Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you so much for your responses to Chapter One! So here's with another instalment. Again, thank you to kehlana for the discussions and reading it through :) Hope you enjoy it!

May 1915

Nurse Mary.

Two weeks had passed during Matthew's encounter with her to tend to the wound in his chest, and three months since the first time he'd met her, when he'd been grazed with a bayonet across the forearm.

He'd hardly felt the sting of the antiseptic that first time, for she had stunned him with her beauty. She'd tended to him with care, her hands gentle yet sure of what they were doing. She'd arched her eyebrows in surprise upon learning of his name.

"Lieutenant Matthew Crawley? My name is… Mary Crawley, you see," she had said. "Lady Mary Crawley. Perhaps we're related?"

He doubted they were, and told her so… or if they were at all, it was likely a very distant relation.

"You'd better call me Nurse Mary, then," she had smiled, "given that we share a last name, it would make things simpler, wouldn't you agree?"

And so he had been granted the intimacy of calling her by her first name. Mary Crawley. Since meeting her, on three separate occasions, she had remained in his mind… The way she spoke, the very faint but distinctive scent of her… She was sparkling, something so out of place here in this hell on earth. She… intrigued him, she puzzled him, she was beautiful, more beautiful than he'd thought any woman could ever be. And he wanted to see her again.

Today was a half day, thank God… And it was a rest week for his unit, which began tomorrow. One whole wonderful week away from this fucking mess. One week of relative peace and safety. Here at last, was an opportunity… to see her, to spend time with her. Only… would she want to? He went down to the dressing station the first chance he got.

He found her, as expected, in the tent, packing away rolls of gauze.

"Matthew!" she exclaimed, in pleased surprise at seeing him. "Dear me, not another injury, I hope?"

"No, not at all, I'm quite alright… Are you very busy?" he asked shyly, blushing a little. "I came to see if – there was anything that you needed doing… Anything I could help you with?" He meant it… even if it was only rearranging boxes of medical supplies, he would do it if it meant being in her presence, keeping her company… He wanted to be with her. He liked being with Mary Crawley.

"There isn't," she said, smiling faintly and with an elegant little shrug, "But thank you. It's your rest week beginning tomorrow, as I understand it… There's not much I've got on my hands at the moment."

"Quite right – well, in that case I wondered if … you'd like to come out with me? We could go out and have a look in the shops, and make a day of it… That's – if you had no other plans in mind?" he added quickly, fearing he was being presumptuous. He paused, gauging her reaction, waiting with bated breath. And after only a few seconds (though it seemed far longer to him) –

"I would like that very much, Matthew."

Her tone was measured, her stance poised, yet Matthew was certain he had not imagined the sparkle of pleasure in Mary's large brown eyes, and his heart was singing its victory as he smiled and nodded at her.

"Right, then, well… What about going down at half past twelve?"

"Yes, of course – thank you."

Mary was ready, as promised, at midday. Matthew's stomach fluttered, and a bright grin lit up his face when he spotted her, waiting for him.

"Hello…" he offered shyly.

"Hello, Matthew," Mary said, smiling at him in a way that made his heart skip a beat. "Well… Shall we?"

"Certainly…" He offered her his arm, and they set off towards the little town in the heart of Flanders, which was such a brief, precious respite from everything they had grown perversely accustomed to.

They spoke of little things, inane things, the officers they knew and the soldiers they led, of films that were playing (though there was hardly much opportunity of seeing them), the weather, and how England felt so near and so far away at the same time. Matthew stared at her, reconciling the nurse with the woman. He'd only ever seen her in the plain nurse's uniform she wore at the dressing station. She was dressed in a white blouse, and a dark blue skirt, paired with a pale blue coat. The outfit was simple, and yet stunning in its simplicity. From her bearing alone it was evident… She could not be mistaken for anything less than a lady, a true lady. She did not belong here, in this filth and chaos and destruction… Why had she come?

"Mary… can I ask you a question?"

She started, evidently surprised, and arched her eyebrows.

"It depends what the question is!"

"I'm – sure I must seem very impertinent, and I… do apologise, but I'd like to ask – why have you come? Here, I mean… Wouldn't you far rather be volunteering at home than here?"

Mary blinked, and stared at the road ahead of her. If it were anyone else – any other officer – she'd simply have told them with a polite smile that she was only doing her duty, that she was here because she knew how desperately nurses were needed at the frontlines and she was perfectly content. The truth was far more complicated, much more selfish. But Matthew… somehow, she could not lie to Matthew. Something in his manner – his endearing awkwardness, his shyness and gentleness, his… decency that she'd sensed almost from the moment they met, precluded any sort of pretence on her part. She could not tell him everything, of course – it would be unthinkable to confide in him about the childless state of her marriage, and her disappointment in herself and her family's disappointment in her. But she wanted to tell him… some part of it at least, and omit the details.

