AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so glad to be able to give you another chapter of this story. I know some of you worried about the increased time between the updates, but I assure you that they will keep coming. This story in particular is already planned nearly to its end and I am very excited to share it with you.
Thank you so much for all the reviews, they are seriously my biggest motivation to continue and literally brighten my day whenever I receive any.
Content warning: one sex scene, in my opinion on the verge between T and M.
Swimming pool, Lorelei's Cottage, July 1917
Mary lounged on the side of the pool, dressed in a light silk robe and a wide-brimmed hat to protect her complexion from the sun, with a glass of cold lemonade in her hand. To her left, she had an exquisite view of the sea, and to the right even more exquisite one of her husband doing laps with a single-minded focus and impressive skill. As much as she hated the war – and as much as she knew Matthew hated any visible reminder of it on himself – she had to admit that his new physique was incredibly attractive. Her eyes definitely lingered much longer on his body than on the sea.
It was a good thing that Matthew's looks were such a powerful distraction. Even as she ruthlessly concentrated on the present and the picture in front of her, she could not escape the terrible awareness that it was their last day at Lorelei's Cottage. Tomorrow morning they would travel back to Downton and the day after Matthew would be on his way to Belgium. She had managed to overcome his resistance and make him break the rules to tell her that his orders were to join his unit at Passchendaele, where the British Army was apparently preparing for a new offensive.
In mere days, Matthew was going to be in the heat of this battle.
She put down her glass, wishing suddenly that it contained something much stronger than lemonade. Mary didn't usually drink much – some wine with dinner and a customary glass of sherry after – but right now she yearned for something powerful enough to make her forget her dread for him; to make her able to enjoy their last hours together without remembering that they can very well be literally the last ones.
He must come back to her. He must. She could not imagine going on living if he didn't.
Oblivious to her increasingly desperate thoughts, Matthew finished the lap by her feet and looked up at her with a smile.
"Tempted to join me?" he asked eagerly. "The water is wonderfully refreshing."
"Not in the slightest," she answered lightly, once again pushing her dread of tomorrow forcibly away. It was still today. They were still on their honeymoon. Right now Matthew was still with her and she would not allow her fear for him to spoil those precious hours. She would not. "I'm quite comfortable where I am."
"But you're so completely covered by that robe," said Matthew, pretending to pout. Mary thought that no man had a right to look so adorable while doing something so ridiculous. "And the little glimpse I got of you in your bathing suit before you put the robe on was very enticing."
Mary put her glass on a little iron table by her lounging chair with an ominous clang.
"Are you saying that I look ugly like that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes dangerously. Matthew, intelligent man that he was, promptly swam away from her. His eyes didn't leave her at all though as she got up and reached for the belt of her robe.
"I would never dare," he assured her, his eyes following every movement of her hands as she was slowly untying the knot. "Besides, that would be an utter lie. You do look beautiful in everything, this robe included. But I do wish to see more than a glimpse of you in that bathing suit."
"I'm still taking offence," declared Mary, dropping her robe to the tiles, with her wide brimmed hat quickly following suit. Matthew felt his jaw go slack. "And I'm going to get my revenge."
Without warning, she jumped into the pool, with a resulting splash drenching Matthew and making him sputter with water.
When he finally got his breath back and wiped the water from his eyes, he grinned at her though.
"It was worth it," he said with deep conviction, swimming over to her to kiss the laughter off her lips.
Matthew's dressing room, Lorelei's Cottage, July 1917
Matthew checked his Army bag for the third time. His spare field uniform, pyjamas – ha, as if he was going to get much use out of them in the trenches! oftentimes taking his boots off hardly seemed worth the effort there – underwear and spare socks, his gun, toiletries, the copious amount of delousing powder and whale oil against trench foot – Mother's contribution, of course, and how much he hated the reasons for it! – generous quantity of writing paper, pens and ink. Then the personal items: his diary, Mary's photograph and their engagement portrait – he hoped he would be able to add one of their wedding portraits as well, when they reached Downton, Cousin Cora assured him she would have one ready for him – her little dog and all the letters he'd ever received from her. He thought gloomily that the more sensible course of action would be to leave them at Downton, safe, but he couldn't force himself to part with them. Already the thought of being separated from Mary was cutting him in half. He couldn't leave any reminder of her behind, especially as precious as her letters to him.
