AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is... intense, as you may expect from the title. Better prepare the tissues.
Serious warning: in the middle of the chapter, Mary has a nightmare about Matthew at the front which is rather gruesome. If you are sensitive to such scenes, please omit the scene in italics.
Garden, Eryholme, September 1915
"Jack, are you stationed near Loos? Or expect to be?"
"You know I am not allowed to tell you anything like that."
Mary nodded and pursed her lip worriedly.
"I understand. But if you are... you really should listen to me."
She looked straight into Jack's eyes.
"You mustn't mention what I'm going to tell you to anyone," she said with seriousness he had never witnessed in her before. "I've learnt something, you see, something I should not have learnt about. But since I do know what may come, and I suspect you might be caught in it, I feel I must warn you."
"I swear, Mary," he promised. "I won't tell anyone."
"Not even Matthew?"
Jack startled in surprise.
"Why not?"
"Because he would want to know how I came to learn this information and I cannot tell him, just like I cannot tell you. I doubt he would give up so easy on discovering my source though."
Jack considered the matter for a moment, and then nodded.
"Not even Matthew," he said solemnly. "Tell me. What have you learnt?"
"The British are preparing an attack near Loos," said Mary quietly. "They are going to use gas."
Jack gaped at her in shock.
"Why do you think I need to know about it?"
"Because they are taking a huge risk. The decision to use gas was already made, with no allowance for the weather conditions."
Jack gulped in disbelief.
"They are going to shoot the gas even if the wind is unfavourable?" he asked incredulously. "Why would they? They would gas their own troops!"
"They have been warned, but those are the orders. You must take precautions."
Jack laughed bitterly.
"What precautions are there against gas?"
"Ammonia," said Mary matter-of-factly. "Soak rags with urine and keep them against your nose and mouth if you have to. It's not a perfect solution – it probably will be years before they figure out better protection against gas attacks – but it may help."
"How do you know it all?" gasped Jack, staring at her in shock. Mary shrugged.
"You would not believe me if I told you," she said nonchalantly, then narrowed her eyes. "And you promised not to tell anyone. But I hope you will believe me and take my words to heart. Never mind how this information landed in my lap, I assure you it is true."
Sitting room, Crawley House, September 1915
"I just feel like I am shirking my duty. Taking a coward's way out," Matthew stared at his hands gloomily. "Like I should be there, doing my part, but I refuse for extremely selfish reasons."
Isobel gave him a serious look. She steeled herself to remain calm.
"And what does Mary think about it?"
"Mary," Matthew waved his hand in exasperation. "Mary completely refuses to even discuss the topic. If I so much as mention the war, in any context, she immediately reminds me that I promised not to enlist and threatens to kill me herself if I break it, to spare the Huns the trouble."
Isobel took a sip of her tea, thinking that she couldn't recollect a moment she was fonder of her daughter-in-law.
"Mary does have a point, Matthew," she said firmly, but kindly. "You are needed here. Your daughter is barely three months old and Mary needs you. You are supporting the war effort through working on those government contracts, I'm sure it's surely more significant contribution that you could make by getting shot at in France."
"However true that might be I'm getting paid very handsomely for my efforts," answered Matthew darkly. "I am not exactly proud of becoming a war profiteer."
"You are nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Isobel sharply. "You are not set to take advantage of anybody. The fact that so many companies are willing to pay your firm well for your help with the government contracts should be a source of pride for you, not shame. I know it makes me proud, as any other of your achievements."
Matthew sighed.
"It does not help when I receive news of another friend or acquaintance dying," he said softly. Isobel felt tears gathering in her eyes.
"Oh my dear boy," she said. "Sometimes I think I brought you up too honourable. Of course it weighs on you. But I hope you understand that this sort of news is precisely why both Mary and I are so terrified when you speak of going."
Matthew took his mother's hand, noticing its slight tremble.
"Of course I understand. I just keep thinking that all those soldiers have mothers, wives, sweethearts, children too – and it is very unfair of me to remain safe, rich and comfortable when they are risking their lives every day. It just weighs so on me, Mother."
Isobel's heart contracted with fear. She knew her boy. She knew that it was only a matter of time now.