"It's really rather shocking," Mary said at last. "But you see, the main reason I came was so that… I could get away from my husband."

A cold wind brushed her skin, and her skirt flapped about her legs.

Matthew stared at her, his blue eyes widening slightly. He could not imagine ever wanting to be separated from one's spouse, to go so far as to run away to the Front just to get rid of them… He could not understand it. Wasn't marriage supposed to be a bond of love, an unbreakable partnership, always sticking together no matter the circumstances?

"Did you love him?" he asked. He felt he was pushing his luck with her, but he couldn't resist, wanting to know more about her.

"Not quite," Mary said. "I never wanted to marry him, you see… But I had to. My family wanted it, and there was simply no way out for me… and I ended up being terribly bored all the time. In fact… I only married him because nothing better turned up."

She released an inaudible breath. It was the first time she had ever admitted it aloud to anyone.

Matthew was shocked in earnest this time. Nothing in her tone spoke of love for her husband, or even the slightest fondness for him… in fact, the way she spoke about him sounded awfully mercenary.

"That's a rather… horrid thing to say."

"I know. But it is true."

"Then… I gather your life wasn't satisfactory?" He was looking at her intently, wondering at the resigned, almost hopeless look in her deep brown eyes. What sort of man had made her feel this way? If it were he who was married to Mary Crawley, God knows he'd be the happiest man on earth.

"Women like me don't have a life," Mary said as they walked on. "We choose clothes, and pay calls, and work for charity, and do the season. But really, we're stuck in a waiting room until we marry. As I was." Her tone was cool, careful, controlled, and yet he sensed, instinctively, the sense of bitterness that lay behind it. Matthew gazed at her as she spoke, his mouth slightly open. This woman, who seemed such a force of nature… She had had to endure all this, and an unhappy marriage into the bargain? Suddenly became more aware of her slight hand curled around his arm. Bereft of the nurse's cap her hair glistened in the pale sunlight, and all at once he wanted to cradle her head to his chest, stroke her hair, feel its silk against his flesh, tenderly run his fingers through it…

His skin felt hot beneath his shirt and he swallowed.

Matthew shook off his thoughts. She was married. Unhappily so, but even then… it would be terribly wrong of him to think of her in that way. And yet…

"I've – made you angry," he said, to distract himself, shaking his head.

"My life makes me angry. Not you," Mary told him firmly. Whatever he'd asked her had been respectful, polite… and strangely she had not minded his questions as she might have done, had they come from anyone else. He was so unlike the other soldiers she cared for, and the officers too. He didn't make crude jokes in front of her as so many of them did, or whistle at her, or smirk and make some lewd remark or other when she had to touch their bare skin. He was… unassuming, and genuinely concerned about her, she could see that. He was perhaps the first person in her life, it seemed, who had ever bothered to ask how she felt about things, rather than presuming upon her and taking away what little autonomy she had. And something gloriously warm nestled closer in her chest as she realised it.

They walked on for a while in silence, until they came to a tiny Belgian café that was often frequented by the officers. It was small, but clean and well-lit, and somehow looked inviting. Matthew held open the door for her, and the little bell tinkled tunefully.

"After you," he said with a grin. Mary inclined her head in thanks, and entered.

The aroma of Belgian coffee floated in the air within, and it was warm and somehow comforting. There wasn't much choice on the menu, not when the war had dwindled the supplies of nearly everything.

A mousy-looking Frenchman waddled over to their circular table for two, with glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Bienvenue, Monsieur – what would you and your wife like, s'il vous plait?"

Matthew gave a start, ducking his head, and a deep blush coloured his cheeks.

"I – we – that is to say, we are not –"

"What Lieutenant Crawley is so eloquently trying to explain," Mary told the waiter calmly in French, sounding quite amused, "is that we are merely friends, Monsieur, and not married."

She waved away the waiter's muttered apology.

"Non, it's quite alright… Could we have two cups of tea, please, and a plate of sandwiches?"

"Of course." He sauntered off, leaving Matthew and Mary grinning at one another embarrassedly.

Neither of them mentioned the waiter's slip again, but the phrase remained in Matthew's mind, echoing in the recesses of his heart. Your wife. Mary had been called his wife. Somehow, it seemed utterly right, it felt so natural and comfortable and perfect, the way it had sounded. Mary as his wife… But then he reminded himself that she was married to another. He had no right to think of what could not be. Of what could never be.

They chatted about things they had in common, and those that they didn't – books and politics and art and literature; and Matthew found himself chuckling at their lively conversation and jokes and banter. Mary was witty, and wonderfully well-read, and her intelligence and passion would have been obvious to a fool.

