Chapter 16

Matthew January 1920

Matthew caught up with Mary as the dog-searching party headed back, sadly for Robert empty-handedly, to the house. He had come up to the house for a reason and he wasn't going to let a damn dog get in the way. Luckily for him, Mary started the conversation for him.

"Why were you up at the house this evening? Did Papa summon you?"

"As a matter of fact I came to see you. I wanted to find out what you meant when you said you had to marry Carlisle and that I'd despise you if I knew the reason."

Mary looked at him sadly.

"Yes. You would."

He was sure that he could never despise Mary, whatever it was. He loved her too much and for too long to imagine that he could find out anything about her that would change how he felt. Loving Mary was just about the only constant in his life.

"Whatever it is, it cannot be enough for you to marry him" he said adamantly.

"That's what Papa said"

Matthew felt momentarily and irrationally jealous that she had told Robert and not him.

"So, you told him?"

"Yes"

"And does he despise you?"

"He's... very disappointed in me" Mary said quietly looking at the ground.

Matthew needed to know. He simply could not bear it any longer.

"Even so, please tell me"

Mary sighed slightly, perhaps in resignation.

"Very well then. On one condition."

"Name it"

"Not so long ago you asked me if I would allow you to finish what you were saying before I said anything. Can you promise me the same now?"

"Of course" Matthew replied suddenly conscious of how serious this was for Mary.

"Richard knows something. Something about me that he's kept out of the papers. He's made it clear that if I don't marry him then he will no longer do that."

So he was right. He nodded in encouragement, and she continued.

"I'm sure you remember that some years ago, not long after you arrived I suppose, Mr. Napier brought a Turkish gentleman to stay at Downton."

Matthew remembered. How could anyone forget the events surrounding that gentleman.

"I... I was young, and stupid... and I flirted with him a great deal."

She was looking at the ground, and not at his face.

"I don't know how he managed it, but that evening he came to my room. I didn't invite him, and I told him to leave, but he wouldn't go."

Matthew felt his eyes widen. He went to her room? Uninvited? He felt anger rise within him, and he clenched his fists.

"I was weak, and foolish, and I let him into my bed. And, well, after we... he was dead. Mama and I moved him back to his room and well, you know the rest..." she tailed off.

Matthew was dumbfounded. Pamuk in Mary's bed? No! He could not have understood her correctly.

"You and he were..."

"Yes. We were lovers."

The words fell like a stone into the silence between them.

Mary January 1920

Matthew had turned away from her, and her heart sank. He did despise her; he couldn't even look at her.

"Say something" she said, echoing words Matthew had said to her only months before.

"Even if it's only goodbye"

Matthew turned towards her but still wouldn't look her in the eye.

"Did you love him?"

Oh Matthew!

"You mustn't try to..."

"Because if it was love, then..."

Her heart sank further. Trust Matthew to always be thinking the best of her.

"How could it be love? I didn't even know him..."

"Then why would you?"

It was a question she'd asked herself a thousand times since. Why? Why did she acquiesce? Why had she even flirted with him in the first place? Because she was young and foolish; because she didn't know anything of real life; because she had no idea of the magnitude of the error she was making.

"It was lust Matthew. Or a need for excitement. Or something in him that... Oh God, what difference does it make? I'm Tess of the D'Urbervilles to your Angel Clare. I have fallen. I am impure."

There was a bitterness to her tone which she knew wasn't really helpful, but, unlike Matthew, she had had years to come to terms with the fact that she was 'damaged goods' and that, like Angel Clare rejected Tess, so would she be rejected when her loss of virtue was made known.

"Don't joke. Don't make it little, not when I'm trying to understand."

"Thank you for that"

She was grateful. She was grateful that he was still talking to her; that he was trying. But she could feel that he was looking at her differently; seeing a different person to before. She was not who he thought her to be, she had given that away, foolishly, to Pamuk and she could never get it back.

"But the fact remains that I am made different by it. Things have changed between us."