He had always been a creature of duty.
Matthew's study, Eryholme, October 1915
Matthew was reading the latest letter from Jack.
"As you know I cannot tell you where I am or anything about the battles I take part in, but I wanted to vent to someone. There have been decisions made recently which affected me and my men, and if not some very useful, if disgusting tips I have received from a very unexpected quarter, our casualties would be even worse than they were. Who would have thought that I would willingly keep a rag full of piss against my mouth and be grateful for it?
Do not show this letter to your lovely wife, but please convey my most sincere gratitude for the well wishes she gave me during my last visit. She must have shared some of your good luck with me for me to come out in one piece from this latest debacle."
Sitting room, Painswick House, Eaton Square, London, December 1915
"Oh, she is so precious, isn't she?" Lady Agnes, Duchess of Crowborough, cooed at Irene, who was busy trying to catch a necklace she was dangling over her bassinet.
"Quite," said Lady Caroline Blake curtly, putting her teacup in its saucer a bit harder than she should have, making it rattle. "Any sign you are going to have one of your own soon?"
Mary sent her a quelling glare in response to Agnes's hurt look. Caroline was in full mourning due to her husband very recent death and she should be allowed some leeway for her volatile emotions, but there was no need to be cruel, considering the state of Agnes's marriage.
"Sorry," sighed Caroline, accepting the rebuke. "That was uncalled for. I just am so frustrated that after everything I endured being married to Lucius, he got himself blown up before he managed to get me with child. Now everything which was supposed to be mine is going to go to a second or third cousin."
Mary looked at her with perfect understanding. She had been there once upon a time. At least she hadn't been married to Patrick.
"Why a distant cousin though? Didn't Lucius have a brother?"
Caroline huffed in irritation.
"He managed to get himself shot three months ago, so Cousin Charles it is. If he doesn't get himself blown up or drowned, of course. He is in the Navy."
"Oh, your poor father-in-law!" exclaimed Agnes. "To lose both his sons in such a short time!"
"Is His Grace going to volunteer?" asked Caroline, evidently eager to change the topic. Agnes shook her head.
"Not at present, as far as I know. But he doesn't usually consult his plans with me," she said quietly. "What about your husband, Mary?"
"He'd better not be considering it," grumbled Mary darkly. "But unfortunately I suspect he is."
Jack Weatherby's flat, Picadilly, London, December 1915.
"How bad is it, Jack, really?"
Matthew put his glass on the table and looked at his friend. Jack seemed lost in thought, twirling a cigarette in his fingers. He finally raised his head and looked back at him, his face serious.
"Bloody awful. Worse than you could possibly imagine. You're bloody lucky to keep out of this mess."
Matthew swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Jack's words were hardly surprising. He did read newspapers and considering that due to the Defence of the Realm Act the press was heavily censored, same as letters from the front, and how bad was the picture they did print it was impossible not to consider how much worse the reality must be. And yet Jack's plain words hit him like a bullet.
"They are considering conscription."
Jack gave him sardonic eye.
"They are also saying that married men will be exempt."
Matthew shook his head, reaching for his brandy again.
"They are, but it won't hold. The numbers won't be enough and too many will be motivated to marry to save their skins."
"They are losing their soldiers at rather appalling rate, yes," drawled Jack. "To be honest, I am surprised at you though. With your overblown sense of honour I expected you to volunteer long ago."
Matthew dropped his head in shame.
"I should have, shouldn't I?" he laughed without humour. "And yet I find myself too scared. To abandon my wife and daughter most likely just to be killed in a war I don't believe in seems like the last thing on Earth I would want. And yet I feel so ashamed of myself, when men like you are fighting to keep me safe and comfortable."
"We are not fighting to keep you or anyone else safe," growled Jack harshly. "We are fighting because kings and politicians wanted to rattle sabres a bit and got us all in that unholy mess. Whatever we were taught, there is nothing noble in getting torn to shreds by machine guns or rotting alive in the trenches, eating your meal next to a corpse which already rotted through. You will do yourself and Mary a favour if you stay way out of it; and if you cannot, you at least delay it as long as humanely possible to increase your chances. I wasn't able, but I don't want to see you there, ever. It would be a bloody waste, you know?"
