After the parade was over...
XX
Previously:
Captain Matthew Crawley, with command inflection, barked the order "Salute to the right. Eyes Ri-i-i-ght." And all the regimental soldiers behind snapped to his order to honour the king and dignitaries in the viewing stand.
He was wearing the Bronze Cross pattée with Crown and Lion Superimposed.
Robert knew the motto emblazoned on the Victoria Cross. "For Valour."
Perhaps he had underestimated this new son in law of his.
XX
"What are you hiding?" Mary demanded. Her voice perhaps a tad more shrill than she intended.
Matthew could not have looked more confused. "What do you mean?" He adjusted his cap to keep the sun glare from his eyes. "I simply thought you'd be bored to sobs if you went."
Mary had just spent ages in an overcrowded, smelly viewing stand. Her legs cramped from lack of movement. The heat suffocating and making her prickly. "I haven't seen you for hours."
"I know my darling but it can't really be helped." He turned towards the group of men in uniform grabbing a smoke. "It's the only time I'll be able to see them."
"Is that all you're about?" Again it came out as an accusation.
Mary had just seen him in what seemed like an intimate tête-à-tête with a rather attractive blonde seconds before he noticed her among the throng of parade watchers. He had distractedly waved but did not let up on his conversation.
Suddenly Mary experienced a most unexpected pang of jealousy. And wariness. Wasn't it just how they met? On that sidewalk in Paris? One conversation and a cup of steamed coffee later and she lay breathless in his arms as he stripped her dress off and flung it across the room.
She had felt the only woman in the world to him that day. That moment. She never doubted that he had felt the same.
Until now. He was so easy, so charming with this other woman. He was animated and smiling. His arm brushed hers and they laughed.
She realized in that instant she knew so very little about him. She had taken his love on instinct. His devotion for granted.
But what it was ephemeral? She knew that was being silly, but it persisted as a niggling thought at the back of her mind. His emotions were all over the place. Was his love the same?
She felt rotten for doubting him as right now he was, to Mary's mind, in the best of moods.
There was a looseness about him. They had been in good spirits that morning traveling down to London for the Victory Parade. She admired his uniform, starched and brushed to perfection by Molesley just that morning at Downton.
He had told her she was his sanity. She had brought him back into the flow of life.
There was still, however, the air of melancholy about him. She felt him get more jumpy as the train rolled into the station. Matthew's hand had started to tremor. He wanted to do the regiment proud. But he also felt a bit of a fraud. Always had, he told her. Ever since they pinned the medal on him in hospital. Mary let him continue without interruption, just holding his hand more and more tightly.
"I no longer believed." He said. "In the war. In the lies we were forced to perpetuate." He slumped against the back of the train seat. "But now…." He paused. "I think I can do this for all those who can't."
The parade allowed him to purge the restless discontent formed in the crucible of war. That air that hung about him. A painful reminder to a forgetful public, he was one of the detritus of war. A survivor. One of the "génération perdue, those who wore their world weariness as another would wear a suit of clothes. He had been like the charred end of a sharp stick poked too many times into the fire. Stab it again and it would shatter into a million pieces of ash.
Mary had watched his march with a certain amount of trepidation. Would he faulter? But he did not. No hesitation. No sign of the doubts he had expressed earlier. His tone command sharp. It carried into the grandstand. The cadence crackled. The soldiers behind snapped attention right.
Everyone in the stands murmured approval. Their eyes followed the soldiers as they passed the King and Queen.
Mary watched only Matthew's face. It was impassive. Unreadable.
"On with the dance, my darling." Was the last thing he said before they parted so he could get in formation with his regiment. "The dead watch us. They will know what it's all for."
And yet, yet afterward Mary sensed only relief from Matthew. At the end of things, he found his peace.
And was happy.
Was she going to lose him then? Was she only good for him during his darker days?
Could they be happy together?
Matthew continued to chat amiably to this other woman while Mary mused.
He had no idea of her reservations. Finally walking over and taking her hand, Matthew informed her of his intention to meet up with some old regimental pals.
She felt suddenly left out of his life. This life that was his. And his alone. She realized he had conformed to her life. Her family.
But he had a life before. One he did not think she needed to share. The burden he called it. The burden of being one of the living.
He needed to that put past him. Before he could go into the future with her. But how to do that when it kept rearing its head and drawing him back?
"Who was that?" She flicked her head towards the blonde woman, now mingling with the other officers.
