Dining room, Downton Abbey, September 30th, 1922
Mary looked at the eleven people gathered around the table and thought with amusement that a gathering such as this would be extremely unlikely to take place in this room before the war. It was hard to forget of course how aghast they all had been at Matthew being a solicitor – and what's worse, insisting on remaining one even after accepting his position as the heir! – and Isobel a widow of a doctor, for all the fact that her own father, also a doctor, had been knighted. And yet now, here they were, Matthew as the Earl of Grantham and even before Papa's death such an essential part of the family they could hardly remember the time they had thought otherwise, and his invited guests including a former chauffeur turned land agent, two more solicitors and a wife of one of them, a government official who, despite being an heir to an Irish baronetcy, held deeply socialist views, a radical socialist teacher and Constance Skelton, the only one outside the family who had been a part of their prewar social set, but who had been considered weird even then and only got weirder since. She had been the sole owner of Skelton Park since her brother Billy had been killed and according to the gossip kept it with the help of two maids and a cook only, driving her own car, smoking and throwing occasional parties for the most bohemian set of artists and adventurers she could muster. Mary shook her head, thinking ruefully that it was a good thing Granny decided to spend the weekend with Aunt Rosamund in London after familiarising herself with the guest list. At least she managed to avoid adding Tony and Mabel to it!
Despite the departure from the usual set of faces – or maybe thanks to it, really – the dinner turned out to be a success. The conversation was lively and more often than not general, involving most of the table instead of quiet exchanges between immediate neighbours. The current events, music, fashions and politics were all brought up, but amazingly enough resulting more in spirited debates than quarrels or disagreements. Of course, Tom, Miss Bunting, Isobel and Charles Blake shared enough common views to form a team, Constance Skelton delighted in flaunting her non-conformism, Rose loved anything modern and outrageous and Matthew, Jack and Peter Harvell, while more moderate in their politics, all loved a good argument and could hardly be accused of being conservative. Mary and Flora Harvell, the most traditional in the group despite coming from wildly different backgrounds, endured it all with good humour and many understanding looks.
"Are you going to organise a hunt, Mary?" asked Constance, absentmindedly adjusting a loose strand of her fashionably short bright red hair. Mary again considered whether she really shouldn't cut hers. It definitely made Constance, who had always been considered rather plain with her thin figure and freckles, quite a sleek looking woman. "Your family used to make a big thing of them before the war."
Mary shrugged.
"Not this year," she said. "If we did, none of us could take part. I'm pregnant, Matthew's back prevents him from riding and Rose doesn't care for it. Maybe we will have a New Year's Shoot, but we'll have to see. Matthew is not very fond of them."
"I can't say I am sad to hear it," said Constance decidedly. "Hunts are a barbaric tradition. Neither my brother nor my father allowed them on our land."
"We're all aware of it, Constance," answered Mary, valiantly stopping herself from rolling her eyes. "Billy used to be very vocal on the subject."
"Well, he was a staunch pacifist," said Constance placidly. "He couldn't stand the thought of unnecessary death of any kind, be it an animal or a human being."
"I had an honour and pleasure to have several very good conversations with your brother, Miss Skelton," said Matthew, looking at Constance with compassion. "I was very sorry to hear about his death."
Constance inclined her head, the beads of her long earrings clinking against each other.
"Thank you for remembering him fondly. He used to be delighted to have a neighbour who didn't consider him a 'mad Billy Skelton' just for having a conscience."
"As a pacifist, the war years must have been a nightmare for him, especially if he was open about his views," noted Miss Bunting. "The general public was not at all understanding at the time. How did he deal with it?"
"Billy was never ashamed of his views or quiet about them, whatever the public opinion," answered Constance proudly. "He was a conscientious objector. They made him a part of the RAMC and kept him away from the fighting. He died in an air raid on the base hospital at Etaples in 1918."
"I'm sorry for your loss," said Miss Bunting, but couldn't resist adding a bitter reflection. "But it is a good example of the inequality we dealt with during the whole duration of the war. Rich men were allowed to express any opinion they chose and to keep away from the fighting, while working class men were imprisoned for speaking the truth or objecting to taking part in the carnage, and if they didn't manage to avoid it, they were often shot for supposed cowardice by their own officers. Wasn't it like that, Lord Grantham?"
The room went silent as Matthew went white.
"Things like that did occasionally happen," he admitted with forced calmness. "And in most cases it definitely wasn't right."
"And yet they did it," she continued blithely. "All too willing to shoot drafted and unwilling soldiers scared out of their minds that they were going to die."