"And you being there is not a bloody waste?"
Jack chuckled darkly.
"Oh, it is, it is. But I didn't abandon a wife as lovely as yours and I was never likely to acquire one anyway. You managed to beat the odds and find true love; you should cherish it instead of dreaming vainly of honour and glory. I assure you again, there are none in the trenches."
"There is shame though in avoiding them," muttered Matthew. "They only didn't hand me a white feather yet, because nobody in the village dares to offend the heir to the Earl of Grantham."
"Do you care more about opinion of strangers or about you wife?" asked Jack intently, "What does Lady Mary think about the possibility of you volunteering?"
Matthew laughed.
"She is in complete agreement with you on the issue," he answered. "In fact, she absolutely forbade it and made me promise I would never do that."
Jack sat back, looking satisfied.
"I've always known you married a sensible woman."
"But what if I cannot fulfil that promise? What if the conscription bill goes through and they won't exempt the married men?"
Jack's eyes grew dark and serious.
"If that ever happens and I'm still alive, you will get a commission in my unit. Unless you manage to pull enough strings to get a desk assignment in London or Paris, of course. But if you don't, and you will have to end up in the actual fight, I want you with me, not with some fucking idiot who will get you killed within a day in some stupid manner."
"What if there aren't any vacancies in your unit?"
"There are always vacancies," answered Jack blankly.
"And yet you claim you won't get me killed within a day in some stupid manner?" Matthew joked humourlessly, making Jack chuckle despite himself.
"No guarantees, Crawley. But at least I'm not a fucking idiot. And I know how to appropriate some real tea and canned milk and believe me, that is nothing to look down your nose at."
They smirked at each other in understanding.
"How is business why I'm gone? You and Reggie have not yet run it into the ground?"
Matthew sat back in his chair.
"It's actually booming. With our success with negotiations between APOC and the government multiple companies are approaching us for assistance in signing contracts regarding orders for the war supplies. We had to hire two additional clerks to handle paperwork and will need to search for additional lawyer at this rate, especially since you are not here," he sighed and wiped his face tiredly. "I do feel bad sitting here, enjoying my life and my family, making insane amount of money, while you and so many others are out there. It is not right."
"Haven't we just finished discussing it?" spat Jack angrily. "There is no fucking reason for you to go and every possible one for you to stay. Nobody is going to shed a tear when I am blown up, but you have a wife who is mad about you, an adorable daughter and an Earldom to inherit. For God's sake, Matthew, don't throw it all away! I would kill to be in your place, you know."
Matthew saw his friend's point of view. He did. But his mouth turned down in a stubborn grimace anyway.
Library, Downton Abbey, Christmas Day 1915
Matthew looked at the happy chaos around him and felt somehow removed from it all.
It was a strange Christmas, the second one since the war started. Nobody believed it was going to end any time soon anymore and the expectation of conscription was lowering the moods further. However, at the same time, it was the first Christmas with Rupert and Irene present, and nobody could be completely gloomy and subdued when confronted with their exuberance. Irene, now six months old, learnt to crawl just two weeks previously, and was now doing that all over the floor, to Violet's visible displeasure, with Rupert Carlisle running after her and Isis in fascination. At one and a half, his resemblance to his mother was getting increasingly apparent, although his eyes were definitely his father's. He was aware enough to know that the colourful paper and boxes contained presents and was eagerly showing to delighted Irene how to tear into them.
Matthew was looking at them, his heart clenching painfully every time his little girl laughed. He was looking at Mary, talking animatedly with Sybil and so very beautiful and happy, and thought about her nightmares of being abandoned by him and left to bring up their daughter alone. He was looking at his mother, who was sending him wistful looks of her own, and realised that she knew what he was planning. He swallowed hard, turning his eyes away from them all.
He knew what he had to do – what he should have done long ago, truly – but he had no idea how he was going to survive it.
Sitting room, Eryholme, January 1916
"Mary, I want you to release me from my promise."
Mary felt her eyes widening in panic.
"Why?"
