AUTHOR'S NOTE: Real life being overwhelming coupled with the most frustrating writing block (probably the result of the former) made it impossible for me to update any of my stories for some time. Thank you for your patience and I hope you will enjoy this one!
Reviews are always, always appreciated.
Lord Grantham's bedroom, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
At five in the morning Matthew was woken up by the sunlight falling through a gap in the curtains straight onto his face and found it impossible to go back to sleep.
Today was his wedding day.
He was marrying Lady Mary Crawley.
Sometimes, despite all the letters, kisses and declarations of love they had exchanged over the months, he could still hardly believe it was really happening and it didn't have anything to do with the last two weeks of conflict between them. It was simply… so very hard to wrap his head around the fact that Mary, the woman whom he had loved from the very first moment he had set his eyes on her even if it had taken him much longer to admit it to himself; Mary, who had taken such a dislike to him from the beginning; Mary, so generally admired by men wherever she went; Mary who had broken his heart so thoroughly that for a long time he had not been able to believe he would ever recover from that; that Mary actually loved him back. He knew she did, he had no doubts about her feelings, but it still seemed so impossibly wonderful that he was tempted to pinch himself at times.
He turned his head to his side and imagined Mary lying there beside him in his bed. He gulped when he realised that tonight, she would. Tonight, she was going to be his wife.
His skin heated as the blood rushed through him at the thought of all that it implied.
His wife.
Would he be able to make it good for her? He hoped desperately that he would, but knowing how indescribably awful her first experience with intimacy had been, he was wary. His own lack of experience did not bolster his confidence either, although he assumed that his theoretical knowledge paired with his body's instinctual response to Mary's were going to be sufficient. His imagination was definitely not lacking where Mary was concerned, after all. He grinned to himself, thinking of some of the ideas which he had come up with over the years and now was going to be finally allowed to explore in reality.
His grin fell when he remembered the multiple instances when thinking of Mary – imagining all sorts of things involving Mary – had been seemingly the only thing keeping him from losing his mind from terror.
There were no fearless men in the trenches, but most of those who survived there longer found one way or other to cope with the senseless horror of it. Some prayed. Some stopped caring, lost in the stupor of apathy. Some were devouring any morsel of life's pleasure before death could devour them. Some ran on hate of the enemy, some on more or less false bravado.
Matthew was running on duty to his men. This was the one clear cut and understandable purpose and justification he could find for his presence in that hell and everything he was forced to do there – the only one, really. He was an officer thus he had responsibility to them. He could do pathetically little to protect them; in fact, it was his whistle which was sending them to their deaths, but in all the ways he could do something for them, he did. They were his men and that was what kept him marching when everything in him recoiled at the reality around him.
But there were moments, so many moments, when this was not enough. When they were waiting for the signal to go over the top or when they huddled desperately in the dugout under the onslaught of the German artillery, knowing full well that the Germans were coming; that they were going to be jumping into their trench and killing them as soon as the shelling stopped, when the fear of what was coming was so overwhelming that Matthew could not breathe, there was only one thing which could calm him down enough for him to be the seemingly brave and calm officer he was supposed to be.
Mary.
Thoughts of Mary – Mary's smile, Mary's laugh, Mary's body, Mary's kisses – often much more if he felt either truly desperate or self-indulgent – were the only things powerful enough to break through the terror of such moments. Even before Robert's death and Matthew's subsequent return to Downton and reconciliation with Mary this had been how he coped. He had been alternatively ashamed of himself and furious – with himself for being so weak and with Mary for haunting him still when he had torn and burnt any ties between them in his heartbreak from what he had thought had been her not loving him enough to overlook more material considerations – but as much as he had hated it, as much as he had tried to find another way to cope, as guilty and ashamed as he had felt for treating her with such disrespect in his mind, especially since there had been nothing remaining between them to justify such thoughts, nothing else had worked. There had been only Mary then and there was only Mary now for him, although of course he felt much better about it since their engagement, finally feeling less of a cad for imagining her like that and not only in his hour of need, but also in his calmer moments, simply because he was allowed to love her now and knew she loved him back.