He sighed and closed the valise with slightly trembling fingers. He knew that Bates already got his uniform pressed and his boots shined for tomorrow. All his civilian clothes were to be packed in his travelling trunk and taken by Bates to Downton; he would have no use for them for the foreseeable future. They were leaving their sheltered piece of heaven and entering the real world again; he was obliged to present himself as a captain of the British Army again, however much he didn't want to. He was going to say goodbye to Mary by this time tomorrow, without any guarantee that he would ever see her again.
Oh God, how was he going to do that?
Tearing himself away from Mary had always been heart-wrenching, but now… now… when they were married, when she was his wife, when there was a possibility, however slight, that she might be carrying his child… How on earth was he supposed to say goodbye to her without completely falling apart?
And there was fear too – more than fear, an utter dread – of what he was going to face when he went back there.
The images and sensations came unbidden to his mind as soon as he thought of it: the stench, the noise, the lice, the rats. The mud doing its best to pull him in. Hunger and cold and sweltering heat. Death. Death all around him – his friends, soldiers, strangers and enemies, all dying next to him, in front of him, at his hands – lying under his feet – staring at him sightlessly wherever he went. One couldn't escape death there – it was everywhere until it felt more strange and unnatural that he was still alive than if he found himself dying. He was at the front since 1915; he'd long outlived any kind of statistics for junior officers. Death didn't stop frightening him, he wasn't so far gone, but he didn't believe his luck was going to hold either. Nobody's luck was so good.
But now he had Mary as his wife and the possibility of death had never seemed so cruel.
Master Bedroom, Lorelei's Cottage, July 1917
Their evening was a series of lasts. For the last time they dined on the marble terrace in the resplendent light of the setting sun. For the last time, they danced there in the rising moonlight to the gramophone. For the last time, they made love in their bed, taking full advantage of the fact that they were utterly alone in the house and could be as loud and uninhibited as they pleased. For the last time, they fell asleep with Mary's head on Matthew's chest and his arm around her, both of them dreading the morning, but none willing to voice it and break the spell. As long as they kept quiet about it, they could pretend, for a little while longer, that tomorrow was not so terribly close and that they could stay together.
As it turned out, it was harder to lie to themselves in their sleep.
Matthew was not sure what woke him up in the complete darkness of a cloudy night in the countryside – his own uneasy dreams, full of battle cries and death and a desperate yearning for Mary, or her soft, mournful whimpers by his side. Whatever it was, his eyes shot open, however uselessly; he could not see a thing. When he touched Mary's cheek though, he found it wet with tears.
"Mary!" he whispered urgently, caressing her face to rouse her. "Darling, wake up! It's only a dream, darling, only a dream."
He heard her gasp and a moment later he felt her hug him, her arms locking around his torso with surprising strength.
"Thank God," she whispered. "Thank God."
"Do you want to tell me what you dreamed about?" he asked quietly. He had suspicions he knew anyway.
Mary's vehement reaction only confirmed them.
"No!" she said harshly, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."
She clung to him instead, still shaking slightly, her fingers clutching at the back of his pyjamas' shirt.
When he kissed her gently, he had only comfort in mind – reassurance of his love for her, since he couldn't make her any promises of a different kind, at least none which mattered – but the desperate way she responded to his kiss, deepening it, with her hands abandoning his back only to sneak into his hair and pull him closer to her soon changed its character. If that was what she wanted, if that could help her forget whatever horrors haunted her dreams, Matthew was more than willing to give her that. Truth be told, he wanted – needed – a reassurance and a moment of oblivion himself.
