Chapter 4

Clarkson helped Mary and Isobel gently shift Matthew from his bed to the bathing table, taking care to not hurt his arm. Despite the three's efforts, Matthew still cried out in pain as it jostled his broken arm. He faded in and out of consciousness as they moved him and prepared to wash him, muttering incoherently. Clarkson nodded at the two women and then briskly strode out of the room.

Mary turned to Isobel. "We should start from his neck down," she instructed, handing Mary a sponge. Mary gently began to work the buttons on his collar, tenderly peeling it back and working the areas where blood had cemented his shirt to his wounds with warm water. She was trying desperately not to hurt him, but he still softly grunted as the shirt was moved away from his injuries.

She began to gently wash his neck, wiping away the dirt and grime there with warm water. He made contented noises as she wiped the warm water down his neck and began to unbutton his shirt. Isobel helped Mary gently lift Matthew's torso, eliciting a groan from him as they pulled the shirt off of him. Mary held his hand as Isobel slid the shirt sleeve off of his broken arm, and almost cried aloud when Matthew screamed and squeezed her hand tightly.

She felt sick at the sight of his arm. It was bent at a terrible angle, bone protruding in a bloody wound just below his elbow. Bloody gashes ran up and down, with bits of shrapnel and dirt coating them, alongside both new and old scars. Isobel had to steady herself on the table where the bowl of warm water was, and remind herself that she was a nurse, that she had seen worse. Even then, this was her son, her darling, who was hurt. It sent a pang through her chest to see him in pain.

Mary stood back and surveyed the damage to the rest of his chest and torso. Black and blue bruises covered almost every inch of him, and bits of shrapnel stuck out of his skin. She suddenly felt a white hot rush of hate run through her. She hated the Germans. She hated England. She hated anyone; anyone at all who had contributed to his injuries, making Matthew like this. She especially hated herself. Had she accepted him sooner, given him her answer, he might not have run off to war. He might've been more careful. He wouldn't have been hurt.

Isobel saw the emotions warring across her young cousin's normally distant and haughty face. She placed her hand on her shoulder and nodded at Mary, indicating they should continue on in their work. With that, Mary grabbed her sponge and began to work over his unbroken arm.

As she wiped away the dirt and blood, she couldn't help but admire him. The years at war had stripped him of any softness in his body. He was now lean, muscular, and strong. His arms were not bulky, but tight with ropey muscles running through. His shoulders were strong. His chest carved. His stomach was taut, his abs visible though not protruding. He was strong, a soldier now. He was no longer the slightly pudgy boy she had come to know and love, but a man, made strong and fit by war. She had to remind herself to think like a nurse.

She carefully sponged his chest, doing her best to avoid his injuries. She and Isobel would have to clean and bandage those later. She gasped when she looked up at Matthew's dirty face. His clear blue eyes peered at her, confused, but fully awake.

"Mary," he rasped. She smiled at him and continued to work.

Is Mary my angel? Matthew thought. He could not fathom why she was next to him. He had been sure he had met his end in the explosion. He had vague memories of her next to him, leaning over him, speaking to him, a few tendrils of her dark hair grazing his face as she put a gentle cool pressure to his forehead. She looked so angelic, in the early morning light that streamed through the windows of… of…

Downton. It dawned on him. He must be at Downton. This was the drawing room, though it didn't look like the Crawley's ornate drawing room. There were beds – hospital cots lined neatly through the room in place of furniture. He must have been injured, he decided. He was wondering how this came to be when he noticed a soft motion moving over his abdomen, bringing occasional sharp stabs of pain, but also soothing his torn flesh. His eyes met hers, as he relished the feeling of her hands moving the cloth over him. He had wished for this many times, though under different circumstances….

His thoughts were cut short as a searing pain ripped through his side as her sponge moved to his ribcage. He heard an inhuman scream tear through the air, and realized it must have been his own. Mary's hands shot to his face and she looked stricken.

Isobel gently moved Mary aside once she heard her son's yell of pain. She moved to his side and saw the black bruises flowering across one side of his ribcage. She looked pained when she turned to Mary, who was speaking softly to Matthew, hands gently caressing his face. "He has some broken ribs," Isobel stated. Mary grimaced when she heard this. She knew how painful broken ribs were. She had broken one herself once, when she fell off of Diamond. Every breath brought pain, the slightest movement agony. Matthew, on the other hand had several that he would have to handle. She was surprised he was not crying out with every breath – Her strong Matthew. She grabbed his hand, and he squeezed it hard, tears in his eyes. "Shh, it's alright, it's perfectly alright." She reluctantly returned to her task, as Matthew's eyes drifted shut.