"You do realise that the officers were dying in bigger proportions than the rank?" asked Peter Harvell, unable to keep quiet.
"Which might be the result of putting inexperienced, incompetent and ignorant boys of nineteen in charge just because they graduated from a public school and came from the right family. Although most of the ones from the best families did of course have means to avoid the trenches altogether and last through the war merrily and completely unharmed in some cushion post at the War Office or supply chain while working class boys were dying and or getting maimed by millions. You don't see so many crippled peers, do you?"
The silence in the room was growing oppressive.
"Miss Bunting," said Matthew quietly, looking straight at her. "There is hardly a person in this room who didn't lose someone in the war, most of them officers. Four of us were officers ourselves. I understand your views, but we could probably find a better time and place for this discussion."
As white hot fury engulfed her, Mary realised that Miss Bunting was the only one who didn't know the impact of her own words. She was the only person in the room besides Charles Blake who hadn't been here when everybody and their cousin had been gossiping about Lord Grantham's crippled heir. She had only come to Downton a few months ago; she knew nothing about Matthew's sacrifice and the price he had paid. She was spewing all this and didn't even realise what pain she was causing.
Mary was ready to scratch her eyes out. It was only Matthew's iron grip on her wrist which stopped her.
"Don't," he whispered urgently. "She doesn't know."
"That hasn't stopped her from offending half of the people present at this table!" hissed Mary in response, her furious eyes not leaving Miss Bunting and her defiant expression.
"No, but do you really want to have this particular fight right now?" asked Matthew in a voice which made her turn to look at him instead. He was outrightly calm, but she suddenly realised what enormous effort it took for him to remain so. She felt instantly contrite for itching for confrontation, for the need to wipe that smug expression of that insufferable woman's face, when what Matthew needed was clearly a change of topic. Now.
She caressed his hand lightly with her free hand and deliberately addressed Flora Harvell.
"Mrs Harvell, I've heard that you got involved in a charity focused on providing education for women who were forced to leave school as children?"
"That's right," answered Flora with a determined brightness. Peter Harvell had been an officer too and she counted herself lucky that he came back only with multiple broken bones and a set of vivid nightmares. "There is a great need for it now that many of them are either widowed or supporting a disabled husband. We are setting up both the afternoon classes at Ripon and correspondence courses for those unable to attend. The aim is to supply them with any supplementary education they need to be able to find better employment."
"And it's free of charge for the students?" asked Miss Bunting, thankfully temporarily diverted from her pacifist crusade. Mary breathed in and out slowly and sent a concerned look to Matthew while Flora was explaining the setup of her foundation. He was still pale but gave her a reassuring smile.
"Thank you, darling," he whispered discreetly. "I really didn't feel like continuing this debate."
She nodded, grasping his fingers in a brief gesture of comfort, but inwardly she was still seething.
She was not going to neither forget nor forgive that loathsome woman for distressing her husband in his own house and for no fault of his own.
Road from Downton Abbey to Crawley House, September 30th, 1922
As they got into the car together, Sarah knew by Mrs Crawley's sudden frostiness that she had misspoken somehow and was sorry for it. She came to like the older woman; a kindred spirit to her own really. She wanted to repair the damage.
"I understand that our views on the war may differ," she offered conciliatorily.
If possible, the frostiness got even colder.
"My son," said Isobel Crawley slowly, "spent four years in the trenches. He was there at Loos, and the Somme, and Amiens. When he was offered to stay in England in 1917, safe, he refused because he couldn't stand to leave his men. Then, at Amiens, he suffered a terrible injury. He spent the next six months paralysed from the waist down, believing the whole time, due to misdiagnosis, that the paralysis was going to be permanent."
"Oh," said Sarah, feeling herself blush for the first time in years. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Crawley. I didn't know, truly."
Mrs Crawley's eyes flashed.
"I know you didn't know," she said severely. "That's exactly the problem. I know your heart is in the right place, Miss Bunting, but I hope that you will learn one day to make sure you know the context before you speak."
The car stopped in front of Crawley House before Sarah found the right words to answer.
Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, September 30th, 1922
Mary thought darkly that Miss Bunting didn't know how lucky she was by deciding to depart straight after dinner. With Matthew and the other men out of the room, there would have been no need to restrain herself from giving that ignorant teacher a very thorough piece of her mind.
It wasn't only Matthew, although of course he was the one chiefly on her mind. Charles had lost two cousins at Gallipoli and had taken part in the Battle of Jutland himself. Jack had been gassed by his own forces at Loos and never fully recovered. From what Matthew said, Peter Harvell had spent three months recovering from multiple broken bones after a shell threw him against a wall. They had all been officers, they had all volunteered and they had all been through hell.