He allowed Mary to unbutton and take off his shirt nearly without breaking their kiss. Her hands immediately seeked his skin instead, caressing it in a way which made him think she was trying to commit the sensation to memory. His throat tight, he followed her suit and made a quick job of removing her nightgown. His lips moved downwards over newly exposed flesh – down her neck, between her clavicles, over each of her breasts where his lips lingered for a long time, his ears full of her breathless little gasps in response. Mary, he thought reverently, my Mary. My wife. My darling. He wasn't sure if he was just thinking it or whispering it against her skin in the darkness, but it felt as much of a prayer as any he had uttered to God over the years. This revelation did not feel as blasphemous as it should, not now, not when his mind and heart and soul were all filled with her, with his body worshipping hers as a direct extension of his feelings. He slid further down, settling between her slender long legs, guided by touch in the absence of sight, and spent a long time there too, trembling himself as he felt her tense under his caresses. My darling, my wife, my Mary. I love you, so terribly much. She cried out, roughly, wildly, her fingers pulling unconsciously on his hair, and he slowly kissed his way upwards, placing light kisses over the curve of her hip, the smoothness of her taut belly, the perfect softness of her breasts where he again lingered, unwilling to let go of them. Finally, he reached her mouth and kissed it like a man dying of thirst, with her responding with equal zeal. There were no words exchanged, no sight possible, but somehow the silence and darkness, filled only with their laboured breaths and the exquisite sensations of touch were fitting, enhancing the dreamy unreality of it all, leaving space for nothing but each other, and Matthew was barely aware of himself as it was. My Mary, my darling, my wife, he thought again as their bodies joined in that most intimate of ways. He was holding her close – so close – and she was clutching him so tightly too, her arms and legs holding him to her too, as if she never wanted to let go of him – and it was good, so very good, and he loved her so very much – he never wanted for it to end, he couldn't stand the thought of it ever ending – and when it inevitably did, as wonderful as it was, he was nearly ready to cry.
When they slowly drifted to sleep afterwards, still without a word, still embracing each other so very closely, so very tightly, he thought he felt her tears on his chest – and then he couldn't hold his own back anymore, although he did turn his face so she wouldn't notice them.
Downton Abbey, July 1917
They were silent on the drive to Downton and Mary was mostly glad for it. She would love to hear Matthew speak and give her another opportunity to commit his lovely deep voice to memory, but she didn't feel equal to holding her own end of conversation. The thorny ball of dread in her belly was growing and getting sharper, and all she could do to prevent herself from screaming was to stare numbly at the passing landscape and do her utmost to neither think nor feel.
She roused herself slightly when her beloved house appeared in front of them. She was truly, legally a mistress of it now – it was hers and Matthew's, as it was supposed to be – they were the Lord and Lady Grantham – and for all her numbness and dread and fury at the circumstances forcing them apart and putting Matthew back in danger, she could not deny a small thrill of satisfaction that it was so – that this at least was right. For all the war and her own mistakes had taken away from her, God or fate had given her this one gift.
When Matthew parked the car in front of the house though, Mary could not prevent the rising irritation. There was a line formed to welcome them home – the gatekeeper must have alerted Carson that they passed the gate – and as much as she usually loved the tradition and basked in attention, she could only think that she would be wasting her last precious hours with Matthew surrounded by the crowd of relatives, servants and the whole bloody convalescent home. If she possessed a magic power to banish them all to four corners of the earth, she would have.
Instead, with the ease of long practice, she pasted a smile on her face and allowed Matthew to help her out of the car and lead her to the welcoming committee, hoping that she managed to hide her bad mood. Although seriously, what the hell were Edith and Anthony doing here? Who needed them today? Hadn't they said all their goodbyes already at the wedding? Or was Edith unable to resist coming here to gloat about her pregnancy and her husband, safely out of harm's way?
She felt a warning squeeze of Matthew's fingers on her hand – he must have noticed her polite mask slipping up – and widened her smile. She thought mournfully that as much as a proper fight with Edith would have done wonders for her mood, it would necessarily spoil Matthew's, and this was the last thing she wanted to do during his last hours home.
Thankfully it was Cora who approached them first, with Isobel following right behind her.
"Oh, my darlings, you look wonderful! I hope you had an amazing honeymoon," gushed Cora, hugging them in quick succession.
"Thank you, Mama, it was indeed amazing," answered Mary calmly, adding sincerely. "And thank you for arranging that cottage for us, it was truly perfect for the occasion."
Isobel was hugging Matthew and she was the one person Mary felt unable to begrudge it. If anybody must have shared her dread for him, it was his mother.
"I'm glad to hear you both had a good time," said Isobel, giving Mary a fonder than usual look.
