AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I found actual footage of King George V presenting medals in 1917 so if you want to see the scene described in the beginning of this chapter, you can find it on youtube (I would give you a link but I cannot do it on ff). The exact moment is at 2:40.
I apologise for any mistakes in this chapter, I had very little time to go over it properly and it is a bit of a monstrosity at 10k words...
Windsor, April 1917
Mary was sitting next to Isobel in the front row of chairs assembled in lines surrounding huge white dais built in the middle of the lawn at Windsor Castle. The officers, nurses and soldiers waiting to be awarded their medals were sitting on the benches facing the platform and the King, with the families and other invited guests at the sides. One by one, they were called to the dais, climbing the stairs and saluting the monarch as he pinned the decorations to their chests, sometimes exchanging few short words with them in the sharp April wind.
"It's Matthew!" exclaimed Isobel in excitement, grabbing Mary's hand, as they both bent in their seats to see him better as he approached the dais with decided steps, his posture ramrod straight and proud. Mary felt her own heart might burst from pride any minute as she witnessed him greeting the king and shaking his hand, and she was sure that Isobel felt the same.
"My boy," whispered Isobel, wiping happy tears from her eyes and squeezing Mary's hand nearly painfully. "My darling boy."
Mary felt unexpected surge of fondness for her future mother-in-law. They were never close – they were just too different to ever form a very positive opinion of each other before the war – and then Mary had hurt Isobel's only and most beloved son. She had been not at all surprised at the coldness she had been met with by Isobel ever since. But now, united in their love and pride for the man so dear to them both, she felt such an encompassing feeling of shared experience that for the very first time she held hope for a more cordial relationship between them. How could they keep their usual distance when they both loved Matthew so much and Matthew loved them both?
Her eyes never left him as he walked down the other set of stairs and back to his assigned seat among other decorated officers. She felt so unbelievably privileged to be able to witness the awards ceremony. Since they made their engagement official mere days before, she had no expectations to be included; the list of guests had been finalised weeks ago. To her joyous surprise it turned out Matthew had put her name as his fiancée in his very first response to the royal invitation. Just another sign that however many doubts she had harboured about his possible reaction to the revealing of her secret, he had not shared any of them.
The ceremony dragged on – there were dozens of people waiting to receive their medals from the King's own hands – but inevitably ended, and Isobel and Mary were able to join Matthew for the prearranged photographs. To Mary's delight Matthew insisted that one of them would be of both of them together; their very first portrait as an engaged couple. She stood proudly by his side, glad to know that they made a very handsome couple indeed, he in his captain's uniform with his ADC cord and the Military Cross, she dressed immaculately in a red suit and hat. She couldn't wait to display this photograph on her vanity where she would be able to look at it every day.
Soon after they were approached by a good-looking but rather haggard man in a major uniform. Matthew's face lit up with a smile when he spotted him and he waved enthusiastically in greeting.
"Mary, let me introduce you to my old friend, Major Jack Weatherby. He graciously agreed to be my best man, even without knowing the exact date. Jack," he said proudly, "this is Lady Mary – my fiancée."
"I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Lady Mary," said Major Weatherby with a natural charm. Mary thought that he must be very popular in any ballroom or drawing room he attended. "And delighted too, after hearing about you so much over the years."
"Good things, I hope?" asked Mary, raising her eyebrows at Matthew's suddenly reddened face. She wondered what kind of things he had confessed to his best friend about their quite tumultuous relationship.
"What else could he hear from me?" answered Matthew, his eyes twinkling mischievously at her frankly disbelieving stare.
"I assure you, Lady Mary, that he was a perfect if rather sickeningly besotted gentleman in all our conversations regarding you. If anything, I expected to find he was exaggerating about your beauty – and yet I find that his praises of it failed to do you justice, despite their ardour."
Matthew rolled his eyes at his friend's antics, but Mary was forced to admit she found his over the top speeches made charming by the obvious humour in his voice. She could see why those two were friends.
"How are you, Jack?" asked Isobel with apparent fondness. "Are your lungs giving you much trouble?"