Not to mention the torture all the women present at that table had gone through while living in constant fear for the men they loved.
"Miss Bunting is quite something, isn't she?" said Constance with clear admiration, sliding closer to fuming Mary with her drink. "Not afraid to stir the pot."
Mary rolled her eyes.
"She would be ill if she didn't," she said derisively. "I have yet to have a conversation with her without her insulting me, my family or my class in one way or another."
"And yet you keep associating with her," noted Constance curiously. "Why?"
"I keep associating with you, don't I?" evaded Mary. She had no intention of telling her about the possible romance between Miss Bunting and Tom. It was none of Constance's business. "If I restricted my acquaintance to people I agreed with on every issue, I would be forced to dine alone."
"True enough," admitted Constance. "Although I came to the conclusion that dining alone is often preferable to suffering through yet another dull gathering of dreary neighbours."
"Then why do you keep accepting my invitations?" asked Mary irritably.
"Because your gatherings are not dull," answered Constance placidly. "Although they could use some music and stronger cocktails. Besides, you're always nice to look at and I am an aesthete."
Mary gave her a wry look over the rim of her own glass.
"I've heard of your parties. Is it true that you only invite attractive people?"
Constance smiled smugly in response.
"Not at all. I invite only attractive and intelligent people. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to find guests who fulfil both criteria. In fact, you and Lord Grantham should come one day," she looked slowly at Mary's belly. "Although maybe better after the baby is born."
"We'll see," answered Mary diplomatically. "But I'm afraid one of your parties might be a bit too exciting for us."
"Oh, I very much doubt that," laughed Constance. "For your husband, maybe, I know him too little to say, but I've known you since you were in short skirts, Mary. You like excitement."
Mary nearly snorted in her drink.
"Not as much as I used to," she said firmly. "There is such a thing as too much of it."
Constance looked at her sceptically, but in the end just shrugged her narrow shoulders.
"It's funny to see you grow all proper and boring while Edith becomes the wild one."
Mary frowned.
"Whatever do you mean?" she asked with studied scorn. "Edith is as wild as a bucket."
"Not according to what I've heard. Ruby Lennox told me that she saw her at one of Michael Gregson's parties and that man knows how to have fun."
Mary's frown deepened.
"You know him?"
Constance laughed knowingly.
"Oh, I do. Delightful man, truly. I used to know his wife, Lizzy, before he got her locked up."
Mary looked at her with avid interest.
"What was she like?"
"Sharp and fun," answered Constance immediately. "Very pretty too. But brittle and overwrought, even before. So dramatic. Every little thing was either a tragedy or a celebration, with nothing in-between. She was exhausting at times, really. And then Gregson went to the front and her three brothers were killed during the first day of the Battle of Somme and she went over the edge. She was drinking and taking all kinds of pills to feel better, but she only got worse and worse. I've heard she tried to kill both him and herself."
Mary stared at her in horror.
"Three brothers? On the same day?"
Constance shrugged again.
"That's war for you," she said bitterly. "And they said Billy was mad for saying it was wrong and insane."
Billiards Room, Downton Abbey, September 30th, 1922
"I'm sorry for it," Tom said awkwardly later that evening when he managed to get Matthew in a quiet corner of the billiards room, with Jack, Charles Blake and Peter Harvell busy with their round.
Matthew gave him a wry look.
"As if you didn't agree with most of the things she said."
Tom groaned.
"Well, you're right, but I wouldn't cause a scene like that."
"At least not anymore," Matthew pointed out dryly, making Tom laugh. "I heard quite a few stories about that Irish firecracker extolling the virtues of the Russian Revolution in the servants hall."
"From whom?" asked Tom incredulously.
"From William," answered Matthew fondly. "None of us of course imagined that you and I will end up related one day."
Tom laughed quietly, shaking his head in embarrassment.
"I was rather naive at times," he admitted drily, taking a sip of his drink.
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 30th, 1922
After the game of billiards, Matthew found himself more at peace with the dinner scene. At least enough to entertain the rest of his guests. It didn't hurt either that Miss Bunting went home early and nobody else mentioned the fraught topic in his presence. Now that he had time to shake off the memories she had unwittingly brought to the surface, he was able to see some merit in her arguments. She might have been rather… assertive… in expressing them, but hadn't he thought similar things himself in his most cynical moments?
He had a much harder time trying to pacify Mary.
"She practically accused you of shooting your own men!" she said, pacing the room while he sat in his armchair, waiting for her to calm down and come to bed.