"Because I cannot stand the shame of sitting here in safety when so many are risking their lives or dying," said Matthew quietly. "Not to mention that with the conscription I probably will be called up soon anyway."
"Married men are excluded."
Matthew shook his head.
"It won't hold up. They will change it soon enough."
"Then why talk about volunteering at all? Why go before you absolutely have to?"
Matthew looked up at her with hooded eyes.
"Because I cannot live with myself, Mary."
Mary gritted her teeth in desperation.
"I will not release you. If you are so determined to go and die, I know I won't be able to stop you, but I won't send you there by myself either."
"Mary..."
"No! If you want to abandon me and Irene to go play a hero, that's your decision, but I won't agree to that and you cannot make me! So if you love your honour more than me and her, then go!"
Why did she say it? She knew he valued his blasted honour more than her; he had proved it often enough. When he had chosen to honour his engagement to Lavinia over his love for her; when it had taken him nearly a year to accept their relationship after her death; when he hadn't accepted his inheritance from Lavinia's father until the letter from the man himself released him from any perceived guilt even though not accepting the money meant they were going to lose everything – oh, she knew she had no chance to convince him now, she knew it was pointless. This was Matthew Righteous Crawley and he had the most rigid set of principles to follow out of her whole wide acquaintance.
She blamed Isobel.
Matthew rubbed his face wearily, but then looked at her with the grim, stubborn determination she knew and hated.
"Mary," he said seriously. "I do understand that you are scared of losing me. I do, really, I do. But it is my duty to go and I have been shirking it long enough. All my friends from Manchester went. Most of my friends from Oxford went. Billy Russell, Evelyn, Jack – they all went."
"Yes, they all went. And many of them are dead already!"
"Yes, they are," Matthew kept the gaze of his blue eyes steady on her. "And here I am, enjoying my life as if there was no war happening. It is not right, Mary. I cannot keep living like that. It's eating me inside every time I hug Irene, every time I make love to you. It will destroy me eventually if I don't find the courage to do my duty, however much I dread it. I do not want to play a hero. I do not think it will bring glory to me or to the Grantham name. I definitely do not think my presence there will change anything significant – I am fully aware I will be just another small cog in the war machine and am just as likely to die on my first day at the front as to survive to come home to you. The prospect of what I would be facing and what you and Irene and Mother would be facing if something were to happen to me, terrifies me. I am completely terrified when I think about being forced to kill other men. I am even more terrified when I think about the conditions there. But Mary, don't you see that however much I fear this choice, however much I grieve for what we may lose, I have to do it? It's not a choice for me anymore, not really."
Mary listened to his honest speech with forced calmness, but she could not keep silent at that question.
"It is totally your choice though," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You are not forced by conscription yet."
"No," answered Matthew heavily. "But I am by my conscience. I am not able to ignore its voice any longer."
"So I am right, you will go, whatever I say? Whether I will release you from your promise or not?"
Matthew swallowed audibly but did not avert his eyes from her face.
"I don't want to break my promise to you. I do not want to go to war like this. I'm begging you to release me from that promise. But you are right that I feel I must go either way, even if it will break my heart to part like this."
The unspoken part of the last sentence – that it would break his heart to part like this because they may never see each other again – broke Mary completely. She felt the black wave of grief for this man, grief remembered only too well, overwhelm her like a tsunami. The knowledge that this time he was abandoning her willingly; that it wasn't some freak accident but his conscious choice which could separate them forever after the miracle of getting him back, made her nearly hate him.
"Damn you, Matthew. Damn you and your conscience!"
She didn't look at his face when she ran from the room, completely unable to stifle the wrecking sobs which were shaking her. Reaching their bedroom, she locked the door for the first time in their marriage and threw herself on the bed. She could not stand the thought of seeing him now.
xxx
Downstairs, Matthew dropped his head into his hands in despair. He did not try to follow Mary.
Matthew's dressing room, Eryholme, January 1916
For the first time since they married, Matthew slept on the bed in his dressing room. Or was trying to, in any case.
