II.

Lavinia had told Matthew that she needed to rest but after he left the bedchamber, she remained sitting up against those white pillows for some time. The fingers of her pale hands continued to fidget in her lap, running over each other restlessly. Her hands were clammy, then cold, then clammy again.

The silence in the room was deafening. She almost rang the bell for one of the servants, just to have someone near. Someone she could talk to. Anyone.

For when she was alone with her thoughts, there was always the chance that she would think…that she would remember…

The last time she'd been confined to her bed like this was five years ago. Had it been five years already?

She hadn't been to visit her cousin since, not once. And she wouldn't. No, she'd never go back to her cousin's house again. She couldn't.

I have some self-worth.

That claim sounded so hollow, so weak. Perhaps she'd convinced Matthew with those words, but not herself. She was not that brave. She was not that strong. She closed her eyes briefly on the thought, as it filled her with dread, sinking into the pit of her stomach and staying there, like a coiled thing, her mouth going dry, her head buzzing with nonsense.

Stop it. Stop it now, Lavinia. It was a man's voice in her head, but not Matthew's.

Matthew, she clung to his name, bringing his face to mind, focusing on him. The man she loved. For wasn't it his face that finally broke through all the terrible shadows that had been crowding out the rest for so long? Wasn't it his small kindnesses—the little gestures, the gentle tone—that finally made her heart soft again?

Her father approved of Matthew and said she'd chosen well, proudly, with his broad smile betraying his infallible faith in her choices, her decisions and her path in life. She could do no wrong in her father's eyes.

Nor Matthew's. Nor the rest of them.

But what if I told you all, Father? Would your smile fade away into nothingness? And Matthew, what if you knew my darkest secrets? Secrets that might make Mary's look pale in comparison. Would you love me better or worse?

For a long time, she thought he might love her just the same.

Wasn't that why she loved him? For being kind, for being decent.

For having a heart. A heart that could beat in sync with hers. That could forgive and love and feel and break like an ordinary person. Rather than whatever it was that resided in his chest.

What price did you get for your heart, Richard?

She ignored the old question, having long given up any hope of an answer. And Richard was not who she wished to think of now.

Behind her eyelids, Matthew was smiling warmly, with that boyish charm that melted her heart and softened her eyes. Oh, but he wasn't smiling at her. He wasn't looking at her at all. The gramophone was playing a soft, brass melody and Matthew was dancing, and smiling, and bringing his soft lips to hers. No, not to hers.

To Mary.

And the room was spinning, spinning, spinning like the repeating pattern on a Parisian rug and Lavinia felt light-headed enough that she could only manage a small, nearly breathless, "Hello?"

Mary's dark eyes snapped so fast and she broke away from Matthew's embrace immediately, her hand running over her lips briefly before coming down to rest at her side, her fingers twitching so slightly.

And there Lavinia was, on the stairs, wrapped in her shawl, with her simple, desperately soft, "Hello?" lingering in the air between all three of them.

Lavinia opened her eyes, as they were stinging with saltwater and she didn't want to see anymore. She didn't want to remember. And her head was spinning, her pulse quickening as she felt her cheeks flush with warmth at the memory.

But she'd caught them in the act. Not the other way around.

Why then did she feel so exposed? As if her heart had been laid bare in the front hall of Downton, with nothing to cover it up. When Matthew had come to her, his touch on her arm had felt so hollow. Ghostly, even. As if it didn't belong there. As if it belonged to someone else.

His heart belongs to Mary. Don't be a fool. Don't do this to yourself. His warnings in the Downton gardens all that time ago came back to her with a vengeance and she felt dread again. The dread of knowing he was right and that she'd played the fool.

And why did this sickness have to magnify that feeling's power so very much?

She sank down on the pillows, curling onto her side, as the tears started running down her face in streams and rivers. She couldn't stop them and buried her head into the silk pillowcase to hide from herself. The fever in her head was running wild and she couldn't manage a line of thought that made any sense.

The physical pain spread throughout her limbs and she ached all over. But her mind was against her most of all.

And she was dangerously close to unlocking all the cabinets in her head, unleashing the memories that would swarm her, drown her—the ones Matthew's dear face had done so well to lock up and banish away since the day they met.

But Matthew doesn't love you.

He couldn't love her. Not while Mary Crawley drew breath on this earth. Oh, he'd pretend. He'd marry her, to keep his word. To be kind, to be decent.

But he didn't love her. Not like he loved Mary.

She couldn't hold him to his promise. Not like that. Not when she knew the truth.

I have some self-worth…

Repeating a thing doesn't make it true, Lavinia.

And without Matthew, how would she continue? She had opened her heart twice in her life. And twice it had been returned to her, bruised and broken.

This time, it felt torn, shredded beyond mending.

Lavinia groaned against the pillows, her hands grasping at the sheets weakly. She should call for someone, anyone, but the bell was suddenly too far away. And what was the point?

She was alone—bitterly, bitterly alone. As alone as she'd been at her cousin's house, unwilling to see anyone for days on end. Her thoughts turned on her fully then and, under the fever's treacherous ministrations, she succumbed to them too easily.

I might as well be dead. She thought grimly. Dead as a soldier who falls in the trenches, dead as a child who never drew breath…

And there it was. The damning thought that pulled at the rest like a loose, fraying thread.

Oh, and with one tug, it all unraveled.