"Much less now that the spring is coming and London's air is less foul," answered Major Weatherby dismissively. "Who would have thought I would ever found myself longing for idyllic joys of the country, but I must admit I dream about fresh air nowadays."
"Jack was badly gassed at Loos in 1915 and hasn't been well since," explained Matthew quietly as Isobel monopolised Major Weatherby's attention. "He has been reassigned to the War Office after it was confirmed he was not going to get well enough to be sent back to the front. His solicitor's training is frankly put to a much better use there than in the field anyway."
Mary valiantly stopped herself from asking if Matthew's legal training wouldn't be put to a better use away from the front as well. This was neither a place nor the time for that particular discussion.
"He's a solicitor as well?" she asked instead. She thought uneasily she knew in fact very little about Matthew's life or friends before his coming to Downton.
Matthew nodded.
"We met at Oxford and then worked together in the same firm in Manchester. He left it about the same time I did and joined a partnership in London. He was trying to get me to join as well, but I've just learnt about becoming an heir to your father's title and had to attend to it."
"Grumbling about it the whole way from Manchester, I have to tell you," added Isobel, overhearing his last remark. "I was half tempted to push him out of the car."
Matthew groaned in embarrassment and hid his face behind his hand.
"Don't bring it up, Mother! Mary knows better than anyone how petulant I was on that day and I don't wish to remind her until we're safely married."
"Afraid I will order you to choose your own wife somewhere else since you don't want any of Lord Grantham's daughters pushed on you?" asked Mary sweetly, making Matthew groan again and Jack guffaw with laughter.
"Is that what you said, Crawley? He only admitted to me he made a complete ass of himself in front of you then and now I see he was right."
"Well, he was also right in his prediction of my family's plans," said Mary candidly, making Isobel to look at her in evident surprise. "But annoyingly for both of us, we have turned out to be shockingly well-suited, despite both of our protestations against the match."
"I, at least, realised my blunder and ceased protesting as soon as I saw you," Matthew apparently recovered himself enough to tease her back. "It took you quite long to realise what a catch I was."
"How could I not, with such a charming first impression you gave me? If anything, you should be grateful than it hasn't taken me longer."
"I start to feel like you and me are becoming more and more of a third wheel here," said Major Weatherby to Isobel in a stage whisper. She agreed, shaking her head in exasperation, but with evident indulgence in her crinkled eyes.
xxx
Before they parted, Matthew managed to get Jack aside and ask him for a favour.
"You know that if I manage to find anything more than the family has been notified about already, it's not going to be anything good?" asked Jack looking at him seriously.
Matthew nodded grimly.
"They are aware of it too," he said. "But they are desperate for answers."
"Alright then. What's his name and regiment?"
"Archibald Philpotts. He was in the Lancashire Fusiliers."
Back courtyard, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Thomas was sitting on the crates in the kitchen backyard and smoking furiously, his mind racing with possible repercussions of his recent discussion with Captain Crawley.
He didn't expect anything significant when he had been summoned to his study. Captain Crawley was gracious and cordial since he came back to Downton on leave, his manner towards Thomas not altered in the slightest from what it had been at the front. He insisted on Thomas addressing him by his military rank instead of his title, laughed at Thomas's quips and listened to his opinions with respect. Not to mention the way the captain's blue eyes twinkled at Carson's thunderous expression every time Thomas addressed him as simply "sir" in the butler's hearing.
The captain invited him to take a seat opposite him at the desk, as if it was the most natural thing in the world – and maybe, after they had shared tea in the trenches and a dinner in a worn torn French town, it was – and, after some small talk, raised the most unexpected topic.
"Sergeant, I've been wondering, with all the men residing in the house right now – men who are, in essentials, strangers to us – how do we make sure that the ladies of the house and the female staff are safe? Especially at night?"
Thomas frowned.
"Why? Have you any reasons for concern?"
The captain looked at him intently.
"Nothing recent has come to my attention," he said seriously. "But I know that there were past incidents, which opened my eyes to possible dangers. I want to know what's being done to prevent something like this from happening again."