"The best," answered Matthew, then reddened slightly at the significant looks and raised eyebrows he got in response. He added hastily. "The cottage and the views were really magnificent."
There were others to greet and accept the well-wishes from: Granny, Aunt Rosamund, her lacerated arm still in bandages and a sling, Edith and Anthony, darling Sybil. Finally, it was dear Carson's turn to welcome her as the new mistress of the house, with all the gravity of the moment.
"You don't have to introduce the staff to me, Carson," commented Mary with a smile. "You can trust that a week away wasn't sufficient for me to forget their names."
Carson harrumphed slightly, his eyes fond as usual.
"I must introduce you to them though, milady, as the current Lady Grantham," he said gravely. "They all must know the proper chain of command in the house."
Mary's lips twitched.
"As if you haven't already given them proper instructions on the matter long before we arrived."
Carson shrugged slightly, unperturbed.
"The proper motions still need to be observed," he stated.
And so they were, with the staff curtseying and bowing to her and Matthew before they finally were allowed to disperse to their duties.
"There is a telegram for you, my lord," said Carson as he accepted Matthew and Mary's hats and gloves. "Arrived yesterday evening, so I didn't think it would reach you before you left the cottage and thus didn't forward it to you."
Mary looked in apprehension at Matthew, who accepted the professed telegram with a frown, which only deepened after he read its contents.
"My orders were changed," he said in clear puzzlement. "Instead of going straight to Plymouth tonight to catch the night ferry, I'm supposed to report to General Strutt at the War Office tomorrow at 2 o'clock."
Mary violently squashed a sudden hope growing in her chest. It couldn't be… Matthew's obvious surprise clearly indicated that he didn't change his mind… But it still could mean that…
No, she reminded herself ruthlessly. There was no point in raising her hopes up. General Strutt probably wanted to make his goodbyes and thanks to Matthew in person or needed him to clarify something regarding his duties – there was no reason to expect that it meant anything more.
Matthew raised his eyes to Carson.
"It means I don't have to go to London this afternoon, so both me and William will be spending the night here at Downton and take the 8 o'clock train in the morning. Please notify Mrs Patmore that she will have one more person at dinner, hopefully it won't be a problem."
Carson looked offended at the very idea that Lord Grantham's presence at dinner at his own house could ever be considered a problem.
"Of course not, my lord," he said adamantly. "I will notify her at once. Will you want William or Mr Bates to attend you tonight?"
"Bates," answered Matthew. "Let William enjoy his unexpected last night off duty. He won't exactly have half-days at the front."
"He will certainly appreciate it, my lord."
"Carson, I will be accompanying his lordship to London tomorrow," said Mary firmly, making Matthew turn towards her in surprise. "Please tell Anna when she arrives to pack an overnight bag for me and for herself, I'll be taking her with me."
"Mary, you don't have to go," said Matthew, looking at her with concern. "I don't know how long they will need me at the War Office; I might very well go straight from there to the port."
Mary stared at him defiantly.
"It will still give me at least an additional four hours with you. Don't try to talk me out of it, I'm going," she turned to Rosamund. "Aunt Rosamund, may I stay the night at Painswick House?"
"Of course. I will telephone Meade and ask him to get the house ready for you."
"Are you sure you want to go though?" asked Edith in surprise as they were all walking into the dining room for lunch. "There's been another air raid on the 7th, with multiple deaths and injuries."
"There goes my appetite," groaned Rosamund, indeed looking rather green. "Did you have to mention this ghastly business?"
Matthew threw Mary another concerned look, opening his mouth to no doubt ask her to reconsider, but her glare made him thankfully silent on the topic. Which was good, because nothing he could have said had any chance to dissuade her.
She'd been granted additional twenty four hours with him and she wouldn't give up a minute of it.
Small library, Downton Abbey, July 1917
Mary wasn't sure how she survived the socialising that day. By the time the infinitely long dinner was finally over – seriously, did it always take so long? – she was ready to grab Matthew and drag him upstairs, not even necessarily for any amorous pursuits but just to have him exclusively for herself. It would of course be terribly improper when they had guests, and since one of those guests was Isobel and it was her who monopolised Matthew's attention now, Mary told herself to be patient.
After all, it might be the last time Isobel saw her son too.