And tonight he would be able to act on those thoughts. He would be permitted to see, to touch, to kiss, to possess and be seen, touched, kissed and possessed in return. He would be able to finally show her all the desperate love he felt for her in the most intimate way possible between a man and a woman and right now, on the dawn of his wedding day, this was all he was able to think about.
He looked at himself ruefully and got up from the bed, thinking that a bath would not be amiss. He planned to indulge himself with as many hot ones as he could before going to the front where he was very unlikely to encounter a luxury like that often, but right now he observed dryly that a cold one might be more practical.
Lady Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
For all the exhaustion brought by turbulent emotions of the last two weeks and her midnight conversation with Matthew, the excitement didn't let Mary sleep long that morning. She woke up, wide-eyed and alert, well before Anna was supposed to come with her tea.
She was marrying Matthew today!
She raised her left hand up, catching the light on the diamonds of her engagement ring and imagined a wedding ring which was going to accompany it in a few short hours. A sign of her commitment to Matthew, visible to everyone. Privately, a reminder that despite her numerous mistakes, she somehow managed not to ruin everything between them.
She had meant what she had told Mama and Matthew – that she was not sure if she wanted to go through with the wedding – and she hadn't. Now, after their talk, his apology, that wonderful blind kiss any doubts she had had were firmly put to rest. She didn't stop wishing fiercely that Matthew was just a tad more reasonable and willing to protect himself from harm, but the cold anger fuelling her for the last weeks was mostly gone. It was replaced by equally fierce determination to have him officially declared as irrevocably hers and to show him how desperately she loved him in the short time they were given. If that was going to be all… If he was destined to never come back to her… At least she would be sending him into battle knowing full well how beloved he was. This was very much not the time to hold herself back.
She sat up in the bed, hugging her knees and looking around her room for the last time. Tonight, she would be moving into Matthew's bedroom, leaving her maiden one behind. She could not say that she was sorry for it; those red walls contained all kinds of memories, some of them the worst of her life. Besides, since she was not moving out of her childhood home, it would be nice to still somehow signify the monumental change in her life. Even if it was just by moving to a room down the corridor.
She pondered it for a moment longer. In a few hours, she was going to be a married woman. The Countess of Grantham. For the first time, Downton would be truly hers. Well, Matthew's, but for all intents and purposes it would be hers as well. She would be the mistress of the house and, until Matthew came back for good, the person in charge of the estate, officially now.
It was everything she used to want – and it wasn't meaningless to her now – but she felt herself to be miles away from the girl who used to dream of it.
Even Downton paled in comparison to the enormity of marrying Matthew.
As much as her terrible secret had been the original reason for delaying giving Matthew an answer before the war and had remained the main one, Mary didn't deceive herself that the prospect of, as Aunt Rosamund put it, 'dawdling her life as a country solicitor's wife' hadn't given her pause too. She hadn't been able to imagine herself living a life so different from everything she had known and had expected and being happy. The thought of finding Matthew himself not enough to stop her from feeling discontent and a slowly growing gulf of bitterness between them if love had turned out not to be enough, had haunted her. She had rather thought it wouldn't; she had hoped it wouldn't, but she hadn't known and it had further stayed her hand until it had been too late.
Well, not anymore, and not because Matthew had become the Earl of Grantham after all.
Mary knew now – she had known since that awful garden party when everything had fallen apart – that she would have married Matthew whatever his prospects. Frankly, at this point, she would have married him on any terms. She had spent nearly three torturous years believing him utterly lost to her; she had learnt all too well that her status, wealth or even her beloved home turned out a very poor consolation for that loss. It was a nice bonus to become a countess and to get to keep Downton forever, but if she was forced to choose between all that and Matthew again, she was very certain what her choice would be.
She would choose Matthew now. Every time.
Lord Grantham's bathroom, June 29th, 1917
Matthew wiped the steam from the mirror over his sink – he chose to indulge himself with a hot bath after all – and looked at his naked reflection, trying to see himself with Mary's eyes.
There was no way to deny that what she was going to see tonight was very different to the body she would have seen if they had married in 1914.
The war marked its claim on him in too many ways for it.
