Well, someone called "Liz" was very, um, emphatic in her wish for a new chapter, so here it is! Sorry it's been so long since I updated; I'm in my final year of university and my dissertation has taken over my life. Also have a job interview tomorrow... AHHH! So, here is a chapter for you guys. Mary is 13/14 and Matthew is 14/15. As ever, I love to read your reviews, so keep them coming! And I will reply to all reviews I get for this chapter :D Enjoy...
Mary sat down at the desk, supporting her head with one hand. Goodness, she was bored! Whatever was one to do? She had read all her novels, she hated sewing, she was bored of French, uninspired by her Greek, her pony had gone lame and she wouldn't be able to ride for at least a fortnight... she sighed loudly in frustration. The one thing where she could escape, get some fresh air and clear her head was taken from her. Her sisters were insufferable and she had no company, at least not of her own age.
Matthew.
The name came unbidden, floating into her mind. She hadn't seen Matthew in over a year and Mary hadn't heard from him in five months or so, not since he had written from his mother's new house in Manchester, wishing her a happy New Year. Why hadn't he been writing to her?
Frowning slightly, she pulled out some notepaper, the Grantham crest embellishing the head of the thick sheet of paper in luxurious gold print. Dipping her fountain pen in the dark blue ink in the inkwell, she began to write...
Master M. Crawley
Cotton House
Marlborough College
18th May
Dear Matthew,
I cannot believe you have been away from Downton for a whole year now. In truth, it feels much longer than that when you are subjected to etiquette lessons from Granny almost every day of the week with no chance of escape! I'm afraid I take my boredom out on Edith now instead of you, for which I am sure you are grateful. Yesterday evening, she hid every single one of my dresses in the attics so that I was fearfully late for dinner. Mama gave me such a scolding! But then, I suppose Edith was terribly angry at my hiding all her dolls last week... I hope that you are well and that school is better than you feared. Please write as often as you can; I know you are busy, but I would very much like to hear from you.
Mary Crawley
XxX
In the weeks that followed, Mary decided she must be going mad. Yesterday, she had screamed at Sybil, reducing the poor seven year old to a blubbering wreck, desperately apologising to her furious elder sibling for borrowing her pen without asking. Later that day, Mary found she couldn't even remember why she had been so angry in the first place and offered to play dolls with Sybil, even though really, she was much too grown up for such things nowadays. Poor little Sybil had practically shivered in fright when she had offered to play which in turn made Mary want to cry. She duly did, running to her bedroom, slamming the door shut with a loud bang, throwing herself on the bed and sobbing hot tears into her pillow. She felt so alone, like she had no one to confide in, no one to comfort her, no one to bring her out of herself.
Matthew.
Why wasn't he writing to her?
XxX
The next morning, peace had been restored between the oldest and youngest girls of the Crawley brood, by the kind peace offering of one of Mary's favourite old porcelain dolls, the one with the sapphire blue dress and pearl buttoned shoes which Sybil had admired from afar for many years. Lord Grantham sat at the head of the breakfast table, smiling down at his beautiful young daughters as Carson came in with the morning post on a silver tray. Robert began sorting through the assorted letters; one from Lady Flintshire, one from Rosamund (no doubt asking for more food or as she so eloquently put it, "a taste of home, Robert"), one from...
"Oh! Mary, dear, this one's for you. Who on earth could that be from?"
Mary glanced down at the letter and, immediately recognising the handwriting, couldn't help but give one of her lovely smiles, lighting up her dark eyes.
"Mary? Who is it from?"
Mary hastily pushed the letter into the pocket of her dress.
"Just Auntie Rosamund with the news from London, Papa." Mary gazed innocently at her Papa as he frowned in confusion.
"It didn't look like Rosamund's writing. Are you sur..."
Mary cut off her interrogation with a hasty, "Goodness, is that the time? I must go, Papa; Lynch is saddling my pony for ten o'clock and I've only ten minutes to change! May I please be excused?"
"Of course, my dear," replied Robert, all questions about the letter forgotten.
Giving her Papa a quick peck on the cheek, Mary left the breakfast table. She was practically incandescent, but controlling herself, she went and found her grey summer coat, quickly shrugging it on. Mary ran outside to the stables; to any observer, the story she had told her father appeared to be confirmed, but as she entered the stable block, scanning around for any stable lads or grooms, she turned right towards the ladder of the loft. Within seconds, she was settling down into a secret soft seat of hay, impatiently pulling the letter out of her pocket and tearing open the envelope.
Lady Mary Crawley
Downton Abbey
30th June
Dear Mary,
I am so, so sorry that I am not able to write more often. Our housemaster only allows us to send one letter a week and I am afraid that most of my letters must go to Mother or she will worry. I do like hearing from you though, so send as many letters to me as the Royal Mail can carry! I will try to answer as many as I can. School is fine, lots of work as you may imagine and Gardiner will pick the third team for cricket soon, which I am hoping very much to play in. Do you remember all the times we used to play cricket in Downton woods with the boys? I suppose you are too much of a refined lady now for such games!