He glanced behind him. "Who?" Suddenly figuring out her shortness with him. His lips twitching in good humour. "Diana Yardley you mean?" He looked at her from under his eyelashes. "Oh darling really. She was my bunkmate's wife from the Somme. Paul copped it in August 1916 from a German sniper. Diana is now getting married again. She's with Charlie over there." And he pointed to an open faced fellow with his arm around his wife's waist.
Mary refused to look sheepish. "I see." Instead she pointedly adjusted her hat.
"You weren't jealous were you?" His tone mocked, brushing her cheek with a kiss.
"Nonsense." She sniffed. "Is she going along with you?" Despite herself, Mary still wanted to know.
"Boys own, I'm afraid. No ladies allowed at the club. Your lot knows all about that." He had to give that back.
"Touché." Mary countered.
"Do you want to meet them?" He asked it cautiously as he knew Lady Mary rarely interacted with those from the middle classes. If he wasn't married to her and Robert's heir he would never have sat at the dinner table at Downton. So he added, "You know the MacGuinesses? That's Charlie, the younger son of the Marquess of Lothian."
"Oh yes? I think I only know their sister." And Mary slyly glanced around her husband for a glimpse of the pack of young officers waiting for Matthew to join them. She knew what he was doing. And part of her was unused to the mingling of the classes the war brought. Even at Downton she had largely kept her distance from interpersonal contact with the convalescing soldiers. Leaving that to Edith who had taken the responsibility of administering to the patient's needs.
She had felt a fish out of water amongst them. And she didn't like that feeling. It made her uncomfortable. Her inhibitions, her upbringing fought her desire to move smoothly into the future with a man of that very class. She had accepted his bed. Had allowed him privileges with her body, her heart that surprised her still to this moment.
Matthew had accused her of slumming with him. When his own anger, his own pique got the better of him.
And both were true. She wanted him. And she wanted to remain true to her own upbringing. Her own worldview. Even it had been shattered to oblivion and made to look laughable after the cauldron of this war.
It was all she knew. All she had known, Mary corrected herself. Before she had walked fully aware and cognizant of how life changing this marriage would be.
Now she had to accept change. But not necessarily on anyone's terms but her own.
"When will you return to Grantham House?"
Matthew blew air through his cheeks. "Late probably. And more than a bit worse for wear. I have a feeling we're going to be doing a great deal of toasting to dead comrades."
Mary wondered if he could handle that. "How will that be?"
"Cathartic." Matthew reflected. "I think I need it."
Mary kissed his cheek. She liked this new positive attitude. "As long as you come back to me."
But she also deliberately slipped in, "Papa is going to be at the Army Club as well."
Matthew nodded nebulously. His attention had been drawn towards yet another old regimental pal who had walked up to the group waiting for Matthew.
"Why don't you invite Papa to drink to old comrades as well?" She was well tired of the two men not even trying to get along.
That got his attention. "As you said about me to your father, I doubt that we will ever become friends. Your father will never see past my middle class origins. The irony is he either views me as a wastrel or a bean counter out to either lose or steal his fortune. In either case, I'm a threat to his way of life."
"Give him a chance." Mary said. "I do love you both. And you will hopefully have to put up with him for the next twenty or thirty years."
"I know. I know." He admitted. He turned tables back on her. "Let's go over shall we?"
She took his proffered arm and nodded. They approached the small group.
"Charlie, Burleigh I want to introduce you to someone." Matthew's voice caught his friends' attention. They turned. "Captains MacGuiness and Cuthbert may I present my wife, Lady Mary Crawley."
Mary greeted them all with an assured smile and a nod. "It is a pleasure gentlemen."
Four years in the trenches may have taught these soldiers never be caught unawares, but they stared agape in astonishment.
"You are a dark horse." Cuthbert said, his rich tone giving away his public school origins. "How do you do?" And he tilted his head in introduction towards Mary. "How did such a stunningly intelligent woman end up with Galahad here?"
Mary's eyes narrowed in confusion. Matthew interrupted with slight exasperation, "Behave yourself, Curly. No need to get into all that."
"Sorry old man, but after our all male soiree in northern France, I'm rather overwhelmed with female attentions."
Matthew rolled his eyes and quickly introduced the rest of the set of officers and young ladies.
Diana greeted Mary, "I'm so very glad to meet you. Matthew's been alone far too long." She turned to Matthew. "Will you bring her to Cynthia's house party at Morton's Priory? We need to get to know you."