He was noticeably thinner now – too thin even, he thought, taking a critical note of the way his stomach caved in under his too protruding ribs, although it did get better in the months he'd spent in England – but also undoubtedly stronger, the now noticeable muscles on his arms, legs and belly attesting to that. He shuddered, the reasons for this transformation flashing through his mind in a series of images, from the constant marching and running, through inadequate food supply, to carrying the wounded off the battlefield. He had earned every pound of flesh lost and every pound of muscles gained, had earned it through the kind of effort and discipline he had never wanted or expected to need.
His changed figure and newly found strength were not the only reminders he could see.
There were also the scars.
The one on his thigh, from a machine gun bullet, was the longest and the thickest, but by no means the only one. On his ankle there were traces of barbed wire he had stepped into in 1915; he had been lucky that he hadn't sliced his foot off. The long scratches on both his forearms were also from barbed wire and other detritus of the battlefields, this time from crawling through it while on more patrols than he could count or jumping out of the way of shells and bullets during battles. There were three separate nicks on his chest from bayonets which got close enough to mark him for the rest of his life but not close enough to end his life instead. He knew there were healed scratches on his back from all kinds of things falling on him while he was desperately attempting to protect his more vulnerable areas from shrapnel. Normally, while at the front, there were also multiple bruises, but those healed thankfully during his sojourn in England.
All in all, he had been very lucky, beyond lucky, really. None of his injuries had been life-threatening or particularly serious; none of them disfiguring or taking away the use of his limbs or senses. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from hating all of those reminders, hating the thought that Mary would be forced to see them too; that even when he took off his uniform they both would still be unable to forget the reality they existed in now. If he could hide those marks from her somehow, he would have, every single one of them. But since he didn't particularly want to spend his short honeymoon disrobing only in complete darkness they both would have to deal with it. He just hoped Mary would not mention them.
Or be too aghast at the sight.
He exhaled slowly and straightened himself. Today was his wedding day. He was marrying Lady Mary Crawley, despite all odds. Now was not the time for morose thoughts. He put on his robe and smiled at hearing Bates' gentle knock on the bathroom door exactly when he was tying his belt. Impeccable timing, as always.
"Come in, Bates," he called out cheerfully. "Let's make me presentable."
Lady Mary's bedroom, June 29th, 1917
"You would ask, wouldn't you?" asked Cora with uncharacteristic blush as Anna was finishing arranging Mary's hair. "If there was something you needed to know? I mean, I'm sure you know…"
"More than you did," quipped Mary, desperate to avoid the conversation. She did not need any mental images of her parents like that, thank you very much.
"You could ask Edith too, of course…" added Cora uncertainly, making Mary recoil in horror. That was even worse than imagining her parents. Whatever Edith and Anthony got up to, she very firmly did not want to know.
"Relax, Mama. There isn't anything I need to hear now," she said firmly.
Seriously, wasn't Mama leaving it a bit late? Of course she knew that Mary was not exactly a blushing virgin she was supposed to be and hadn't been for years, but in all truth she could not know what exactly happened between Mary and Pamuk. Maybe some conversation prior to the morning of her wedding wouldn't be completely amiss.
It would surely have helped her to make a better choice – or at least a more informed one – that night if she had understood better what exactly she had been agreeing to, she thought bitterly. As it had been then, her knowledge and understanding had been woefully lacking in details. Not the case anymore, of course, although half of her education had come not from that terrible encounter, but from the rather freely shared tales of some of her married friends. Mary could never imagine herself speaking of such matters to anybody, but she definitely did not mind listening, however much she had blushed while doing so. It was worth it to never be able to look Lord Cunard in the eyes again.
Knowledge was power, after all, and if Pamuk had taught her anything it had been the danger of ignorance.
"Because when two people love each other, you understand, everything is…" continued Cora and Mary raised her eyes to her despite herself at her mother's significant pause, "the most terrific fun."
Mary couldn't help it, she laughed.
God, she hoped so!