"I wouldn't worry so, my dear," said Violet, patting Mary's hand lightly when she noticed the direction of her granddaughter's stare and her nervously bitten lip. "The orders change all the time in a war and men are sent from one place to another. They probably found better use for Matthew somewhere else."
Mary looked at her Granny sharply. Her voice was satisfied – positively smug – and her eyes twinkled in a definitely triumphant way.
"Granny," she asked quietly. "What have you done?"
"Nothing much," answered Violet with even more evident satisfaction. "Merely had some conversations with some people. I might have reminded them what a loss it would be if something happened to Lord Grantham – the last of his line and without an heir – and such a bright young man, just married too. Why, the King himself is worried by the losses among the Members of the House of Lords and their heirs. Such a waste all around."
Mary felt her eyes go wide as the full implications of Granny's words hit her.
"Oh Granny," she whispered fervently, grasping Violet's hand. "Thank you!"
"Now, now, don't get all American on me," said Violet hastily, throwing a quick look at Matthew, thankfully engaged in a conversation with Isobel and Sybil. "You do understand that your husband must not learn of it. I don't think he would be thanking me, the foolish man that he is."
Mary rolled her eyes. She felt weak with relief and so very grateful she could cry. She didn't know where Matthew would be going and she didn't think Granny did either, but it was obvious that Granny's intervention did something – so whatever the change of Matthew's orders was going to be, it must result in putting him in a safer post.
"Don't worry, Granny, I can keep a secret," she said firmly. "And you're right, he might not thank you if he knew – but I do. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."
"You're welcome," Violet allowed herself a smile. "I stand by what I told you before your wedding – we can't expect to change the men we marry, that would only end up in disappointment all around, but it doesn't mean we can do nothing to reach the desired outcome some other way. You won't always be able to work around your husband, you married one who is too intelligent for that – but I don't expect you will feel the need to use such means very often, exactly because you married a smart and good man who loves you very much. You probably will be able to talk him to your side of the argument in most matters."
"But I wouldn't have been able to in this one," said Mary. "I tried."
Violet shook her head, throwing an indulgent look at Matthew.
"No, not in this one. As we discussed, your husband is a man of honour and feels his duty keenly – too keenly for his own good sometimes. But what else could we expect, with Isobel Crawley for his mother?"
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, July 1917
Matthew's throat was tight when he walked to his bedroom from the dressing room, dressed in pyjamas and robe, and found Mary there, in her night clothes, sitting at the vanity as Anna was finishing brushing and plaiting her hair for the night.
It shouldn't be so moving – they'd been married over a week already – but as he sat down in an armchair and waited for her to be done with her evening routine, he couldn't help thinking that it felt different in this room. It was their home. The scene he was part of was one which, if he was incredibly lucky and came through the war in one piece, would be the one they would recreate again and again each evening until they were both old and grey. It was domestic and intimate and so very lovely that his chest felt tight with the beauty of it.
Before he knew it, Anna left with a quick curtsy and he was alone with Mary, who was rubbing cold cream into her face and hands.
"I got spoiled by our honeymoon," she said. "You don't know how close I was to tell all those people to leave us finally alone."
Matthew laughed softly at her fierce expression.
"I wouldn't have protested if you did," he admitted. "I felt rather impatient with them all too, much as I love our family. Are you sure you don't want to run away and hide in a cottage by the sea forever after the war is over?"
Mary looked at him over her shoulder.
"Who knows, I just might. Come back and find out."
They were joking, flirting even, but suddenly Matthew found it hard to breathe. The knowledge that he couldn't promise her that he would come back settled like a stone on his chest.
Mary got up from the vanity and walked over to him with an expression even fiercer than when she was expressing her desire to chase away their relatives.
"You will come back," she said firmly. "This change of orders – it might mean that you're not going back to the front – that you're getting a safer post."
"Or it might not," he said gently, grasping her hand and rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin of it, fragrant with cream. His heart was breaking at the fervent hope in her eyes. He hated the thought of the disappointment she would most likely experience tomorrow. "Darling, it's rather improbable. Most likely I'm just needed to clarify some matter from my time at the General's Staff. I know I shouldn't have told you about the battle, but the fact is, I'm scheduled to be there and lead my men into it – they won't pull an officer out at the last minute like that. They don't have enough officers as it is."
