Chapter 9

Isobel woke up the next morning much in the same way as she had the past few days she had spent here at Downton. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and glanced over at her son to see whether he was asleep. She was relieved to see his eyes still closed, his injured body relaxed.

She didn't even give a second thought to the fact that Mary was lying in bed with Matthew. The previous night, as she retired to bed after discussing Matthew's fits with Clarkson, she had seen Mary sleeping next to Matthew in his bed. She lay on top of the covers, lips sweetly pressed to his hairline; his good arm curled around her. Rather than wake Mary up immediately as would have been considered proper, she instead grabbed a blanked from a nearby cot and draped it over Mary. She took her place on her cot, feeling immensely grateful her son was in the care of a woman who could bring him out of a hallucination with the touch of her lips. She had seen men's fits go on for hours before.

That morning, Matthew heard Isobel sit up in bed. He feigned sleep, consciously evening his breathing. All he wanted was to stay here longer, to be able to remain with his arm around Mary. He was tired from the events of the previous night. His thoughts drifted back to them, wondering exactly what had happened. He had been sitting in bed long after Mary had left and the rest of the house had gone to bed. He was unable to sleep, so Isobel had sat up with him, talking. He tried his best to keep up with the conversation, but his thoughts continually drifted back to war. Then, all of a sudden, Isobel disappeared and he was back in the Somme, fighting for his life…

He didn't remember much about his… hallucination, as Isobel had called it. He knew he had seen and felt what he had seen and felt when he was at the Somme. He could smell the gunpowder, blood, and rotting human corpses, and taste the gasses in the air.

One specific vision he did remember troubled him. He was poised to stab a German with his bayonet when he heard a gentle voice, calling to him. The voice didn't belong there – it was the voice of an angel. Am I dying? He had thought. The voice stopped calling to him, and his vision got worse. He was in hand-to-hand combat, rolling in the mud, his knife to another man's throat. Then, he watched his friend from the trenches get shot in the lung. He was listening to the man's cries for help, muffled by the blood that was suffocating him when he felt a foreign pressure on his forehead that quickly moved to his lips. It pulled him away from the Somme, and the battleground faded away.

He was back at Downton, and Mary was leaning over him, saying "Oh, Matthew." He would've thought he actually died and gone to heaven had tears not been streaming down her face. An angel shouldn't cry, he thought. He lifted his hand to her face and gently wiped away her tears. She only cried harder. As she cried, he realized that tears were falling from his eyes as well. His angel lay down next to him on top of his covers and pressed her face into his neck. He wrapped his arm around her. He did not know what had happened to him, only that Mary's presence was an incredible comfort.

When Mary had begun to stand, he panicked. He tightened his arm around her, and "Please," was all he could manage. He was immensely relieved when she lay back down next to him. He closed his eyes, and he felt a startlingly familiar pressure to his forehead. He didn't have much time to ponder more on Mary's - he assured himself – platonic kiss, his eyes quickly drifting shut with his exhaustion.

As Matthew lay awake, he mused over the events of the previous night until he felt Mary begin to stir. He then pretended to wake up so that Isobel wouldn't be suspicious.

Isobel saw her son's eyes flutter open. "Good morning, Matthew!" she said brightly, and walked to his bedside. At her words, Mary's eyes snapped open. She jumped out of bed.

"Oh! Isobel! Good Morning!" Matthew had to smile at Mary. Her eyes were still muddled with sleep. It was the first time he had ever seen her frazzled. She looked down at herself, noticing she was still in her dressing gown. "Oh! If you'll excuse me…" She took off like a shot. Matthew and Isobel simultaneously grinned.

"Lady Mary Crawley not perfectly put together. This, I have to say, is a first," Isobel remarked, echoing Matthew's thoughts. "It is nice, seeing that she is one of us mere mortals, after all." Matthew grinned wider.

"Well, we still can't be too sure of that. She'll probably emerge soon, looking just as fresh as ever."

"Quite certainly," Isobel agreed. Glad to see him in such high spirits after the previous night, Isobel decided to tell him the good news Clarkson had brought. "Matthew, Clarkson said that it might be beneficial for you if you were to go outside in a wheelchair – we need to begin rebuilding your strength."

Matthew's face lightened then dropped. "Why a wheelchair? Is there something wrong?" He frowned at his legs. He could certainly feel them, every stinging cut and bruise. However, he hadn't tried to move them – He had been too tired.

"Oh, no, my dear boy. Your legs are perfectly fine," Isobel hastily reassured him. "You're just very weak at the moment, and we need to take this one step at a time." Matthew visibly relaxed as Isobel continued. "We could give it a go right after breakfast, if you like."

Matthew nodded. To get out of this room would be more than welcome. He took breakfast quietly, thoughts, as they almost always were, on Mary. Isobel helped him eat. I wish it were Mary, he thought. He was immediately ashamed of himself. His mother was a wonderful companion, and equally as capable as Mary of taking care of him. When his tray was taken away, Isobel stood and left the room. When she returned, Thomas, pushing a wheelchair, followed her.

Isobel and Thomas quickly lifted Matthew into the chair. Isobel took a blanket from his bed and draped it over his lap, dismissing Thomas. She stood behind the chair and began to push him when Mary gracefully glided into hid room, looking (to his and Isobel's amusement) as fresh as ever.

"Matthew!" She exclaimed. "You're out of bed!"

"Yes," Isobel said patiently, "Clarkson recommended he go outside for some fresh air for a bit."

"Ah, well then," Mary replied, "I shall be happy to take him." Leaning close so only Isobel could hear she whispered, "Cousin Isobel, I took the liberty of having some fresh clothing sent up from Crawley House. Anna has them." Isobel looked down, suddenly self-conscious of the outfit she had been donning for the past three days. She smiled gratefully at Mary and left.

"Well then," Mary said, turning to Matthew, "Shall we journey outside?"