Even taking aside the matter of Kemal dying upon her – she told herself sternly to not think of it, not now – her experience with him had been… a mixed bag to say the least. She hadn't wanted him there, she had been scared out of her wits, even if a bit curious too – she most definitely hadn't loved him and neither had he loved her! – and she had a suspicion that for all his boasting and apparent familiarity with the act, he had not been the best of lovers. She had clearly not been his priority there, although she could not say he had done nothing to make her feel some pleasure as well… and she had felt some, enough to give her the idea that her mother was right, that it could be terrific with somebody you loved and who truly loved you… Or at least if you were as enthusiastic and inventive as Lady Cunard and her husband apparently were. But as it had been, there had been lots of pain mixed with some unexpected pleasure and all of it mixed with such searing shame and fear of what was happening and what it was going to mean for her that even without the nightmarish finale Mary didn't think she ever had a chance of looking at it as anything else than the worst night of her life.
But horrible as it had been, it did give her a wholly new curiosity regarding Matthew. The way she felt when they were kissing was so very different, so much better than what she had felt when Kemal had kissed her that she couldn't help but hope for an overall much better experience when they married and were permitted to take things further. She would never have admitted it to anyone, but sometimes, in the privacy of her bedroom, she did allow herself to imagine them like that. She did wonder how his body looked like without his clothes and how it would feel to have it pressed against her own. Sometimes she even allowed herself to take those thoughts further and imagine him doing to her what Kemal had done, only there was no fear, no shame, no pain in that vision. It was Matthew. She could not imagine feeling anything like that with him.
She raised her eyes back to her reflection in the vanity's mirror and smiled as Anna placed the Grantham tiara on her hair.
However tonight was going to play out, she was not afraid at all.
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
Matthew walked down to the middle landing of the staircase and paused for a moment to admire the transformation in front of him. The little tables filling the hall in its wartime function of the canteen were all gone; instead, everything was decorated with flowers, with a huge wedding cake and an assortment of champagne glasses as the centrepiece. The weather was warm and fair, it was a perfect June morning, so the lawn outside had been filled with white canopy tents and tables covered in white cloth and assorted delicacies. Through the open door he could hear the string quartet tuning their instrument in preparation for the reception and dancing.
He looked mournfully down on his uniform. It was pressed to perfection, his buttons and shoes polished and shiny, his Military Cross pinned to his chest and his ADC cord to his shoulder, and he knew that objectively he looked handsome in it, but he hated that this was what he was getting married in. Today of all days, he wanted nothing more than to be Matthew Crawley – hell, even Lord Grantham, much as it still made him uncomfortable – anything but Captain Crawley, an officer in His Majesty's Army. Sadly, it was impossible. He was Captain Crawley now and he was not allowed to escape it, not with the crowd expected to witness his marriage vows and the press to announce it to the world at large. He was obliged to wear his uniform whenever he was out in public and there was hardly an event more public than a wedding of an earl.
A quick rap of energetic steps down the stairs heralded approach of Jack, which thankfully pulled Matthew out of his thoughts.
"All ready to go and marry the love of your life?" he asked flippantly, getting out laughter and some wolf whistles from the convalescing officers gathering below them to go to church as well. Matthew smiled, accepting the well-wishes thrown his way.
"More than ready," he answered, following Jack to his car waiting for them in front of the door.
"Have you had an opportunity to talk things over with Lady Mary?" asked Jack quietly as they started on the way to the church. Matthew noted the lively concern in his eyes and was more than happy to be able to offer a reassuring smile in return.
"I have," he answered, the memory of Mary's unexpected forgiveness and that wonderful, wonderful kiss filling his head. Jack snorted.
"You don't have to tell me more," he said dryly. "Your face tells me everything. The wedding is obviously on."
Matthew laughed ruefully.
"I hope so," he answered, feeling light and happy and so incredibly relieved. "Although I am not completely sure."
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
Mary walked down the stairs with her throat tight.
Papa should have waited for her at the bottom of the staircase, ready to escort her to church and walk her down the aisle. He would have been so happy, she knew; there was no one who had wished for her marriage with Matthew as fervently as him. She knew he had never given up hope for their reconciliation, impossible as it had seemed at the time.
He should have been here to see her in her wedding dress.