When they were planning how to use and arrange the rooms at their home, they didn't even discuss separate bedrooms – they both took it for granted that they would be sharing one. So they designed a nice set of rooms – a master bedroom, both of their dressing rooms and a spacious bathroom, all interconnected by doors. To Matthew's surprise Mary ordered a bed for his dressing room, explaining that her father kept one in his even though he always shared the bed with her mother. It still seemed completely unnecessary to Matthew, not used to separate bedrooms in his upbringing – it was such an aristocratic concept!
Well, he learnt one use for his bed now – you ended up in it when your wife was so enraged and hurt by you that she locked the door between their bedroom and his dressing room.
At first, he was just surprised when he turned the knob and the door remained locked, but he soon realised what it meant. He did not demand entry. If Mary felt angry enough that she felt she had to resort to that, it was probably best to give her the space she needed. So now Matthew was lying in an unfamiliar bed and vainly tried to sleep.
Was he right in his insistence on volunteering? He was certain that the exemption for married men would not last long; he would most likely be conscripted not long after. The army lacked the required number of officers and they liked to recruit them from the gentry. He could wait for the draft letter; the outcome still would be the same, but Mary could not blame him for going then. As much as him becoming a soldier terrified her, it was the fact that he was making a choice to become one which enraged her. He could avoid it; he could keep his promise to do everything in his power to avoid the front.
But his conscience and pride rebelled against it. He wanted to be able to say that he did his duty willingly, not hide until he was dragged to France kicking and screaming. He didn't want to avoid contemptuous looks at his civilian clothes anymore. He wanted to have Robert looking at him with pride. He wanted to consider himself a brave and honourable man and with each passing month he felt like he was losing his ability to do so.
His musings were interrupted by earthshattering screams from the bedroom next door.
He jumped immediately out of his bed and unthinkingly run towards the connecting door, before remembering they were locked. He ran into the corridor instead, praying that Mary left the main bedroom door open. To his great relief, she did, and he entered the bedroom to find Mary trashing and screaming in bed, obviously in the midst of a nightmare like he had never witnessed before.
xxx
Mary was walking through hell.
The landscape was barren and desolate, the earth and anything which used to be on it bombed and shelled into oblivion. It was a landscape she had never seen personally but knew well enough from photographs in newspapers.
Although the photographs in the papers didn't show the ground covered in corpses, as this one was.
At least not the published ones.
Richard had shown her once some of the photographs he had received from his reporters but was not allowed to publish. She did not remember why he had done it – she assumed she had asked what he was keeping from the general public by government orders – but she never forgot the images. The ground covered in mangled bodies as far as sight could see.
As the one she was walking through now.
Each body she was forced to step over or manoeuvre around was grotesquely damaged. Limbs were torn, skin covered in burns, intestines pulled out, fragments of bodies thrown around in little bits. Some were the injuries she remembered from the time Downton Abbey had acted as a convalescence home, however not partially healed and bandaged, but starkly fresh and oozing blood.
The whole place was eerily, terrifyingly silent, as if she were the only person left alive in that sea of corpses.
She stumbled upon one, barely avoiding falling over it. It was missing all four limbs, which were apparently violently torn off, its face burned beyond recognition. She assumed whoever it had been was dead like the others, but when she righted herself from her stumble, he suddenly opened his eyes and stared straight at her.
His eyes were blue and horrifyingly familiar.
He opened his burnt lips and rasped:
"Mary... I will love you until my last breath leaves my body."
And then Mary started to scream.
xxx
It took Matthew torturously long several minutes to wake Mary up. She finally sat up suddenly, wide open eyes staring at him widely, and burst into violent sobs. As he embraced her, trying to comfort her, she was touching his face, his chest, his arms as if checking him for injuries.
"You're alive," she sobbed. "Thank God, you're alive!"
Then she collapsed against his chest, her sobs so strong they were making her shake with them.
Matthew felt awful. He did not have to ask what she was dreaming about – it was painfully obvious. He caught several more details from her broken words and he thought his heart was going to break for her distress and for being the cause of it.
It did not change his mind about volunteering, but it did add wholly new understanding of her objections to it.
"God, Mary," he whispered hoarsely. "I am so sorry."
Mary just continued sobbing, clutching to him as for her very life.