Thomas had startled in surprise but gave the matter some thought.
"The female staff is well protected by the usual means. Their rooms are all in a separate corridor, with the door to the male quarters locked and only Mrs Hughes allowed to open them. The other door is always locked from the inside as well after everyone goes to bed. I know Mrs Hughes is very strict about ensuring those rules are kept, and that similar rules have been introduced for all the nurses residing at the house. Their corridor is also locked at night, with the matron supervising it."
Captain Crawley nodded thoughtfully.
"And the family? The corridor in the family wing has no door and I know their bedroom doors are unlocked, so that Daisy can come in to light the fires."
"Well, the first line of defence is that a guest would not know which bedroom belonged to whom," said Thomas unthinkingly. "Unless a lady would tell him how to find her, he would need to be led to her by..."
He stopped, the realisation of something he had never considered before hitting him like a tonne of bricks.
Pamuk hadn't known where Lady Mary was. He had blackmailed Thomas to show him the way because she had never given him directions. Lady Mary would never have put her reputation in Thomas's hands like that; if she had invited Pamuk to her room she would have just told him which one it was.
Captain Crawley's hints made sickening sense all of a sudden. He and Lady Mary just got engaged. She must have told him about that dead blackmailing bastard. Thomas barely stopped himself from puking all over his shoes at the thought that he had not only led the scoundrel to her, but then also spread the rumours about it. Of course, he had assumed the assignation had been voluntary - and what an idiot he had been to not put all the clues together! - but now that he suddenly had a reason to suspect otherwise, he felt like a right heel.
To Thomas's credit, it was only after he was already sickened by unexpected guilt, that he was struck by the horror of the realisation what Captain Crawley's reaction might be if he learnt about Thomas's role in the whole affair.
"Led by a servant, I assume?" Captain Crawley finished Thomas's interrupted sentence, dragging him out of his frantic thoughts. He forced himself to get his act together; the very last thing he wanted was to arouse the captain's suspicions.
"Excuse me, sir, I was just considering the possible scenarios," he said hastily. "Yes, the guest would have to be led by a servant, and an upper floor servant too, somebody familiar with the layout of the rooms."
"Couldn't he spy during the day to identify the right room himself?"
"Not without attracting attention for loitering where he shouldn't."
Captain Crawley frowned again.
"Still, it does not seem to me as enough. I want somebody – I guess a hall boy – posted as a sentry at the beginning of the family corridor day and night, to ensure that nobody unauthorised goes there for any reason. And I want you to ensure that the orderlies are on the lookout for any ungentlemanly behaviour of the patients towards either the family, the nurser or the staff. I trust you will be supervising the orderlies and their own behaviour yourself."
"Yes, sir," promised Thomas fervently, guilt and fear from his realisation still making his stomach churn. Thankfully, the captain dismissed him soon after, without betraying any suspicions regarding Thomas's possible role in his fiancée's encounter with the Turkish bastard.
He heaved a huge sigh of relief when he reached the servants' hall.
Only to see O'Brien watching him resentfully and barely restrain a shiver.
She knew he was the one to lead that Turkish bastard to Lady Mary's room. She knew that he had also spread the first rumours about Lady Mary's lack of virtue in his extremely ill-advised letter to his pal. And now he had stupidly made her his enemy. If she had ever figured out that Lord Grantham was interested in those events, she wouldn't hesitate in the slightest to throw Thomas under the bus. His only leverage was O'Brien's own investigation into what Daisy had witnessed and handing her on a silver platter to Lady Edith who had apparently done the rest, but to use it he would have to first admit to that miserable witch that there was something he wanted to keep from his lordship very much and such admittance was suicide. O'Brien was like a shark with any sign of weakness in her prey.
So the only course left to him was to do nothing and hope to God Captain Crawley would not investigate the matter further and that bloody O'Brien would never learn what beautiful dirt she had on Thomas.
Fantastic. Simply fantastic.
Thomas dropped the butt of his cigarette and furiously grinded it into the ground.