Yours,
Matthew
XxX
4th July
Dear Matthew,
Certainly not! I may have to be a "refined lady" as you put it, but I can still catch you out at cricket! Indeed, when you are next at home, whenever that may be, I absolutely insist on playing. I have been working hard at my Greek with the helpful notes you sent with your last letter, so that when you return, you need not be ashamed of me! Do you think that it will be soon?
Yours,
Mary Crawley
XxX
Matthew read Mary's letter under his desk lid in his Latin lesson with a smile ghosting his face. To hear her familiar voice in the words she wrote to him was somehow so comforting. Her letters were by turns teasing, bright, melancholy. Her boredom was clear, but did she want him to come home just so she had someone to entertain her, someone to argue with and tease? Probably. But Matthew couldn't care, her letters evoked memories of home and as he scanned down the page of her last letter, he sighed. So short. He wanted to know more of what was happening back in Downton; had the cat had kittens again? How many tricks had Mary played on Edith? Were the boys playing rounders or cricket this summer? What was she learning from her governess? Did she have any new friends? Mary's letters were never very detailed or very personal and never long enough to satisfy him. Matthew's heavy sigh attracted the unwanted attention of the boy sharing his desk; a very unpopular boy in Matthew's form, weedy and bespectacled with a terrible reputation throughout the school for being a sly little suck up.
"Sir, Sir!" he whined in his nasal voice, frantically waving his hands in the air, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "Crawley's reading a letter under his desk! And it's from a girl!"
The usually silent Latin class erupted in gales of laughter as Matthew flushed all the way up to the roots of his blonde hair.
"SILENCE!" The master brought down his cane on the desk with a terrifying crack, silencing the boys immediately. "Crawley. Is this true?"
"I...I...yes, sir. But..."
"You know you are not allowed to send or receive letters from any women except relatives."
"But, sir...she is."
Matthew carefully folded down the letter so that just the signature was showing: Mary Crawley.
The master peered at the signature through his gold rimmed spectacles, his nose almost touching the precious paper. He stood up straight again and made his way back to the front of the class, but not before giving the tell tale boy sitting by Matthew a good hard smack around the back of the head with the Latin dictionary. The boy gave a yelp and his hand flew to his burning, tingling head, staring angrily at the master. Noticing this, the teacher gave him one of his most terrifying looks, withering the small boy into nothingness under his gaze.
"No one likes a grass, Jones."
"Yes, sir," he mumbled, still glaring furiously.
As the boys fell silently to work once more, pens scratching away in the quiet room, Matthew glanced towards the front of the classroom where the teacher was chalking up some more translations. Matthew caught his eye and could have sworn that the master gave him a quick smile before once more writing Latin words onto the blackboard.
After their Latin lesson, a group of boys surrounded Jones in the quad where they normally congregated to swap stories of the morning lessons and where they ate their snacks together at break. Faulkner was first into the fray to defend Matthew.
"I say, Jones, that was rotten, grassing on Crawley like that!" he exclaimed, his face flushing pink with anger at the slight done to his friend.
"Well, I thought...I thought old Rogerson ought to know. Crawley oughtn't to break the rules..."
Faulkner exploded at the weedy boy, further annoyed by the whining voice stammering out pathetic excuses.
"You know dashed well you could have gotten him into real trouble! What if he'd have been sent to the Head? Then he would have missed the third team cricket match next week and you know we need him to play!"
"I don't see why everyone's being so beastly to me! I only did what was right!" Jones' eyes were swimming with unshed tears, only increasing the scorn of the irate boys.
"You nasty sneak! We'll show you what happens to boys like you!"
The five boys surrounded him, backing him against the wall. As Matthew came out into the quad, he saw the fear in the eyes of Jones as the five boys surrounded him, Faulkner grabbing his collar. Matthew ran over and tried to put himself between them.
"Leave him alone, Faulkner!"
"But Crawley, he jolly well needs teaching a lesson! We don't want sneaks in our form!"
"Look at him. He's not worth it. Besides, we need to practise bowling this break and Jones is only going to take up our time."
"Alright then." Faulkner's mouth twitched and twisted into a reluctant half smile, roughly unhanding Jones' collar, the smaller boy breathing heavily in relief.
XxX
Elated from their cricket match where they had secured a convincing win over Rugby School, the boys piled into the school hall, the promise of a fine after match tea tempting them in from the glorious sunshine. Great jugs of lemonade stood along the table, piles of sandwiches and cake, bowls of strawberries and cream were placed here and there to the great joy of the cricket team.