"She wasn't completely wrong," said Matthew quietly, then raised a hand at Mary's incredulous look. "No, I never did anything like that. But it did happen."
He laughed bitterly.
"The thing is though, in comparison to everything else... This was hardly the worst thing we saw or did."
"Which just shows that she is an ignorant little fool" hissed Mary furiously. "Talking about the senselessness of the war without knowing a thing about any of it!"
Matthew looked at her wryly.
"Since when are you a war supporter? As far as I know, you were never grasped by patriotic fervour."
"I wasn't," said Mary tossing her head. "And I could even agree with her on some of it if she didn't accuse the whole officer class of cowardice, incompetence and massacring their own men while staying safe! Not when you suffered through so much and so many of the men I knew died. Not when I spent four years terrified out of my wits that you will die too."
Her voice broke down a bit in the last sentence and Matthew immediately got up to pull her into a comforting hug, although he couldn't say if it was supposed to comfort her or him more. It never stopped to affect him to hear how much she had feared for him during that time, with him remaining utterly oblivious of that fact and thinking her indifferent. He really had been willfully blind then.
"She was hardly tactful," he agreed softly. "And she abysmally failed to read the room or consider the likely experiences of people at the table. But I think she was speaking out of compassion and anger on behalf of others, who suffered equally, if not even more."
"She had no compassion for people she was facing," pointed out Mary, hiding her face in his robe and embracing him fiercely. "She doesn't see people as individuals, just as representatives of their class. She would fit right in with the bolsheviks!"
For all his own distress, Matthew barely stopped himself from laughing. He knew Mary would not appreciate it if he did. He couldn't help thinking though that she was right about Miss Bunting focusing on the big picture to the detriment of insight into individuals, messy and complicated as they were, while Mary was usually indifferent to the broad implications of any given issue unless she found it interesting for one reason or another, but could and did transcend class to care deeply for individual people, for all her awareness of rank. No wonder they disliked each other so; they were speaking entirely different languages.
"Be it as it may, at present she is only guilty of insensitive remarks at dinner," he said soothingly. "How about we go to bed and forget about the whole scene until tomorrow? You had a long day, my darling, with the bazaar and the guests. You should rest."
Mary sighed, some of her temper leaving her.
"Your baby agrees," she said, rubbing her belly. "He's been kicking me incessantly since Miss Bunting opened her mouth. Yet another reason to never invite her again."
"She doesn't like her mama upset," said Matthew, putting his own hand gently on Mary's belly as well and smiling when he felt one of the kicks. The little one was definitely active. "Come to bed, darling."
xxx
Matthew was awake for a long time after Mary finally went to sleep. He told himself he was foolish for allowing himself to be so affected by Miss Bunting's words, but they kept going through his head, bringing with them images he'd spent years doing his utmost to bury.
To be honest, he was mostly unsuccessful.
He never talked about the war if he could help it and, most of the time, he could. In his experience, most people wanted to forget the war just as much as he did and move on, concentrate on the present rather than stay trapped by the past, and he studiously avoided those who didn't. He didn't attend the meetings of his old regiment or visited the Army club. The only exception were the Armistice Day celebrations and he usually felt sick for a week afterwards, which only made him more sure that avoidance of anything connected to the war was a healthier choice.
But it did not mean that he wasn't often reminded in different ways, whether he wanted it or not. A sound of mud under his shoes, a grumble of a thunder, a smell of a particular brand of cigarettes – any of them were enough to transport him momentarily back there, although thankfully with increasingly smaller frequency. The nightmares were also coming less often, even if they unfortunately didn't lose any of their intensity.
Unable to escape from most unpleasant recollections and racing thoughts, Matthew got out of bed, careful not to wake Mary up, and walked quietly to the nursery.
Looking at George often helped when nothing else did. It was impossible to be upset when seeing something so wondrous as his sleeping child.
A child he had believed for so long he would never be able to have.
Yet here he was, curled slightly under his blanket, one arm wrapped around a teddy bear. His son, who looked more like him with every passing day and was such an amazing, cheerful little chap that Matthew's heart clenched in painful, disbelieving joy whenever he looked at his grinning face.
And in less than four months there was going to be another baby.
Sometimes he could hardly believe that it was all true. That the war was really over and not only he survived it, but he was married to Mary and was soon going to be a father of two wonderful children. It simply beggared belief that he could be so unbelievably lucky.
He stroked George's soft blond curls – lightly, so very lightly – and walked back to his room. He sighed with contentment when he embraced his sleeping wife, his hand resting gently on her belly. His smile widened when he felt a flutter of movement under his palm.
He truly was so unbelievably lucky.