Downton Station, April 1917
They were quite an exuberant bunch when Branson picked them from Downton train station as they triumphantly returned from Windsor. They dropped Isobel first at Crawley House and drove on to the Abbey.
"Anything interesting happened while we were away, Branson?" asked Matthew laughingly, expecting the chauffeur to share some entertaining gossip.
"Well, I got my papers, my lord. Not sure how interesting you'll find it, but I confess it's rather occupied my mind."
Matthew found himself lost for words.
He wanted to tell sorry – because, in truth, he was so very sorry to hear it – and yet one was not allowed to allude that getting one's papers was a tragedy and a very possible death sentence. As an officer, it would have been an actual crime for Matthew to utter such words. Not that he thought Branson or Mary would have told on him, but still.
"I will be sorry to lose you, Branson," he said finally, with honest regret. He couldn't say he knew the man at all well, but what few words they exchanged gave him an impression of an intelligent and decent man with a sense of humour well matched to his own. He imagined that if they met in different circumstances, they could have been friends.
"If you want your place back after it's all over, just let us know. We will keep it for you," added Mary and Matthew appreciated again her kindness towards the servants. He understood that it came from deeply ingrained principles of patronage and noblesse oblige, just like it had for Robert, but he respected how seriously and naturally she treated her assumed responsibility for the welfare of people serving the family. He knew enough of aristocracy to be aware that it was not a given.
The look in Branson's eyes was more sardonic than anything else.
"We'll see, milady. One never knows what the future holds."
Boudoir, Downton Abbey, April 1917
"Excuse me for disturbing you, your ladyships, but I've received urgent news concerning members of the staff," said Carson solemnly.
"What is it, Carson?" asked Cora, noting slight hesitation in the butler, as well as a quick shift of his gaze between herself and Mary. If she wasn't looking straight at him at the very moment, she would have missed it completely as Mary seemed to have.
The meaning of it struck her suddenly.
Carson was not sure who of them was the most appropriate person to address his concerns to. Cora was still in charge of the household, but it was due to the lack of a current Countess of Grantham – and now it was announced that Mary would fill that role in the very near future.
"I have been notified that both William and Mr Branson received draft letters and are to report for their medical on Monday. William asked if he could go and inform his father in person, but that would mean he would not be here for the Easter dinner and we have guests coming."
Before Cora could answer, Mary jumped straight in.
"It's only Sir Richard Carlisle, Carson. It's of no importance."
Carson and Cora looked at her in joint surprise.
"There will be also the Dowager Countess and Mrs Crawley," Carson pointed out chidingly.
"Granny is family and you cannot tell me that you honestly think Mrs Crawley will mind."
As much as Carson obviously would love for the mother of the Earl of Grantham to mind inadequate service at dinner – no footmen, who could ever imagine something like that! – he was unable to say so. Cora barely restrained a giggle.
"Although I don't agree that Sir Richard deserves such a dismissal," she said, glaring at Mary briefly, "there is nothing to be done about it. Of course we must allow William to visit his father in the circumstances. He's his only child."
Carson nodded solemnly.
"Very well, my lady. I will inform him. Now, Mr Branson said he would like to depart on Sunday evening, since his medical is scheduled early in the morning. Since it's all so sudden, I was wondering if it would be possible for the family to share Mr Pratt until Mr Branson's replacement can be found?"
"It's the only possible solution," agreed Cora reluctantly. She dreaded arranging the use of her mother-in-law's chauffeur with her every time she needed to go anywhere but there was really nothing else to be done other than advertise promptly for a new one and hope to God some able-bodied man showed up for the job.
"Edith can drive," pointed out Mary. Cora and Carson once again stared at her incredulously.
"It's hardly appropriate to expect Lady Edith to serve as a chauffeur."
"She is getting married in three weeks!" exclaimed Cora.
Mary shrugged.
"Hopefully we will have a new chauffeur by then. But until we do, we can just as well ask her for a favour if we need to go somewhere and Granny needs Pratt."
Cora reluctantly admitted that Mary had a point. And if Edith didn't mind driving a tractor, she probably wouldn't mind driving her mother for an errand. Especially since most of errands in the coming weeks would involve arranging something or other for her own wedding.
