XX
"Well that was quite the display." Robert said returning from dining room after a quick cigar smoke, alone.
Cora reminded him. 'Things are the way they are. There's no point in believing otherwise. He's the future of Downton."
Robert harrumphed. "At least Mary agrees with me. The man can hardly hold his knife correctly."
"I liked his directness." Edith said, walking into the music room. "Someone to bring a bit of spark to this family." She sat down next to Violet.
"Do you think he'd be available for an interview? His work with the peace talks could make for an interesting article." She turned to Mary who returned from outside.
Mary took a seat opposite.
"How should I know?" With an irascibility she was quite proud of. No one needed to know about her time with Matthew in Paris. Especially Edith if she was intent on poking around his background. His anger, the revelation of his father's death obviously weighed heavily upon him. She didn't want her sister going and stirring it all up before she had a chance to figure it all out.
"You seem to get on well with him." Edith shrugged.
"Yes." Robert turned, picking up on Edith's train of thought. "Mary how could you run out like that?"
"I simply wanted to make sure he knew he was welcome here." Mary smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt to avoid eye contact.
"That's rich." Edith replied. "Seeing how negative you were towards him when he first came. Wasn't he the one to steal your inheritance?"
"I apologized to him. It's not his fault all this has been thrust upon him. He's stuck with decisions. I know that too well to be angry at him." Mary knew that to be truer than the rest of her family realized. She now understood it was that stranded quality that drew them together in the first place. Both out of step. Needing a safe port. You want to fight. But you're too exhausted. So things roll over you. Mary had always fought those demons with an affectation of strength and invulnerability. Matthew had seen right through it.
"You've not developed feelings for this man already? I find his arrogance disturbing." Robert was pouring a drink at the cart.
Edith snorted. "Oh Papa. Soldiers all the time are returning home different. Shaped by their experiences, but coming back to people who want to return to a world that no longer exists."
Mary added, "And need I remind you he is your heir."
Robert did a double take. "There must be a full moon when you two howl in unison about anything."
Mary had to smile. "See Papa, when Edith and I agree, you are surely in the wrong."
That made Robert pause, but he shook his head. "It is true, the world has moved on without me. I'm not sure where I fit anymore. But I am still head of this family, and frankly young Matthew Crawley gives me a headache. There are certain standards of etiquette…"
"The war…" Edith started in again.
"And yes I know all about the war pretext for rudeness of this new generation. They seem to forget that my generation was also a generation of war. We didn't make it an excuse for bad form."
"No, Violet added quietly. "Just blinded by chauvism for which they've paid a heavy price."
Robert conceded to his mother. He sighed and changed the subject. "In any event, as Mary says he is the new heir. But I'm not at all sure I want you paying him much mind. There are other prospects out there for you." He huffed slightly. "Better ones."
She bristled. "Like some prize pig? Are you putting me out to market again?" Mary retorted." Papa, I thought we went through all this years ago. I'm perfectly capable of making up my own mind and living my own life."
"As your recent marriage debacle so truly brought to life." He reminded her. Mary's fingered gripped her sherry glass. She had been through this so many times with her family. And part of her understood. She had entered an ill-advised marriage on a whim of rebellion, and had come back with her tail between her legs. She hated that reality. And felt her financial vulnerability more than ever. She had masqued it in a determination to just get on with things, thus the trip to Paris with her mother.
And the chance meeting with the man who had felt the same bone weariness. Inverses of each other, they wrapped minds and bodies without identity. It was the most freeing experience of her life.
She could not go back. But she had no idea of her future.
The family had taken his disclosures in their stride. Meaning they kept their true emotions bottled up inside. But she could tell. Finding out he was heir was a shock. The revelation that he had been severely injured in the war horrified. That he was possibly sterile catastrophic.
If she was to look to him as a savior to come and rescue her from a future of duty and responsibility all that was now dust. Not that she was. Was she?
Her reverie was interrupted by Cora once again playing mediator. "Now now Robert. All that is in the past. Mary only wants to be friendly. What's the harm in that?"
"Exactly." Mary thought wickedly. Even if 'friendly' included running her hands all over his naked form and allowing him extravagant claims on her own body.