Her eyes misted when she noticed Carson standing there instead, his face full of pride and awe and such obvious love for her that her heart clenched with gratitude for him.
"Will I do, Carson?" she asked, her voice not exactly steady, but very nearly so.
"Very nicely, milady," he answered gravelly and suddenly she knew what she wanted to ask of him.
"Dear Carson," she said, looking at him intently and feeling so deeply that her request was right, even if wholly unconventional. "Will you come in the carriage with me? I will walk down the aisle by myself; I could not stand anyone but Papa to give me away, but could you please escort me to the church?"
She saw Carson blink against the sudden moisture in his eyes.
"It will be my honour, milady," he said only, offering her his arm to lead her to the carriage.
St Michael and All Angels Church, Downton Village, June 29th, 1917
Matthew walked into the familiar church, blinking against the sudden darkness after the bright June sun outside and quietly marvelling at the number of people filling the pews. He and Jack handed their caps to the usher and walked to the front, exchanging greetings with the guests. Matthew felt in a sort of a daze, barely registering their faces – his old employers Mr Harvell and Mr Carter, General Strutt, Uncle Edward and Aunt Mildred with their five daughters – how they grew, they were all adults now! – and finally Mother, beaming at him from the pew behind his, so very happy to see him happy even though he knew she still harboured some doubts. He bowed to Reverend Travis and to the Archbishop and took his place in front of the altar, waiting.
His heart stuttered when he heard the cheering outside.
xxx
Sybil and Edith were both waiting for Mary in front of the church when Carson assisted her in getting out of the carriage among the cheers of the gathered crowd and the flashes of reporters' cameras.
"Oh, Mary, you look marvellous!" exclaimed Sybil, embracing her carefully to avoid crushing her dress and veil. "Matthew won't be able to tear his eyes off you!"
"Thank you, darling," answered Mary, kissing her on the cheek. Sybil looked at her earnestly.
"I know that this wedding is what everyone wished for, for all kinds of reasons, but I also know how deeply you love each other – and that this is why you are here today. You marry each other out of love and it couldn't be more romantic."
"Thank you," repeated Mary, truly touched. "For always being so sweet."
Edith came next.
"Love and position in one handsome package. Who could ask for more?" she kissed Mary on the cheek. "I hope you will be just as happy as I am with Anthony."
Mary valiantly decided to take those wishes in the spirit they were given.
"Let's take a photo!" exclaimed Sybil, gesturing at the photographer to approach them. "Just the three of us!"
They posed, united for a moment as they rarely were in life, and then, before Mary knew it, her sisters went into the church, Mrs Hughes marshalled the flower girls into position, reporters' cameras flashed again and the organ started playing. She entered the church, again feeling acutely the absence of Papa in this moment, but she could not think of it long because there he was, at the end of the aisle, tall and handsome and looking at her as if she were the only girl in the world. She smiled, she could hardly stop herself from smiling at seeing him if she wanted and she didn't want, not at all, because he was waiting there to marry her and despite the war and despite missing Papa so fiercely today of all days, Mary had never felt so happy.
xxx
Matthew was not sure he was breathing at all as he was watching Mary walking down the aisle towards him. She looked radiant, exquisite, heavenly and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never forget the sight of her like that even if he lived to see eighty. His heart clenched at the fact that she was walking alone. He knew that she decided against asking her godfather to do the honour, feeling that having somebody else than Robert would be even worse – and he fiercely regretted that this was how things came to be. He silently promised Robert to do everything in his power to make his daughter happy.
She looked happy now, taking her place by him, and looking at him with such obvious love that it again took his breath away.
"You came. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure you would."
She smirked slightly and his heart sang because there was no better sign that she truly forgave him than her teasing him like that.
"I'm glad to hear it. I should hate to be predictable."
They exchanged their vows and Matthew's hands trembled briefly as he was putting the wedding ring on Mary's finger and announcing that with it he was bestowing her with his worldly goods, because his worldly goods included her beloved Downton and it was right, so very right, that he was finally able to give it back to her. He got himself a ring too, even though it was not customary for men to wear them. He saw some men did though, at the front, to remind themselves of their wives at home, and this was another gesture which just felt right. He was Mary's now and he wanted the whole world to know it.