Dismissing Carson to deal with everything, Cora turned to Mary.
"It occurred to me that we need to discuss something," she started seriously, saddened by instant wariness in her daughter's expression.
"What do you have in mind?"
"The fact that in less than three months you're going to become the Countess of Grantham and mistress of this house. You will be in charge of everything and I think we need to discuss both how we handle transferring all my responsibilities onto you and how do you see my role after you're married. Starting with the question whether you would like me to move out?"
Mary stared at her mother incredulously.
"Move out? And leave me to deal with this madhouse? Mama, I will gladly start taking over for you when it comes to the household matters – but I'm going to beg you to stay and help me oversee the convalescent home. I frankly don't think I would manage the estate, the household and the convalescent home all by myself. You will stay for now, won't you?"
Cora smiled brightly at her brilliant eldest daughter.
"My darling, I'm sure that if anybody could manage all that, it would have been you. But if you want my help, I will be overjoyed to be useful to you in whatever manner I can."
Sybil's bedroom, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Mary was passing Sybil's bedroom when she was prompted to enter by the desperate sobbing she could hear from the inside.
"Darling," she asked, concerned to the extreme by the sight of her usually unstoppable sister lying on her bed in tears. "Whatever is the matter?"
"Branson got drafted," said Sybil mournfully. "He is going for his medical tomorrow and then probably straight to training."
"I know. William as well," said Mary heavily.
"But William at least wants to go! Getting the draft letter made him happy. And Branson is Irish! How can it be right to force him to wear the same uniform as the soldier who shot his cousin on a Dublin street? To die for the king and country he considers his enemies?"
Mary stared at her sister, taken aback by the vehemence of her emotions even more than by her startling words.
"Darling," she said carefully. "Since when do you know so much about Branson's views on such topics? Or about his cousin being shot?"
Nothing in Sybil's behaviour alarmed her more than Sybil's own alarm at the question.
"We talk sometimes, when he's driving me to the hospital," she answered defiantly, jutting out her chin. "He's an interesting person to talk to."
"I'm sure he is," said Mary, still threading carefully. She was unsure what it was exactly what she suspected she was close to uncovering but she was certain it was nothing good. "But are you the most appropriate person for him to discuss such things with?"
Sybil threw her hands.
"Oh, who cares about such things anymore? What does it matter that he is the chauffeur when he can be very well killed in the next few weeks? How is it the biggest problem that I talk with him sometimes when every day men are dying and nothing I or anyone else can do is going to save them?"
And she burst into fresh tears.
Mary sat down on the bed next to her, caressing her hair and back lightly.
"Oh darling, I am so very sorry. This war is most horrid and you are dealing with it so much more directly than any of us. Maybe it would do you good to scale back on your nursing? Or at least schedule your shift only at the convalescent home, not in the hospital?"
Sybil shook her head.
"No," she rasped. "It would only make it worse. At least I feel useful there. I am not able to save them all, but my work does matter, it does help some. It gives me more meaning than anything else has ever done in my life. It's just so hard when I lose someone I got attached to or when more men I know are going over there. And knowing that Branson doesn't even want to go... It makes it so much worse that he has to."
"It is most unfair," agreed Mary quietly. "And I don't know what to say to make you feel any better about any of it."
"There's nothing," sniffled Sybil. "I just need to have a good cry about it. But thank you, Mary. You are the best sister there is."
"Well, to you maybe," smirked Mary and was heartened to hear Sybil's shaky laugh in response.
But she could not get rid of a slight feeling of unease that there was something going on between Sybil and the chauffeur.
St Michael and All Angels Church, Downton Village, Easter Sunday April 1917
Mary found herself, to her surprise, sincerely praying during Easter service. Going to church had always been just something which was done, without much reflection. An obvious and unquestioned part of life. Sometimes she listened to Reverend Travis' sermon, if it piqued her interest, sometimes she allowed her thoughts to drift away to matters of more immediate concern than fate of her immortal soul, if she even had one, that's it. Mary was not a believer. She didn't go so far as becoming an outright atheist, and she had never mentioned such thoughts to anyone, but she would never call herself devout. She was not sure if God existed – or, if he did, that he paid any attention to her – but looking at the blond man kneeling next to her in his uniform she found herself praying as fervently as never before. She would have made a deal with the devil if that would keep Matthew safe. An honest prayer was nothing.