XX
Matthew had told Mrs. Robbins that he could fend for himself. Now that the coroners had finally left along with the investigators, he felt drained. Not willing to be polite to one other person. Nor to be interrogated by detectives who seemed to think that Matthew should know more than he did.
He lost count of the number of "I don't knows" he answered. Was his father sick? Did he have a history of mental disturbance? Was his wife's death more traumatic than first realized? How did he get the weapon?
That one he knew. Reginald Crawley got it while serving in South Africa. 1900. He had been at school, at Rugby. He was 9 and had been called to the headmaster's office. His mother informed him that not only was his father now at Pretoria working alongside Sir Frederick Treves, she would soon join him after finishing her own nursing training.
He remembered blinking. Then taking it like the stoics he had been taught to emulate. He solemnly nodded, kissed her cheek, and said "Good luck, Mummy." He never noticed her wan appearance. Her sadness.
He made himself a cup of tea.
Once the detectives were gone back to write their reports, his father could be buried. The funeral director would be at the house tomorrow.
It felt so empty. The house had never felt empty before. His mother's chatter. The cook's rattling the pans. Or complaining about the oven. His father's patients moving in and out of the surgery when he had open hours in the morning.
He had taken it all for granted. It would always be the same whenever he returned home. School holidays. The long vac at university. Even his leave time during the war.
It was the same.
And then it wasn't. And he realized nothing ever stays the same.
Isobel had volunteered with the Red Cross. Matthew was in hospital at Fromelles recovering from his spinal injury. She had hoped to spend some time with him.
She had managed one visit. She had just appeared at the foot of his bed one day. Her smile, her warm light up the room smile was the first thing he saw. Because it looked screwed on. Her smile never lied.
His injury was serious, he knew that. Her smile confirmed it was potentially life altering.
"Mother." He spoke through cracked, parched lips. His cheek trembled. He did not want her seeing him like this. And yet he never wanted her leave.
"I've spoken to Sister Carol and she informs me your prognosis is a good one." Isobel came to sit next to Matthew. She took his scarred hand.
"You know you blink when you lie, Mother?" Matthew had said, trying to let her know it was fine to talk the truth.
"It does not." She tried to laugh. Then blinked again.
That made them both laugh.
"I know the worst." Matthew squeezed her hand. "I might not ever walk again."
"Nonsense." Isobel snapped. "I'll talk to the doctors later. But this type of injury is common with falls. You have every chance of recovery."
He had nodded. It was better to let her hope.
And it turned out she was right. He had begun to feel sensations in his toes soon after she left to return to her own duties in Paris. They had managed a good visit though. She had walked him around the garden of the hospital in his wheelchair. They had sat under a large shade tree.
The companionable silence. That was what he remembered now. Sitting in the family dining room, sipping a tepid cup of tea. He closed his eyes and he remembered the feel of the wind on his skin. The murmur of other patients sitting in a nearby gazebo. His mother knowing he did not want to talk. But wanted her presence. Her strength.
He had told her he loved her. Would see her soon. They set up a date for a visit in Paris upon his recovery. And he never saw her again. The Germans had bombed Paris via zeppelin. She had been walking down the street to her hotel. It could have happened to anyone.
But it happened to his family. A casualty of war, the officers had said that came to inform him. They had taken her body back to Manchester and buried while he was in recovery.
In the meantime he received notice that he was to be the recipient of the Victoria Cross for pre-eminent act of valour in the recent events on the Somme. The night action in which he saved the lives of numerous soldiers under his command by running down the line under heavy artillery fire and bombs and throwing his arms out to capture as many as he could and using his and their body weights pushed them all to safety inside a crater. He then went out again to locate one corporal when the two of them were thrown into a pit of debris. The young corporal died.
He got a medal. He was awarded the VC in a quick ceremony at the hospital.
He wanted to be sick. He wanted to give it to that corporal. To his mother. For her sacrifice. Her valour. Instead he took it in her honour and in memory of all those who deserved it more than he did. He realized that the majority of other VC recipients were dead. And he lived. He would live for them. For them and his mother.
He survived. He would not let the war win.
He lived.
But he found no comfort in living. He made a rash decision that had ended disastrously.
So he drifted. For months after the war. And then found Mary. And life. Not just breathing, but life. The touch of her skin. The feel of her mouth. Of her hips opening to him. Of entering her. Of taking her. The ecstasy. The plateau. And then the letdown. Except it did not leave him cold and alone. Her warmth enveloped him. Healed him. Made him only want to be with her.