Dining room, Downton Abbey, January 1916
The dinner at the Abbey was a subdued affair. Mary barely said a word, looking pale and distracted. Matthew, equally distracted, kept sending her concerned looks, but maintained unprecedented distance from his wife. Isobel was at first appearing baffled, but then suddenly got rather pale and silent herself.
Robert felt irritated at being out of the loop. It was obvious that Mary and Matthew must have quarrelled, but it galled him that Isobel apparently had her suspicions as to the cause while he remained firmly in the dark. He had witnessed a share of spats between his daughter and his son-in-law, but he never saw them in such a state over it and it concerned him greatly. The dinner couldn't end soon enough.
Thankfully, finally it did, and he was left alone with his heir.
"What is the matter with you and Mary tonight?" asked Robert bluntly, unable to stay silent a moment longer. He knew it was hardly polite to pry, but Mary was his daughter. He hated seeing her so obviously unhappy.
Matthew wiped his hand over his face tiredly and looked straight at him.
"I am going to Manchester tomorrow to get a commission in Duke of Manchester's Own."
Robert felt his eyes widening.
"Why Manchester? Shouldn't you join the Yorkshire regiment?"
He felt silly focusing on that detail when he was just told his only remaining heir will be going to the front of a truly beastly war, but the enormity of what he just learnt was so huge that his mind refused to consider all the implications just yet.
Matthew shook his head.
"I still feel more of a Manc than anything else, however much I came to love Yorkshire. But more importantly it's Jack's regiment. If I must go there, I would like to be under a command of a friend."
Robert nodded, accepting his reasoning.
"Why now?" he asked.
Matthew looked at him seriously.
"I could not ignore my duty any longer, however much it pains me to hurt Mary like this."
"Of course not," said Robert, feeling his own chest tightening with pain. "We all hoped that it would have been over long before now, but since it didn't, we have to do our duty."
He sighed heavily.
"I am very proud of you for your decision, my dear boy," he said. "However, I hoped it would be me who would go. I've been talking with my friends in the War Office to have my commission fully reinstated to active duty and to take back command of North Riding Volunteers. Richard put in a word for me as well."
Matthew raised his head with a concerned frown.
"So it's possible that both of us would be sent to the front?"
Robert scowled briefly and drunk some of his port, disliking the prospect.
"It might happen," he said unhappily. "I hoped to have you here to hold the fort while I'm gone, but with the conscription coming soon you would have probably been called anyway, so I won't try to dissuade you. We both feel we must do our part in it. I would just be more at peace about it if you had a son, to be honest."
Matthew swallowed visibly.
"With both of us gone, the family would lose everything," he said quietly. "I am very aware of that."
"Is there any chance Mary is pregnant?" asked Robert, only half-joking. Matthew shook his head.
"She is still nursing Irene. Mother says it's unlikely she would get pregnant again so fast. And as angry as she is with me over this, I'd say it's completely impossible."
They smoked their cigars in silence until Matthew collected his thoughts with effort.
"I made a will," he said seriously. "Mary is my only heiress and the guardian of Irene of course. There is a settlement for Irene, but Mary will be in control of everything else. And as much as I detest it, the war has been good for me financially. They won't be lacking in anything material, even if we both perish, and they lose Downton. But I've been thinking. With me gone and the possibility of you going as well, who would be in charge of the estate in our absence?"
"I haven't really thought about that," admitted Robert. "I assumed you would be here to take care of the matters, but of course I should have expected you would be volunteering or conscripted sooner or later."
He pondered Matthew's question for a moment but came up empty.
"I guess Murray and Jarvis would be dealing with it," he said hesitantly, his mind giving him multiple reasons it could not work out. "I would ask Anthony, but he is either in London or in Paris most of the time."
Obviously Matthew agreed with him, because he shook his head.
"None of them will feel entitled enough to make decisions. You need to leave somebody in charge," he hesitated for a moment, then plunged in. "Why not Mary?"
"Mary?!" Robert gaped at him. Matthew nodded, holding his gaze.
"Mary. She loves Downton and she knows it. She is extremely competent, Robert. I know she would do a marvellous job in our absence. She already does with Eryholme, after all. I'm not sure if you realised, but Anthony did leave most of his estate for Edith to run and she too seems to be thriving. All of your daughters are extremely competent women."