She just hoped there was anybody there to listen.
Next to her, Matthew was praying just as honestly, although with more faith in his heart. Ever since he went to the front and faced the reality of war, ever since he was forced to kill men, he found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the existence of a benevolent and merciful God with the manmade madness he was living through. And yet he was clinging to the idea that it was, in fact, manmade and that God and His laws were the one surety to live by, to stop himself from descending into his own insanity. He needed to believe that even though God was not stopping the war for some reason – probably to allow people to come to their senses themselves – and did not seem to answer many of the prayers for deliverance sent to Him before every battle – it was still worth it to believe and live by His commandments. Surely it was right to believe in mercy and forgiveness and morality, even though there wasn't much of any of them in the trenches? To attempt to do the right thing when presented with a choice? To hope that even if he was wrong and there was no God at all, at least he would be able to retain a small part of his own soul, his own humanity?
So he was praying, filled with gratitude for surviving so far and being able to marry the woman he loved so very dearly. He asked earnestly that he would prove to be a good husband to her and that he would make her happy – and, with a heavy heart, that he would come back to her one day when the time of killing was finally over and that he would come sound of mind and body and never be a burden to her. He was praying that he wasn't making a mistake by tying her to him when he put himself at such risk, and that he was making the right decision in not even attempting to avoid going back, even though he knew he was breaking her heart, and his mother's, by doing so.
He opened his eyes and looked up to find Mary's brown ones gazing back at him and he thought irreverently that he saw God's answer to his prayers in the love for him shining so clearly in that gaze.
Downton grounds, Downton Abbey, Easter Sunday 1917
They opted to walk home from church, tempted both by the clear spring day and by the need to treasure last moments of privacy before returning to the bustle of the convalescent home and welcoming their dinner guests. In the back of their minds was a firm awareness that Matthew was to leave to join General Strutt in the morning.
"When will I see you next?" asked Mary, interlocking her fingers with his. She was struck again how very beautiful his hands were, long and slender, and always so deliberate in their movements. She loved touching them or having them touch her.
But then again, was there any feature of Matthew that she did not love?
She looked up at him, so incredibly handsome in his captain's uniform, with the golden braided cord of an aide-de-camp matching the gold shine of his hair. As much as she hated all it symbolised – and she hated it with a passion – she couldn't help appreciating how well he looked in it.
"It's hard to say," answered Matthew. "My next leave will be most probably at the end of this assignment, but since I will be in the north of England for the whole time, I assume I will be able to steal some hours to visit you – or maybe even spend some nights at home. I don't foresee the general to have need of me at night unless it's some kind of formal dinner we all need to attend."
"You said home," observed Mary, "Does that mean that you started to think of Downton that way?"
Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment, considering it.
"Partially. I'm still getting used to the idea of all of it being mine. It doesn't wholly seem real. And sharing the house with all those officers and their caretakers sure makes it even more surreal! But," his voice softened, " you are there. And now, when I know that soon we are to be married, it's so much easier to treat it as our home. Even if we need to wait a little bit more for it to become official."
Mary could not really find words to respond, so she just squeezed his hand gratefully. It was so much easier to express her feelings in a letter than out loud; she had never found speaking of them come to her naturally. But the look on Matthew's face communicated clearly that he understood what her touch was intended to convey, and she felt a wave of gratitude for his perception and understanding of her limitations.
"Are you sure you would not prefer to spend those nights at Crawley House? Carson might be scandalised but if you thought you could rest easier there, he would have to deal with it."
To her relief, Matthew shook his head. Her offer was a sincere one; she was truly worried about the effect of being surrounded by such grim reminders of the war in his own house and willing to do anything to make him comfortable. But she didn't want to lose the intimacy of sharing breakfast with him, or a nightcap in the small library. She was greedy for any and all minutes they could spend together.