Their parting had hurt. But he knew it would happen. He had continued writing and living in Paris. Not really knowing what to do, when the call came from the Manchester police.
His father was dead by his own hand.
He had lost everyone.
And then Mary re-entered into his life. That day at Downton, when he saw her on that red settee, when she brushed past him with such a stare that would make grown men whimper—he felt his world shift back into place.
And he knew. He knew he was hers body and soul. He would accept this title of Robert's. This estate. Simply because he could see her again.
But he would not let her sacrifice her happiness for him. The circumstances of his father's death. The issues of past animosity between the Crawley's. His sterility. Which would probably get worse so that eventually he could not function sexually at all.
He would never let that passionate woman who made his pulse race just with a slide of her fingers along the palm of his hand be without a partner who could fulfill all of her needs.
Even if it meant seeing her with another man?
Could he really do that? This was what he was pondering when he heard a knock at the front door.
XX
The knock at the door startled his solitude. Opening the latch to find it was Mary.
"Mary." He breathed her name. He loved saying her name now.
"You did ask me to visit." Mary was taking off her gloves as he gestured inside.
"Yes of course. I wasn't sure you could get away." He took her hat and placed it on a chair. They walked into the living room.
"Sorry it's at sixes and sevens. The …." He choked. "the coroner was here and the police…."
"Shh." Taking his hand. "We'll put it right."
"What?" He said, recovering just merely with her presence, her scent that he remembered lingering on his pillows in his dreary Parisian flat. "Lady Mary Crawley grubbing about tidying and dusting?"
"Needs must right?" She crooked her eye at him. "We all have to pitch in. That's what was drilled into me during the war. When Downton was a convalescent home. You'd be surprised by what I can handle now."
"It must have come as quite a shock." He remembered his own convalescence. The screams in the night from the other patients. Sometimes his own howling and cursing.
"We didn't have it as bad as Sybil." At his confusion she said, "My other sister. She served as a VAD at the front. She's married now, in Ireland. We're expecting them to visit sometime this autumn."
"That will be nice for your mother." His voice said, betraying his own still raw feelings of grief.
"It will." And she gave his arm a squeeze. She walked around the room, having every intention of putting together a plan to help him organize this move. But was jolted almost immediately by the pictures on the piano in the corner.
A wedding photo. Matthew, in a handsome formal red jacketed uniform but looking pale and thin. The bride, holding sweet smile for the camera but her eyes giving away her fear and distress.
"Lavinia." Matthew's calm voice bringing Mary back to reality. She had not even realized she had picked up the silver frame. It shook in her hand. She knew he had been married. He had told her as much in Paris. But this picture was so sad, so melancholy it shook her to the core. As if their marriage had been doomed from the start.
"She's very pretty." Mary managed to say.
"Yes." He remained composed. "You can't tell by that picture, but she had beautiful auburn hair." He walked over and took the photo from Mary's hand. Carefully placed it back on the dust covered piano case. "She loved me very much. And I did not love her nearly as much as she deserved."
"I'm sure she believed you did." Mary said, grasping at something to comfort him.
"You're probably right. She didn't want me to be sad. She said so in her last letter. She knew our marriage was a sham. I had rushed her to the altar after my mother's death. I thought I needed someone else to replace her. It was the worst thing I could have done. I went back almost immediately after our rather pathetic honeymoon. It was right after I started walking, but my legs, my body - they still betrayed me. We barely saw each other after that. I was either at the front or in Paris. Then she died in London at her father's house where she lived while I was overseas." He swallowed hard. "She died without me."
He turned to Mary. "Thing is, as terrible as this sounds, I barely remember how she spoke. We hardly knew each other."
"Don't blame yourself for love you did not feel." Mary moved away from the set of photos and back towards the center of the room. "I'm sure she would not."
He gave her a wan smile. "Thank you. I've made my peace with her memory. I'm much better now. This war has taken so many young people, so many needless deaths."
He wrinkled his brow in thought. "So many changes. No wonder you father finds it all a bit daunting to take in. And then there's Patrick. I gather they were close." Matthew was trying to make conversation. To get to know this woman. It was so very odd. He knew every intricacy of her body.
But he knew next to nothing of her life.