Before either could answer, Matthew's attention was drawn away.
"Will you be living in London or Paris?" Captain Purefoy asked the couple. "I assume Sir Eyre's roped you in." And he gave a knowing look towards Matthew. "Sarah's family is insisting we stay with them now that the treaty's napoo." And at that his wife intervened, "Oh do say you will be in London. That would be simply deevie."
"Excuse me?" Mary was decidedly, and rather uncomfortably discombobulated. They all spoke in a kind of code, unknown to her. The last bit particularly unnerving. Matthew taking a job? Without informing her?
She turned a cool eye towards him.
Matthew had known this to be a mistake. It was all too much for Mary to take in. And for him to explain. There was so much to explain.
"I'll tell you all later, darling." At which point he was relieved of any more explanation when Cora approached and told Mary that she was expected back at Grantham House for luncheon with the Dowager.
A few more quick introductions later and they all parted. Matthew promising not to be too late.
XX
"He jumped the trench in one I tell you. Then ran like a banshee across the line and into the dugout. God knows how a sniper did not get him." MacGuiness could barely bring the cigar back to his lips he was laughing so heartily.
"Dowland was ever the man when the flap was on." Matthew agreed. "As cool under fire as ice."
"To Dowland!" Charlie drew his whisky up. They all followed suit. He had died 1 July 1916.
This had been going on for hours. They were wallowing now. Matthew as well. He joined in the drinking. The singing. The rude jokes that were passed around. The room filling with cigar smoke.
"One hardly needed really to bury the dead." Purefoy observed. "The trench was ever the perfect size to a grave. Just pour some more damn mud in and none of us would have ever needed a funeral."
"You remember that squirrely boy? Erm… Hughes? He cried every fucking time the shells started. Every fucking night… It drove me mad." Cuthbert shivered at the memory. "I told him to stop it or we'd see him a real reason to cry. Damn shell will get you, I screamed at him."
"Don't you know the bang of the shells were always meant for someone else." Young said. He had joined them at the Army Club. "You never hear the whistle of the one that got's your name on it."
Cuthbert grunted. "Hughes was blown up in No Man's Land the next day. Right in front of me." He turned pale at the memory.
Matthew threw his head back. "To Hughes!" And they all took another swig.
He hardly felt anything anymore. The numbness felt good. The room was swimming around his face. He shut his eyes tight and reopened. No, the room still spun like a pinwheel.
Matthew poured himself another.
He then noticed some uniformed men in the hall outside. The door had been left ajar to let some air circulate through the smoke.
Matthew barely discerned Robert, walking alone. He jammed his foot against the table and pushed his chair back, and despite the nauseous queasiness that overtook his forward motion, stood up and made his way towards the door.
"Robert." He managed it as a guttural whisper.
Grantham turned around. "I was just in with Colonel Pinckney." He was interrupted by another roaring "To Henslow!" from the room behind Matthew's head.
Matthew crooked his head back towards inside. His father in law got his attention back with a curt "Matthew."
Matthew looked over.
"I was very proud of you today. I … I underestimated you. I am sorry for that." Robert clapped a hand on Matthew's shoulder.
Matthew was on just this side of sober to take in Robert's praise. He accepted it with grace. "I really do want Downton to be my future. Our future. Your daughter is very practical. But she … I mean we… did a rather outrageous thing in getting married without your approval first. I hope…." God his mouth was dry from the whisky… "I hope we can all make amends."
"I only wanted a good man for her." Robert confided. "I think she's found him."
Matthew acknowledged that with a grateful nod. "Would you like to join us? We're about to make our way to the pub around the corner?" Matthew needed some food. And to get out of the stuffy atmosphere and dress code of the club.
"Well I don't know…." Robert looked dubious. "I'm supposed to join the committee on the cenotaph…."
"You can slip out just for a bit, eh?" Matthew squinted to see through the smoky haze. "You need a meal?"
Robert gave a grin. "Why not. Give me a minute. I'll meet you out front. Thank you for inviting me."
Matthew smiled. "You can muck along with us and drink to your Boer War mates."
XX
At first Mary thought it was yelling she heard down from the street below her bedroom at Grantham House. It was loud. Persistent. And enough to wake the dead.
It was 2am and neither Matthew nor Robert had returned home. She had sent Molesely to bed hours ago. But she waited up. Unable to sleep in the heat of mid summer anyway.