But he wanted a deeper answer to her situation and circumstances than what she had confided in him during their walk, and the question had nagged at the back of his mind. He sensed, instinctively, that there was much more to Mary Crawley than met the eye, and he wanted to get to know her better, solve the puzzle that she was, understand this beautiful, elegant, poised woman who matched him and challenged him in ways he could not fathom.

"Are you… are you very unhappy?" he asked her. He had blurted out the question almost without forethought, and he flushed pink again. He hadn't been able to resist.

The look exchanged between them confirmed that Mary knew perfectly well what he was asking, and she was not about to insult him by asking what he meant.

"What's it to you?" Mary had asked, her lips curling into a mocking smile, but he could tell she was being flippant.

"I don't quite know, only that… I should hate for you to be unhappy."

A warm feeling flooded Mary's belly, something utterly delightful and comforting and new. I should hate for you to be unhappy. He was the first person she'd met who genuinely cared about her, her opinions, what she thought of and what she felt and what she believed in, whether or not she was happy… She didn't feel like a horse being sold to the highest bidder at an auction, not with him. She could not doubt his earnestness, his sincerity, his respect for her… An ache of fondness for him blossomed in her breast.

"You mustn't let it trouble you," she said, shrugging.

"It does trouble me," Matthew said, rather too quickly, and there was a strange sort of intensity in the way he said it. "It troubles me very much."

There was a pause.

"Even if I am… it's my lot in life, and it's how things are done. Among my kind of people." Mary paused for a moment, sipping her tea. "The truth is, I've made my choice, and now I'm stuck with it." She set the teacup down rather forcefully on the saucer.

"That seems rather unfair, and quite hard on yourself –" Matthew protested softly. He couldn't bear the thought of Mary… being unhappy, but worse than that, he couldn't bear her air of resignation, her pretence that it didn't matter, her flippancy that concealed all but a glimmer of pain. She had not made her bed, it had been made for her, he could see that now. She had spoken of making her choice, but the truth was that she hadn't had a choice at all… If he were lucky enough to be married to her, he was quite certain he would do everything in his power to treat her well, to please her… Because God knows a woman like her deserved it.

"Does it? Aren't we all stuck with the choices we make?"

Matthew could say nothing to that. He half shrugged, conceding that he could not refute that very cynical point… and drank the rest of his tea in silence. It was hot and sweet, with milk and sugar; better tea than he'd had in months. The sandwiches were a little dry, but not too bad on the whole, he thought, considering the usual standard of food in the army.

As they stood up to leave, leaving their payment under the saucer, their fingers brushed against each other's… And he fought the urge to thread his fingers through hers and hold her smaller hand tightly in his own.

They wandered together around town, looking in the shop windows, walking along the roads. Chatting about this, that and the other, laughing together… Matthew was not entirely sure where he was going. His eyes were fixed upon her, taking in every beautiful feature, every spot and freckle on her porcelain flesh. Alabaster skin, brown eyes, rose-pink lips, proud face … She was guiding him, really, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

"Do you think… we'd better go back now?" Mary ventured to ask, when her feet began to ache.

"Oh – yes, of course! We've been out entirely too long, I'm sure." Matthew couldn't stop beaming. He'd spent the last couple of hours with Mary… and he couldn't remember when he had last enjoyed himself so much.

"Where are you billeted?" Mary asked, as they retraced their steps back up the street lit with shadows.

"Farmer Bérard's cottage on the edge of town. He fled the place a while ago… with his family, I think."

"How funny! I happen to be billeted there as well," Mary said.

Matthew gaped at her slightly, hardly daring to believe his luck. Billeted… staying in the same house as her, sharing a roof with her… His heart thrilled at the prospect, and his eyes shone.

"Now that we are billeted at the same house… perhaps, Mary…" (he relished the sound of her name on his lips)

"Yes?"

"We should see more of each other."

She looked away from him and smiled at the ground. Matthew saw her eyes twinkle and her cheeks flush with colour. He walked on, the blood thudding in his ears and his heartbeat quickening. He had … flirted with her. With Mary.

He hardly noticed that the air had turned chilly and the sun was setting, not while he and Mary were walking together in such close proximity, and their hands brushed together twice more, and a jolt of electricity shot through him each time it happened. When they reached the trenches to gather their belongings, Mary turned to him.

"Well, Matthew… Thank you for a lovely time."

"My pleasure…" Matthew breathed with a tender smile.

Mary looked back at him a moment, and then … quickly, yet very gently, kissed him on the cheek. The sensation of her soft lips on his skin tingled impossibly, and he felt his body heat with the shock of it. But before he'd even registered what she'd done, she had turned away and begun to walk away towards the dressing station.

The kiss on his cheek might only have been friendly, as a thank-you… and yet, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a brief moment, what it might feel like against his lips. He stared after her, her retreating, slender form, half afraid to think of what was burgeoning between them.

Because she was the daughter of an Earl. Because she was married.

And because… he was falling in love with her.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always welcome :)