"Yes they were." She said quietly. "Papa wanted me to marry him, of course."
At Matthew's startled look she nodded. "He was the heir. I thought of Patrick as a brother. So it was a non-starter from the get go. Instead I ran off to live with my aunt Rosamund in London. Met a man I soon married. Papa got over his anger when he met Richard and realized he was rich. It's all too dreary for words, I'm afraid. Something out of a bad stage period drama."
He had to laugh. "Is there a murder? Did the butler do it?"
"No. But the valet was accused." She slyly smirked. Glad to bring a smile to his face.
She moved to refill her tea cup. "The upshot was, my husband was still in love with another woman. They started an affair when he was away on supposed business trips. And when we had no children with in the first year of our marriage he grew weary of me." She shrugged. "As I was of him."
"We divorced. I was barren. He was a philanderer. It's a wonder it didn't make the society gossip columns. The Armistice came at the same time, ironically saving me from that scandal."
Matthew was no longer listening. "Barren?" He murmured. "Are you sure?"
"Well I have had no children." She told him direct. "With my husband. Nor with you."
"I told you of my … my medical condition. I will accept being heir for your sake. But I'll never be the heir your father wanted. I will probably never marry again." He took her hand. "But you can't let that be a hindrance to your future happiness. Find someone else."
He added softly, so much so she wasn't sure she heard him, "Have a life. Just not with me."
Mary stiffened. "For women of my class, marriage is the only way out. Either that or we stay at home and become spinsters."
"But you got out once. Married. Divorced. You found a measure of independence."
"Yet here I am. I know I shouldn't complain. With so much suffering. So much pain and death. It's pathetic. Why I got angry over that blasted entail. My life is tied up with the house. Unless I leave it to marry again."
Matthew gripped her hand harder. "You don't have to marry against your own wishes surely? You'll always have a home at Downton as long as I'm alive."
"But not as a husband?" She asked quietly.
"No." He stood up. "What sane woman would want a man as I am now? Especially one who wants marriage and children?"
"And what if someone wants to be with you? On any terms?"
"You don't mean that." He spoke bitterly. "I'll not see you waste any more of your life."
"Like Paris. Like Biarritz." She reminded him. "We were lovers. I was happy. So were you. You can't deny it."
"That was different." He barely spoke a whisper. "Like a dream. You know it. We were living in a dream. And this is real life. It would be as if I took you under false pretenses. Or as a kept woman or something? I couldn't do that. You'd despise me after a while."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"I'm no good for you." He said as harshly as he could. But he knew he'd crumble if she gave him any sign.
"I'm no good without you." Mary looked directly into his eyes.
His body slumped, knowing that was the answer he needed.
As one they moved back towards each other.
The searing fusion of lips and tongues that followed sealed their fate. He straddled her on the chair. She could feel his need. She tore at the trouser buttons. Her fingers were nimble. He caught his breath and shivered as she freed him. He pushed up her skirt and pushed aside her chemise and under drawers.
"Do you want me, Mary?" He asked, his voice bleeding love, using her name deliberately. Their first time having sex knowing her identity.
"Yes. Yes." She met his hard gaze and plunged his hardened member into her. Ragged with breath, grunting with equal craving, "More than anything."
His own fingers caressed her breasts. He felt them under the silky blouse. There had been no time to undress. She arched her back and he pushed down, colliding their bodies together. He pulled her face up to meet his, as his fingers tore into her hair and his breath was hot upon her cheek. His tongue danced inside her mouth.
They knew each other's bodies so well. What gave the most pleasure. What places made her wet. What position made him grunt and shiver in and sweating, Matthew fell against her.
"Lady Mary Crawley, what am I doing?" He said, against her ear. "I am completely in love with you."
She placed his head in the crook of her shoulder. "I don't ask any more than this."
But he would not accept that. He eased himself away from her. Turned to let her affix her clothing while he re buttoned the trousers. Turned and kneeled.
"We need to do this properly if we are to do this at all. Will you marry me?" His smile crooked, cheeks aflame.
"Yes." She could not believe the word had escaped her lips. What would her father think? Her family? "Of course I will."
She did not care.
He lifted her up off the seated cushion and spun her around the room "What mad a pair we are!"
Their lips met in one more sweet kiss to seal their fate.
XX