"It's my home now," he said firmly. "And I hardly could run away from the chaos of the convalescent home after inflicting it on all of you."
Mary had it on the tip of her tongue to point out that it wasn't like the rest of them had to actually deal with everything he did and thus were in much less need of a respite, but she left the words unspoken. She did not want to bring the horrors he was facing to the forefront of his mind, not on such a lovely walk.
"It will be wonderful to see you more often, even if briefly," she said instead with perfect sincerity. He answered with a mischievous grin.
"We can write too. And, since I'm in England, I'm sure I will be able to send my letters without having them censored."
Mary raised her eyebrows.
"Why, Captain Crawley, whatever do you have in mind which you wouldn't want your superior officer to read?"
The look he gave her made her shiver.
"Plenty, I assure you. All kinds of things, really. Although I guess I will have to keep some of them to myself for some more weeks."
Mary felt herself blush and gave him a saucy look of her own in retaliation.
"Maybe I don't want you to wait with sharing those thoughts? It could make waiting for the wedding more... interesting."
She grinned in triumph when she saw him gulp, the tips of his ears reddened.
"You are quite a minx, darling, do you know?" he observed chidingly, but she could see that he enjoyed her boldness, and she basked in this knowledge. "You're going to be the death of me."
She could only grin smugly again at such proof of her power and apparently he could only respond by kissing her senseless against the nearest tree.
Before the blissful pleasure of his kiss made her close her eyes, she observed idly that his were the exact colour of the spring sky above them.
Matthew's Study, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Matthew looked at Mrs Patmore approaching him timidly in his study, clearly unused to be invited upstairs, and wished desperately to be anywhere else but here. All his insides twisted painfully at the information he had managed to receive from Jack just before leaving for the church this morning. It took him but a day to find out what truly had happened to Archibald Phillpotts and unfortunately it was even worse than they expected. He had no idea how he was going to tell it to Mrs Patmore.
"Please sit," he said quietly, indicating the chair in front of his desk and waiting until the cook sat gingerly at the edge of it. "I do have some news of your nephew. My friend at the War Office telephoned me this morning. But I'm afraid it's not good news."
"I knew he was dead all along," said Mrs Patmore wretchedly. "I said so to my sister. I said, 'Kate, he's gone and you'll have to face –"
Matthew swallowed against the rising nausea.
"Mrs Patmore, it's worse than that."
She gaped at him.
"What can be worse than being dead?"
"Private Philpotts was shot for cowardice on the seventeenth of February."
"Oh, my God."
"This explains why the regiment was reluctant to supply the information."
He watched Mrs Patmore's stricken face and could keep silent no longer. Screw the regulations , he thought viciously.
"Mrs Patmore," he said urgently, getting up from his chair and coming over to take her hand in his. "Your nephew was no coward. He volunteered to fight in this war and he did it bravely for years. It's just... It's impossible to describe how it is out there and sometimes a man's mind just shatters and cannot take it all in anymore. And then some of them try to run, even though they know they can't, but they just don't think straight anymore, they are so scared, so very scared. And I don't think it's right that we kill them for it, Mrs Patmore, I don't think it's right at all."
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
"God bless you, your lordship, for saying so," she said feelingly. "Because I knew him and he'd never have done such a thing if he hadn't been half out of his mind with fear."
"No, Mrs Patmore, he wouldn't have," answered Matthew thickly. "Don't blame him. It was him, but it could have been me. It could have been any of us."
Small library, gathering before dinner, Easter Sunday April 1917
To her surprise, Mary found the necessity of entertaining Sir Richard before dinner much less bothersome than she expected. Knowing that she was safely and officially engaged to Matthew – even though they postponed the announcement in the papers until they knew their wedding date – she felt herself perfectly capable of basic politeness towards him.
"Ah, so your Captain has returned?"
"For now, at least," answered Mary calmly.
"He didn't waste any time in claiming you, I notice," said Sir Richard, pointing at Mary's engagement ring.