Then the noise again. A low rumble, then much louder. It was not a street brawl, or an argument -but singing. A rather over the top, energetic version of a recent hit tune…
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye, Piccadilly,
Farewell, Leicester Square!
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
Matthew's light baritone was quite distinct. He was singing in time with another. One of his friends from the regiment? Was he bringing him back to Grantham House for the night? Should she rouse Carson to fix a bed?
Mary moved towards the window and looked below.
The two men were now within visual range. She could not make out the other person. But Matthew was shoulder to shoulder with another uniformed officer. Who held up who was in question as both men staggered and lurched down the street.
Singing once again…. This time a much more risqué tune.
Matthew was teaching the words….
Mademoiselle from Armentieres,
Parlez-vous,
Mademoiselle from Armentieres,
She hasn't been kissed for forty years,
Hinky-dinky parlez-vous.
"Is that all?" The other man asked.
"Second chorus…." Matthew slurred whisper came.
Oh, Mademoiselle from Armentieres,
Parlez-vous
You didn't have to know her long,
To know the reason men go wrong!
Both men ending with "Hinky-dinky parlez-vous"
They were definitely making their way to the front door. She could hear the bell peal.
Then a giggling "SHHH" sound from the other man. And the next thing she knew, the door had opened and slammed.
"SHHHHHHHHHHHHH….." came both of them followed by a loud guffaw of raucous laughter.
"You'll wake them all…" The slurred voice said.
"What's the next verse?" The other insisted.
Oh, Mademoiselle from Montparnasse, Parlez-vous
As soon as she'd spy a Colonel's brass…
Mary appeared at the bottom step of the front hall staircase. "Matthew!" Her voice rang with shock.
Matthew stopped short of finishing the rude lyric. His cap was cocked at a precarious angle aback his head. His hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot. A goofy grin spread across his face.
"Mary my sweet. You're up?" He could barely make his lips move to say the words.
"SHHHHHH…. I told you to be quieter." Said the voice next to him.
"Too late for that Papa." Mary ruefully examined the sorry state of her husband and father. They stood like contrite schoolboys caught smoking out behind the gymnasium.
Both swaying slightly as if on a ship at sea.
Cora appeared behind Mary. "Let's end this day on a happy note." Her mother said. "I'll take care of mine. If you take care of yours." She had to smile.
Mary concurred. "Come on Matthew. Let's get you upstairs."
He accepted her arm and nuzzled his head against her neck as they made their way up the stairs. She caught a whiff of stale alcohol and cigar smoke on his breath. His hair tickled her and his lips brushed her throat. "You smell like a man just exiting a tart's boudoir." She whispered.
"Well you told me to help your father enjoy himself." Matthew rejoined. His lips puckering insouciantly.
"Matthew Crawley you never!" She side eyed him.
He chortled. "Of course not. Just a good evening out. He told the story of how Bates got that bad leg. Quite shook him up and he became a bit three sheets to the wind. We all were by then."
He staggered against the railing, but caught himself in Mary's arms. "This is ever where I want to be." He said. Their lips met in a fierce kiss. Mary felt his arms seize her waist. He pulled her closer. The kiss deepened.
"Let's go into the bedroom." Mary whispered.
He grinned rakishly. "Reminds me of Paris." He pushed her ever so gently against the wall across their room. His arms came up to pin her. But stopped abruptly when Cora and Robert brushed past on their way to the master suite.
His mother in law caught his eye.
"I can help…" Matthew rather too quickly offered. He dropped his hands that held his wife against the wall.
"No." Cora grunted. "I've got him. Bates is waiting in the dressing room." And Robert muttered a loving acknowledgement of Cora's ministrations.
Matthew turned back to Mary. His cheeks flaming red from either the drink, the embarrassment of being discovered making Mary untidy in the hallway, or from the desire to continue to do so.
"Inside." Mary demanded. And she threw open their bedroom door.
Matthew silently obeyed. And almost immediately fell with a satisfied groan onto the bed. He leaned up on his elbows.
Mary was taking his boots off.
"You're going to undress me?" He asked, his voice raspy from the earlier smoking. His eyes enticing her even as they slowly drooped shut against his will.
"Just these boots. Can't have them on my bed." She gasped as one of the pair of boots came off.
"Where's Molesley?" Matthew asked. "Isn't he supposed to do such things? Whenever I try to undress or dress myself he appears like an apparition behind me demanding that is his task."
"He's on the opposite side of the house. Doubt he heard you and I don't want to disturb the household anymore. You and Papa did that quite enough." Mary tried to sound miffed, but she was not.