Robert stared at his heir with incredulity.
"How would she even manage, with a baby and living at Eryholme?"
"Irene has a nanny and Mary wouldn't mind spending more time here with her anyway," he sighed, evidently seeing in Robert's expression that his quest was hopeless. "Just promise me you will think about it. It would give me a more peaceful mind about both of us gone if I knew she was the one in charge of the estate."
Robert nodded, still by no means convinced, but with heart too heavy with worry to argue with a man he truly considered his son. His son, who could well be dead in a few months.
Drive to Darlington, January 1916
"He intends to go, Tom" said Mary desperately. "And I cannot stop him!"
"We knew it might happen," said Tom, swallowing hard. "And with the draft, he would probably be called up anyway..."
"There are plenty of ways he could avoid ever being in danger if he wanted to and you know it!" snapped Mary in response. "He's a solicitor specialising in government contracts, he could get a position in supply chain of the army, work at the War Office, anything like that. With our connections it could be done. But he won't even consider it!"
"He is who he is, Mary," said Tom quietly. "If I know him, he would probably consider getting a post like that cheating."
Mary scoffed.
"I'm ready to strangle him myself," she confessed helplessly. "How am I going to survive it without going mad?"
"By remembering that he already made it once and believing he will do it again. We must have come here for a reason – and what other reason it could be than saving Matthew and Sybil? Why the two of us otherwise? And if we are going to save them and live our lives with them, then Matthew has to survive the war."
"Do you really believe it, Tom? You're not just trying to pacify me?" asked Mary desperately.
"I really do believe it," answered Tom firmly. "We are here to save them and they both will live."
Dining room, Crawley House, January 1916
Isobel stared at her son, her only child, and willed herself to remain calm. She had been expecting the news he brought her after all. It turned out though that no amount of expectation and mental preparation could properly make her ready for that moment. She desperately tried not to think about the gruesome injuries of the soldiers flooding their little cottage hospital.
"I knew there was a reason you joined me for breakfast," she said, pleased with steadiness of her voice despite her internal turmoil. My son! Not my son! "I see your decision is final?"
Matthew nodded. Isobel made a note he looked calm and determined, if rather pale.
"I couldn't ignore my duty any longer," he said. It sounded like he said it already multiple times.
"I see," Isobel took a deep breath. "It is the right thing to do."
Matthew's posture relaxed minutely, and she was sure he must have been dreading her reaction. She thought back to last night's dinner and her daughter-in-law.
"Mary is not taking it well, I gather?"
Matthew let out a startled laugh.
"Understatement of the century," he said. "She absolutely hates it, and she hates me as the result."
"She doesn't hate you," chided Isobel. "She is scared and in pain. You cannot go to war with matters between you two like this. You have to make it right with her."
Matthew raked his hand thorough his hair, as he always did when distressed. Her heart went out to him.
"How?" he asked desperately. "She keeps having horrendous nightmares about me dying. Things might have been different if I was conscripted, but since I am volunteering, she sees it as me willingly abandoning her. And I guess she does have a point. But I cannot wait any longer, Mother, I really cannot."
Isobel grasped his hand.
"Just keep showing her how much you love her," she said. "She is terrified for you and lashing out, but she needs you desperately. Just be there for her until you have to leave. Hopefully she will relent before you go, but you must give her an opening. Further quarrelling won't solve anything, and I do believe that your wife is too practical to keep fighting after the deed is done."
Matthew squeezed her hand back in gratitude.
"I will try," he said, looking at her with the same adoring look he had been giving her as a little boy. Isobel's throat tightened. "Have I told you recently how much I appreciate my luck in having such a wise mother?"
Isobel smiled at him, firmly keeping her tears back until he departed for the train station.
"It is me who is lucky to have such an amazing, good man as my son."
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Eryholme, January 1916
Mary was lying in bed, feeling numb. It got dark long ago, but she didn't bother to turn on the light.
Matthew was probably on his way back home from Manchester. He sent a telegram earlier today that he got his commission and would be spending a week at home before he had to report for training.
A week. A week was all she could be sure to share with her husband.