The rest of the ceremony went in a blur, but there were moments which were forever etched into his memory. The moment when he kissed her, for the first time as his wife – oh God, she really, truly was his wife now! – the moment when he kneeled down to pray and asked God as fervently as never before to let him live because he never wanted to forsake the woman kneeling next to him – and finally when they left the church as husband and wife, walking through the rows formed by convalescing officers among rice and rose petals being thrown at them, multiple cameras flashing to capture it, and so filled with joy they were both practically giddy.
He handed Mary into the carriage, Anna coming over to help arrange Mary's train and veil, and practically collapsed on the seat next to her.
"Enjoy the moment of peace," said Mary as they were slowly riding through the village, bunting and cheering crowds everywhere. "The receiving line at the reception will take ages."
"I don't care," answered Matthew, feeling dizzy with happiness and exhilaration, "as long as I get you to myself at the end of it."
She smiled at him in such a way at this statement that he simply had to kiss her and the crowd outside erupted in even louder cheers seeing that.
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
The line of well-wishers did take ages, with literally hundreds of guests waiting to congratulate them, most of whom Matthew saw for the first time in his life. His admiration for Mary reached whole new heights as he was watching her retain her poise and smile through it all, her composure never wavering even in face of some off-colour jokes and trite remarks they had heard for a tenth time. Then, there were the photographs of all kinds – of them alone, which he loved and dozens of them with different groups of people, from their family in various configurations to the convalescing officers and nurses. When it was finally the time for their first dance, he sighed with honest relief, making Mary's eyebrows quirk with amusement.
"I take it you're glad that we were forced to have a small wedding."
He stared at her in disbelief.
"That is small?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "There would have been probably twice as many guests before the war."
"I never thought I would be grateful for the war for anything," said Matthew, leading her to the middle of the dancefloor. "But it nearly makes me change my mind."
The band started the first notes of a waltz and all jokes left Matthew's mind for the time-being, because Mary was in his arms, her hand in his, his other hand on her back, and he could hardly think about anything else other than he wanted this song to never end.
xxx
"They make such a beautiful couple, don't they, General?" asked Violet, standing by General Strutt as they observed Matthew leading Mary in their first waltz as husband and wife.
"Indeed they do," agreed General Strutt easily.
"It's such a pity that he is going back to the front and can be killed in less than two weeks," remarked Violet casually.
General Strutt winced.
"There's nothing which can be done about it, unfortunately," he said. "Although of course we all hope it won't come to that. Captain Crawley is a very capable officer and with any luck he will come through."
"Capable officers are dying by thousands, from what I hear," said Violet, focusing her penetrating stare on him. "But tell me, General, is there really nothing which can be done to avoid it?"
General Strutt, a man who had gone bravely into multiple battles, squirmed under the force of that stare.
"It was Captain Crawley's wish to go back to his unit after his tour with me is done."
Violet scoffed.
"And the Army is known for following the wishes of junior officers," she said derisively. "One would have thought it was more about following orders."
"I gave him my word," protested the general, looking at her seriously. "I promised him that I would let him go back to France."
Violet's eyes met his.
"But you're not staying in England yourself, are you?"
He startled.
"How do you know?" he asked, surprised. "I myself only got my orders confirmed three days ago."
Violet smirked.
"I have my ways," she answered confidently. "But back to the matter at hand. Matthew speaks French very well, and German too. Mary says you've been praising his work and I know for a fact that he is good at diplomacy and isn't easily intimidated or caving under pressure. Wouldn't he be of more use to you in your new assignment than waddling through the mud in some trench or other?"
General Strutt sighed.
"I gave him my word," he repeated again, but Violet felt a hint of wavering and she pounced on it.
"And you will keep it, in a fashion," she insisted, her eyes not leaving his. "You will take him back to France, just in a capacity more befitting his station and his abilities. He's the Earl of Grantham, he just got married and he has no heir. There are powerful people highly invested in his well-being. I dare say it would be prudent of you, as well as wise, to find a better use for his talents than being shot at."
The general sighed again.