The ravenous boys fell on these rare treats, good manners momentarily forgotten as they grabbed sandwiches for their own plates and teased the others about their performance in the match.
"Good job you tripped and caught that ball, Crawley!" The boys roared with laughter. It had been a wonderful catch, the ball high and fast from a Rugby lad being caught by the tip of Matthew's fingers, rolling into the safety of his palm to the raucous cheers of the school and his teammates.
Matthew flushed slightly, giving a modest smile and as the boys feasted on scones and bread and butter, he slipped quietly away from the table unnoticed. Settling himself down in a secluded spot in the common room, he began to write.
17th July
My dear Mary,
You would never believe the cricket match we played today! We would have put the Downton boys to shame! Northwood hit the ball so far; it reminded me awfully of that first time you played rounders with us when we were little and you hit it so far that the boys all stared in wonder. It was just like that! The Rugby boys just gawped as he hit it for six. It made me wish I could be at Downton, with you, although the boys here are very good sorts. It's not the same I suppose. I will hold you to your promise of a game of cricket when I return, even if it is after your debutante ball! I couldn't say when I might come back. I hope very much it will be soon. Do write to me at my Manchester address this summer.
Yours,
Matthew
XxX
25th July
Dear Matthew,
Whatever am I to do with 10 weeks of summer stretching into the distance before me? All our tutors have left us for the summer. Mama and Papa went up to London some weeks ago now and soon I will be able to go with them. Well, not very soon, I suppose. Not until I'm seventeen at least, but that seems to me to be so old! So I will just think of it as the year after next after next... Goodness, I just thought! When I have my first Season, you will be eighteen! Think of that! Eighteen. Remember when we used to talk about what we would do when we were eighteen? It seemed so very far away but now seems looming ever closer. We are growing up much too quickly for my liking.
Mary
XxX
4th October
My dearest Mary,
Thank you for all your letters this summer; they have been a greater happiness to me than I can ever express to you. I apologise for not having written, but Mother has been terribly ill and I have been caring for her, with the help of my Aunt Florence. I know you will be glad to hear that she is on the mend. Term started three weeks ago, so I am back at Marlborough, should you wish to write me. I'm in the third form now, but Rogerson says perhaps I might be able to skip a form and go up to the fourth in a couple of weeks! It's nothing to make a fuss about, but I did want to tell you. It all seems so fast, this growing up business! But I suppose we must deal with it as best we can.
Yours,
Matthew
XxX
As Mary sat at her desk, tapping her teeth with the end of her fountain pen, for once she found herself struggling to write. Scraps of torn paper and scrumpled sheets of half written letters littered the desk around her. Everything she wrote seemed childish or somehow embarrassing or the words weren't quite right. Ugh! Why was this suddenly so hard? She had been writing to Matthew for years!
My dear Matthew...
She scrawled a line through the words. They just didn't sound right. Why, she couldn't imagine. Matthew always started his letters like that.
Matthew...
For goodness sake! She couldn't just write "Matthew"! How dreadfully blunt it sounded. Mary crumpled the piece of paper in her hand and threw it to the floor to join the rapidly growing pile there on the carpet.
Shaking herself, Mary took out a fresh sheet of notepaper and began a new letter with fresh resolve. She would just write out what she wanted and then send it. That was the most sensible plan. Her pen flew across the paper, filling the paper with all her thoughts and questions.
Yours, Mary.
She signed it with a flourish, blotted the ink and quickly folded it up, sealing it with her own special seal and placing it on the top of the pile of half finished letters.
The door clicked open and Mary heard a gasp. She turned to see the maid gawping and quickly, politely covering her dismayed face with a small smile to her young mistress.
"Goodness, milady! You have been busy!"
The maid's eyes were wide with amazement as she took in the scene; piles of discarded letters, scraps of paper dotted around an inky fingered Mary, a small smudge of ink adorning her cheek. Mary hadn't really noticed when she was making the mess, but now, well, it looked like the room of an insane person!
"Oh!" Mary exclaimed in horror. "I do apologise."
"No harm done, milady. What do you want doing with all this paper?"
"Just throw it all out, thank you, Dora."
Mary swept from the room, in search of something to wash this dreadful ink from her hands...
Dora swept up all the paper from the floor and the desk into her arms. Goodness, there was a lot! She looked around the room in satisfaction. Not a scrap of paper to be seen. Trundling down the servants stairs into the kitchen, Dora was immediately berated by a flustered Mrs Patmore.
"Dora, girl, what are you doin' with all that paper down 'ere? Throw it in the furnace before I do the same to you!"
"Yes, Mrs Patmore!"
Dora placed all the letters and scraps of paper into the furnace, prodding it with the poker until it all turned to fine, grey ash.
TBC
So, I hope you enjoyed that! I can't say when more will be coming, but I will try to update when I can! R&R