She shivered.
How could she survive going through all that terror and uncertainty again? How could she survive if anything did happen to him?
She sighed in irritation mixed with despair. Matthew was right, however much she didn't want to admit it. They could not part like this. She could not have this as their possible last moments with each other. No matter how furious she was with him, how bitterly disappointed that once again his bloody honour was more important to him than her, they simply could not spend their last remaining days like this. So she had to find a way to forgive him.
She just had no idea how.
She told herself that she knew who she married. This time around she knew perfectly well what she was getting into. That some of the same qualities she admired the most in Matthew were also his fatal flaw. That whatever he said to the contrary, he was a creature of duty. He was genuinely good and honourable and kind and loving. But he was also merciless where his principles were concerned. She remembered Granny calling him 'a man of moral high ground' and, as usual, Granny had been spot on. There was no point in fighting what was part of the very core of his being. She could just deal with the consequences.
She heard steps approaching the door and then a hesitant knock.
"Mary?"
She didn't answer.
The door was opened slowly and she saw Matthew's silhouette surrounded by light from the corridor. He didn't cross the threshold.
"Mary? May I come in?"
He always asked permission. No matter that it was his bedroom, she knew with certainty that if she refused him entry, he would go away.
She nodded, hoping he would see her gesture in the darkness. She still had no words.
He must have seen it, because he came in, closing the door behind him and sat on the window seat with a heavy sigh.
"Why are you laying in the dark?"
"I didn't feel like turning on the light. You may do it, if you want," she finally answered hoarsely. She wasn't sure when was the last time she drunk something. She definitely cried enough to earn her parched throat.
Matthew sighed again but didn't get up. They remained in the darkness, with only moonlight illuminating the room.
"It is done then. You're going to France."
"Yes," answered Matthew. "Eventually. I will be in training first."
Another couple of minutes passed in silence.
Predictably, Matthew broke it first.
"Mary... I do love you, so terribly much."
"Yes. I know you do."
"My darling, I hope, in some small part of you, you can understand."
"I'm trying. Really, I am. But I can't pretend I'm doing very well."
"Stop punishing me, Mary. Please. Your father understands and so does Mother. Now why can't you?"
Mary huffed in irritation.
"Of course Papa understands. He is just as bad as you, mad at a chance to play a hero. However much he is going to worry about you, and he will worry, he would be a complete hypocrite if he questioned your choice in any way. As for your mother, I am very well aware where you got those rigid principles of yours. She would be a hypocrite too if she supported the war effort as she does as long as it doesn't extend to her son."
Matthew opened his mouth to defend his mother and father-in-law, but in the end closed it without saying anything. It was his mistake to bring them up.
Mary's outburst exhausted what little strength she did have. Why were they fighting? What was the point? He was going and now it was final. Even if by some miracle she convinced him that it was a mistake – and she did not believe that she would be able to – he could not back off now. And hadn't she decided just before he came that she didn't want to spend their last week together like this?
She sat up on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking against the sudden light after such a long time in the darkness.
"I don't want to fight anymore," she said simply. "I'm going to ring for Anna and get ready for bed. And I want you to join me there tonight."
Matthew gaped at her.
"So you're not angry at me anymore?" he asked hesitantly.
"I am angry," said Mary calmly. "Very angry. And if you do get yourself killed, I will never forgive you. But I do not want to talk about it anymore. I want you to get ready for bed and make love to me. And in the morning we will play with Irene, and read some funny book together, and make love again in the middle of the day. And then we will repeat that and similar activities until it's time for you to leave. Do you agree?"
Matthew could only nod at her dumbfounded and go to his dressing room as fast as he could.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: About Mary's warning to Jack - British Army did end up accidentally gassing their own forces during the Battle of Loos, but the decision to use gas in unfavourable weather was of course not premeditated. Mary just could not think of a different way to warn him than to imply she got a leak from someone at the War Office (plausible enough with her and especially Robert's social connections). The British Army only started using proper gas masks in February 1916, although they experimented with different kinds of prototypes and protective hoods since May 1915. Rags or cotton pads soaked in urine were one of the emergency methods used before better ones were available.