"I understand your position, Lady Grantham, but it's not as easy as you seem to think…"
"Look at him, General," said Violet intently, indicating the dancing couple with her cane. "Look at him and how he looks at my granddaughter and tell me it's right to send him back there to die."
General Strutt did follow her command and observed them until the dance was over. He sighed more heavily than before.
"I make no promises, Lady Grantham," he said cautiously. "Pulling an officer out of the field when we are in such dire need of them is not an easy task."
Violet smiled slowly.
"I'm only asking you to do your best," she said placidly. "You may be surprised how many people will be willing to accommodate you when you do."
Front lawn, Downton Abbey, June 29th, 1917
The family gathered around them in the garden for a more private toast. All around them people were milling happily, the sunny weather greatly adding to the festive atmosphere. Even Isobel was forced to admit that having the reception at Downton was not such a bad idea after all.
"It does seem to cheer up the patients a great deal," she observed, adding fairly. "And it doesn't seem too great a disruption for the nursing staff. My fears might have been exaggerated."
Violet and Cora looked like they had plenty to say to that, but due to the happy occasion stopped themselves from doing so.
Instead, it was Edith who called their attention.
"I wanted to wait," said Edith breathlessly, her whole face shining with happiness. "But since Matthew goes away straight after your honeymoon, and I wanted so much to tell him in person, I couldn't wait any longer. I'm pregnant!"
"Oh, how marvellous, darling!" exclaimed Cora immediately, running to embrace her and congratulate Anthony who was beaming shyly at Edith's side. "I'm so happy for you two!"
"Of course she had to pick my wedding to make her announcement," muttered Mary to Matthew, a smile plastered on her face. "God forbid she wasn't the centre of attention for a moment."
"Well, she usually isn't," pointed Matthew, earning himself a glare from his new wife. "But you're right, of course, it's not the most tactful thing she's ever done. Still, let's go and congratulate her, it is happy news."
Mary rolled her eyes, but dutifully congratulated the happy couple.
"Speaking of honeymoon, you should go and change soon, Mary," pointed out Cora after checking her watch.
Mary looked at her in surprise.
"Why? The train to London won't be going for another three hours."
Cora smiled at them.
"You're not going to London," she announced cheerfully. "At least, not tonight, and not at all if you don't want to. I didn't think you would like to spend your honeymoon there so soon after everything that happened, so I asked Molly Featherington to use her seaside cottage. It's perfectly secluded – Molly fancies herself an artistic soul – but very comfortable, her father was a rubber baron and she spared no expense in outfitting it. I've sent Anna and Bates there already, straight after the ceremony, to get everything ready for your arrival, so O'Brien will help you change, Mary."
Mary stared at her mother in awe. To be honest, she hated the thought of going back to London and spending her honeymoon fearfully observing the sky, but she hated the thought of staying at Downton with the crowd it currently housed even more, so she resigned herself to it. To hear now that Cora understood what she must be feeling and arranged for such a lovely alternative meant a world to her.
"Thank you, Mama," she said feelingly. "Thank you so much."
Cora smiled again, her eyes soft.
"You two deserve a perfect honeymoon," she said. "It's a time to be treasured."
xxx
Matthew waited for Mary by Jack's sports car which he lent them generously to drive to their surprising honeymoon destination.
"Just be careful with it," he asked dryly. "It's new."
"I will have you know that I learnt how to drive on shelled out rural roads in France," answered Matthew with equal dryness. "I think I can handle a proper British one."
He could hardly spare another thought for his friend though when Mary emerged from the door, dressed in a fetching blue travelling suit and hat. He had to swallow realising that this exquisitely beautiful woman was his wife.
"Anna and Bates took our luggage with them, so we can go as soon as we make our goodbyes," she said brightly. "Mama says that there is a local cook who will have dinner prepared for us."
The goodbyes went swiftly – Matthew barely paid attention to his, although he was touched by his mother's heartfelt wishes – and before long he was handing his wife into the car and driving off with her among the last cheers from the gathered guests. The day was still beautiful, Jack's car was a dream to drive, Mary was on his side and Matthew felt as if he was flying.
