggie nodded.

"How about we send him to Eton?"

in response to the guest review on the last chapter asking about the Titanic all I can say is that to give the truthful response would be telling.