The last sentence brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He didn't like to dwell on the fact why the British Army was so desperately short of junior officers, but he couldn't escape the knowledge. It was haunting him day and night.
Mary pursed her mouth stubbornly.
"I'm not going to stop hoping for a miracle until I hear otherwise," she stated and his heart clenched again. "But let's not talk about it. Come on, let's go to bed and you can read to me some more. I'm going to lie in your arms and bask in the luck of having the opportunity of hearing your voice for one more night before you're gone."
Painswick House, July 1917
To her own irritation, Mary found herself pacing incessantly between the window overlooking the street and the phone. She saw Meade giving her puzzled looks, but she hardly cared; she hardly cared about anything but the news Matthew was going to give, hopefully soon and in person.
It had to be good news. It just had to. Granny assured her it would be good news. But Mary's assurance, so strong last night, faded slowly over the course of the day and her mounting nerves. After all, Granny didn't know where Matthew was to be posted or in what capacity; only that her intervention had most likely something to do with the change in his orders. But what if Granny was wrong? What if it was a coincidence and even Granny's considerable influence was not enough to pull Matthew out of danger? Millions of men were dying in that nightmarish war, what was the chance that they would be able to save the one who was so important to them? Especially when he didn't consider it right to be saved and was against any attempt to save himself?
She looked at the clock and nearly groaned aloud. How could it be that only ten minutes had passed?! Matthew hadn't even probably reached the War Office yet. She wouldn't likely get any word from him for ages – in any way, she was certain it would feel like that. She rubbed her forehead, told herself to calm down, took a deep breath and sat on a sofa with a fashion magazine. She would wait here, calmly and rationally, until he came back or called.
Within five minutes, she was back to her pacing.
War Office, London, July 1917
General Strutt got up to greet Matthew cordially when he entered his temporary office.
"Ah, Matthew, I see that mariage agrees with you! I hope you left your lovely wife well?"
"Quite well, thank you," said Matthew, taking the offered seat when the General sat back behind his desk. "Grateful for the unexpected additional day we had together."
"Yes," said the General and looked at him seriously. "Back to business then, Crawley. I'm not sure if you heard before you left for your leave that my own orders have undergone a sudden change in the last two weeks."
"No," answered Matthew, surprised. "I haven't heard anything. Where are you going then, sir?"
"To Belgium. General Gough has taken ill – seriously ill – and I've been chosen by General Haig to replace him to command the 5th Army. I'm to spearhead the offensive at the Ypres Salient."
Matthew's eyes widened slightly.
"Congratulations, sir. It's a huge responsibility."
General Strutt smiled wryly.
"That it is. Now, here is why I sent for you. Since I'm stepping into Gough's shoes at the very last minute, I need men on my staff I already know and can trust that they know me and the way I think. This appointment is in many ways a nightmare – I will have mere days to familiarise myself with everything, from the troops, the intended battleground, the plans and our Belgian and French allies. You speak French, don't you, Crawley?"
"I do, sir," answered Matthew, his stomach dropping. It was obvious where this conversation was going.
"Fluently enough?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You will need it, because we will be talking with Belgians and the French a lot and I freely admit that my French is rather rusty. We're going to be stationed at Château De Lovie, two miles outside Poperinghe. From what I hear it's a tight fit, but should be an upgrade from the trenches."
"What about my unit, sir?" asked Matthew, rather hopelessly.
"1st Lieutenant Edward Summers has been promoted to captain and given the post you were supposed to fill," answered the General. "From every report I got, he is a capable officer. Do you agree?"
"Yes, sir," answered Matthew morosely, but fairly. Summers was a good officer. "He is brave and smart. I've always worked well with him."
"There you have it, your men will be in good hands then," General Strutt looked at him shrewdly. "Quite frankly, Crawley, you're much more useful to me than you are to your unit at the moment. I know it's not what you wished for and not exactly what I promised you – although technically I am taking you back to the front – but in the end the Army doesn't care for our wishes and promises, but only for efficiency. Captain Summers is doing a good job leading your men and I need an ADC who I can rely on and who can smooth my way with the French. That's all there is to it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," answered Matthew.