Mary worked especially gently, avoiding his ribcage. "Is there anything we can give to him – to – to take the edge off?" She asked Isobel.

"I'm afraid there is not, we can't risk morphine with the infected wound."

Mary sighed as she continued to sponge his stomach. She quickly wiped the last of the dirt before nodding to Isobel, her task finished.

Isobel motioned for Mary to turn away. When Mary complied, Isobel quickly removed her son's pajama pants, grateful he was unconscious. She placed a towel over his privates for decency, and then tapped Mary to turn around.

Mary was shocked to see Matthew all but naked, with only a towel for privacy. She tried to not allow it to affect her as she took stock of the work she would have to do. She found herself admiring his long, lean legs much in the way she had his chest. More bruises covered his legs, mostly to the right side. He must have had his right to the shell, Mary thought. More cuts and shrapnel covered his legs, though they were not as bad as the ones on his chest. She decided to begin working at his feet, far away from…. Never mind that, Mary thought as she grabbed her sponge.

She began to work on his heels, and moved upward. His foot suddenly jerked though he made no noise, and she looked to Isobel, concerned.

Isobel was worried by Mary's expression, but smiled when she saw where she was working. "Don't worry, dear, he's just ticklish."

Mary smiled at this, enjoying her knowledge of this trivial but intimate detail about Matthew. She continued to work, and his foot continually jerked. For a moment, Mary forgot where she was, what she was doing. She reluctantly moved up his legs once she had cleaned his feet, up his calf muscles, scarred knees, and then… his thighs.

She blushed slightly as she began to wash them, the hard muscle tensing under her touch. Isobel stood for a moment and excused herself to go and discuss something with Dr. Clarkson. Mary's slight blush became a full-on blush at the thought of being alone with Matthew…. en déshabillé…. However platonic the situation was.

Mary continued to wash Matthews's legs when she heard a low groan. Really, she thought, Now you wake up? She immediately felt ashamed, as just a few hours ago she had been praying for him to wake. Her eyes rose to meet Matthew's confused blue ones, her blush making her face and neck feel like they were on fire.

A smile played across Matthew's lips as he saw Mary's face, but he felt confused at her expression. Was she… Blushing? Mary, actually blush? He searched the room for what could be the cause of her embarrassment, but saw nothing until he looked down at his body. "What in God's name…" He muttered, the blush in his cheeks instantaneously equaling Mary's. He was, essentially, naked, with Mary in the room. He felt immensely grateful for the towel covering him. A low groan rose from his throat. This could not be happening.

Mary took his groan as a groan of pain, and immediately her hand was on Matthew's, her face over his. "Matthew," she said with concern, "Are you alright?"

"Darling…" He said, and a smile flickered across her lip as he called her darling, like he had so long ago. "I seem to have misplaced… My clothing." He blushed even more furiously. Mary grinned, feeling her usual confident self again suddenly as she continued to work.

As she worked, Matthew pretended to sleep, hoping she wouldn't see his humiliation. He was being washed by Mary, like an invalid. He was relieved to hear his mother return as Mary finished cleaning his legs. Mary left the room, and he again felt humiliated at his mother pulling clean trousers on him, almost breaking his façade of sleeping when she removed the towel to clean the rest of him, then pull his pants up the last bit.

Mary returned, and helped pull on Matthew's shirt. Matthew bit back his gasps of pain as she did, and gasps as her fingers brushed his bare skin.

Mary suddenly noticed they had missed something. "What about his hair?" She asked Isobel. Isobel grimaced, showing Mary what was keeping them from doing so. Tears sprang to Mary's eyes when she saw what was keeping them.

A large, bloody gash ran over the top of his head, open, and dirty.

Thinking Matthew was asleep, Isobel told Mary what had to be done.

"They're going to have to operate to clean and stitch it, at the same time we fix his arm." Mary was not too concerned by this when Isobel leaned in. "Because of his infection… He cannot be given any morphine or chloroform."

Matthew shuddered at Isobel's next words.

"He will be awake."