Matthew knew it. "Here." He said, taking her hand and pulling her onto the bed beside him. "Let me do that. I'm not that far gone."
Mary gave the task over to him with alacrity. She sat up next to him. "So you had a good time?"
"Yes." Matthew pulled his hands down across his face as if to sober himself up even more. "The Colonel even made an appearance. We drank to king and country. The missing and the dead."
He pulled off his Sam Browne belt and took off the tie that was already loosened around his collar. His head fell back against the soft pillows.
He reached out and pulled her closer. "I'll run a bath in a few minutes."
Mary was more than curious to get the answer to a question she had all afternoon and into the night. She snuggled next to him.
"Matthew?"
"Hmmmm…." Came the answer amidst what began to sound like light snoring.
"Why Galahad?" She perked her head up to see his reaction.
He looked sheepishly down into her eyes. "It's an old nickname from the regiment. Everyone got one in the first weeks or months in France. Charlie's is 'Flash' as he was the devil when it came to wooing some of the local girls."
"And yours?" Mary persisted.
He sighed next to her. "You know the reference of course?"
She responded, "Knight of Arthur's Round Table. Found the Holy Grail. He's known as the most perfect of knights."
He inhaled. "I never felt the kiss of love/Nor maiden's hand in mine." He quoted Tennyson. "He's known as Galahad the Pure."
She chuckled lightly into his chest. "Well well… I know better than that. So how did that come about?"
"We were in a… a maison tolérée… a brothel that catered to officers." He started. Mary shifted beneath him. "Should I go on?"
"Of course. We're married. All discussions are now possible. I won't be shocked." Mary reassured him.
"It was," He breathed out …"I don't know, March 1915 maybe. We were all bored and wanting to get out. Some of the company went with the young ladies at the establishment." He coughed. "I did not. I stayed in the main salon, smoking and reading by the fireplace as they all walked in and out of the rooms giving me dirty looks and muttering under their breath about my supposed chastity."
"You weren't tempted?" Mary teased. She knew Matthew to be the most ardent of lovers. And not averse to spontaneous acts of carnality.
"I won't say I wasn't aroused." He admitted. "But it seemed wrong. The purchasing of sex. I know it did a roaring trade. But we were all warned about the spread of disease. And I … really just wanted to be left alone with my book and my thoughts. Just getting out of the war for a bit was all the respite I needed."
"Thus the nickname?"
"Yes." Matthew said with a certain amount of bitter irony. "I think in part to mitigate their own feelings of guilt, they taunted me with being of too much the pure heart. The moralist amongst us, some said. Others began the Galahad sobriquet. Too pure for my own good."
He paused. "Eventually it just became an affectionate nickname. No hard feelings. Especially after my injury. And Lavinia's death. They were all quite good about it."
"I see." Mary settled once again into his shoulder. "I'm glad that's all past you now. Will you get your bath?"
But the explanation had taken whatever energy Matthew had left, and he slept. His head tilted down onto her own. She nuzzled closer and slept herself.
Happy that he seemed so much on the mend from the shattering experience of his war.
XX
Then the phone call happened.
Matthew had woken early and without disturbing Mary's slumber had moved into the adjoining dressing room to finish the bath and put on the suit of clothes Molesley had left out for him. By that time the valet had arrived and finished dressing him.
Mary was up and awaiting a breakfast tray from Anna. She told him to go downstairs and see whether her father was awake.
Matthew made his way down the stairs when he heard the jangle of the telephone. He answered it.
"May I speak to Mr. Crawley?" The crackled voice on the other end said.
"Speaking." Matthew replied.
"I got this number from tracking you down to Downton Abbey." The answer came. "I am Charles Lovell."
Matthew was still a bit slow on the uptake that morning. And had a splitting headache. He took some powders for it and was really just wanting a cup of tea and toast. "Who?" He responded.
"The Inquiring Agent Charles Lovell. You left some messages for me about an old case. I wanted to tell you I have new information that sheds light on the attack that took place at Downton Abbey in 1900. The attack your mother suffered at the hands of James Crawley…."
Matthew was stunned. He gasped for air.
"…Mr. Crawley …" Are you there.
The phone was shaking in Matthew's hand.
XX
Reviews are sooooooo great to read! :)
Getting into the heart of this mystery next... Tom will help out ... Matthew will plummet back to despair
I pinched a line out two from a favourite... no plagiarism intended.