"Good. You and your batman will be joining me and the rest of my staff on the 5 o'clock train from Paddington to Plymouth. Send for your mess kit – the French like their ceremonial dinners and I don't think the Belgians are any different," General Strutt's gaze softened. "Until then, I have no need for you. Go and spend the last night with your new wife."
Matthew nodded and left the office with the salute, beyond dazed and hardly knowing what to think or feel.
Painswick House, July 1917
Matthew walked slowly into the spacious marble entrance hall of Painswick House, handed his cap and gloves to Meade and equally slowly went into the sitting room where Mary jumped up from the sofa at the sight of him.
"And?" she asked anxiously, her eyes wide and dark as she stared at him. "Where are you being sent?"
"Still to Belgium," answered Matthew heavily. He still felt so very stunned. "But not to my unit. General Strutt is taking over the command of the 5th Army there and I'm going with him as his permanent ADC."
Mary's chest heaved as she breathed hard, trying to absorb his news.
"So you will be where the battle is going to take place – but you won't fight?"
"No," answered Matthew roughly. "I won't fight. I will be attending dinners, pushing paperworks and quarrelling with Belgians and the French while other men will be dying."
He could see that Mary stopped herself from a joyous exclamation only due to his own visible distress. Of course she would be happy to hear his news, he reminded himself. It was only natural that she would be. And maybe he should feel happy as well – or at least relieved – and he supposed he was, on some level – but mostly he felt crushed by an unbearable weight of guilt for his deliverance when so many others were not going to get it.
How was he more deserving of being spared than any of them? What made him so special?
Mary approached him carefully and it hurt too, this caution she deemed necessary, as if she was afraid he would bolt or start crying if she made one careless move.
"Darling," she said gently, putting her hand on his arm. "The fact that the other men will die is not your fault. You didn't ask for this post. In fact, you refused it, even when you knew that it made me furious, even when it broke both of our hearts. You can't blame yourself when it's not what you wanted."
Matthew looked at her with wild eyes.
"But this is what I want, Mary," he confessed, feeling the shame and guilt practically rip him apart inside at the truth of his words. "I do want it – so much. To be safe, to sleep in a clean bed, to have the chance to come back to you in the end. To not have to kill anyone again. I want it so much it hurts. But the others want it too, just as much, and yet I am the only one to get it. I don't deserve it, Mary, and it kills me that I get it anyway."
She hugged him and he folded into her embrace, holding her for dear life and squeezing his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears from falling. He wasn't even sure why he was on the verge of crying – was it out of guilt? Of shame? Or was it out of overwhelming relief that he was going to be spared, that he wasn't going into this battle, that it wouldn't be him murdering soldiers from the other side and most likely dying himself without ever seeing his wife again? Because as much as it burnt him to acknowledge it, he told Mary the truth – it was what he wanted, so terribly much. But the price for getting it was so steep that he didn't know how to deal with it either.
"Matthew, you're allowed to want these things," said Mary, still holding him tightly. "It's human to want to be safe. I don't think it's normal if somebody likes the war. You were fighting because you felt you had to, it's alright to feel relieved that you don't have to anymore. And you do deserve this post – if you didn't, General Strutt wouldn't have chosen you for it, would he?"
Matthew swallowed, trying so hard to see it all as she did, but he wasn't very successful. He thought of Summers, taking his post, of Wakefield, and Thompson, and Murray, and Collins, and all the other men in his unit waiting for him to come back and now going into the heat of the battle in his stead, while he was living in a chateau and likely dining in splendour with the General every night. He looked at Mary, who was working so admirably on seeing his side of things and showing such patience and understanding while being most likely completely baffled by his lack of joy and felt such a wave of tenderness for her that it nearly bowled him over. He hoped to God that she wasn't hurt by his reaction; that she knew now that it didn't say anything about his love for her or the importance of her in his life. She was the most important, most precious, most beloved person to him on earth, but somehow it made it all even worse. That he was so rewarded – not just by being pulled out of the trenches, but with Mary's love – while by all justice he should have died long ago… It was not right. He didn't deserve such luck, such happiness, when so many others had died and were going to keep dying.
He didn't deserve to be the one to survive, however much he might want to.