"No, he didn't," she smiled, but then grew serious. "We only have a short time, you know. He most probably will be sent back to France as soon as his current assignment ends."
She thought she noticed genuine compassion in Sir Richard's eyes, before he commented lightly.
"Should I expect an invitation to a wartime wedding at Downton then?"
Mary shrugged elegantly.
"We won't know yet when he would be able to get leave, but this is our plan, yes," Mary looked at Matthew, laughing with Sybil and Edith, and shivered. "We have no way of knowing what comes after."
She barely paid attention to Sir Richard's gaze on her.
Dining room, Downton Abbey, Easter Sunday, April 1917
Carson was overseeing the dinner with the uneasy feeling of waiting for another shoe to drop.
Here they were, with Lord Grantham entertaining for the very first time since taking over the title, and William had to go and be drafted just a day before. He should have insisted on the boy staying until Monday, but how could he refuse him the opportunity to inform his poor widowed father in person? He could not have, of course, there was no way around it.
But how was he supposed to ensure proper standards with no footmen whatsoever?
Thank God the only guest outside of the family was Sir Richard Carlisle. Carson was still grinding his teeth at showing him how shabby things came to be, but at least there weren't more people to witness it. He did everything he could anyway. He asked Mr Bates to help out, and to his credit the valet readily agreed and donned the livery without the slightest complaint, but Carson saw Sir Richard's gaze lingering on Mr Bates's cane and was beset with doubts about the wisdom of roping him into it. Was a lame manservant better or worse than a maid in the dining room?
At least the mood among the diners seemed jovial enough. Lady Mary was seated on Lord Grantham's right, which made them both obviously happy. Carson smiled indulgently. He rather suspected than none of them was going to be pleased when the time came for Lady Mary to take her proper place as the hostess on the other side of the table, putting them apart from each other at every formal dinner they would host in the future. But then, that was only right. Lady Mary would finally assume the role which she had always been destined for. And, for all his misgivings when Lord Grantham as he now was had first arrived, he turned out to be worthy of her after all. Seeing Lady Mary in such high spirits and knowing her future was bright and secure did make a balm for his heart.
If only it wasn't so insufferably hot in the room!
"Carson?"
Carson blinked and realised with horror that in his most uncharacteristic daydreaming he somehow did not notice that the elder Lady Grantham's glass needed to be topped.
"I do apologise, milady!" he exclaimed, filling it immediately, dismayed beyond belief to find his hand trembling enough that he splashed some red drops on the pristine tablecloth.
"Carson, are you alright?" asked Lady Mary with concern which, while touching, completely mortified him. The last thing he wanted was to bring more attention to his sudden onset of incompetence!
"Perfectly, milady, just a bit..."
He stopped, clutching his chest desperately, and dropping the wine bottle as he staggered back against the wall. The wine spilled right on Lady Edith's dress as she jumped with a cry. For a moment, Carson did wish he was truly dying.
"Carson. Carson! What's the matter?" exclaimed younger Lady Grantham raising from her seat. To Carson' utter horror, they all followed her, except for the elder Lady Grantham and Sir Richard. The dinner was completely forgotten and absolutely ruined.
He heard steady, calming voice of Lady Mary by his side and looked at her with gratitude, gasping for air.
"Now, Carson, it's all right. Everything will be fine."
She really was so much kinder than most gave her credit for, his lady. He hoped to God that whatever it was which felled him now would not prevent him from seeing her married.
"Edith, since Branson is gone, go and fetch Major Clarkson. I'll telephone and explain what's happened," ordered Mrs Crawley in her usual take charge manner. "It would take too long to get Pratt from the Dower House."
"Well, what about my dress?" protested Lady Edith, only to be silenced impatiently by her mother.
"Edith, we'll get you a coat. Come!"
"Sybil will know what to do until the doctor comes," said Lady Mary reassuringly.
"Lady Sybil and I will take him upstairs," said Lord Grantham calmly and reached for Carson's arm. If Carson had any air left to protest his lordship exerting himself like that on his behalf, he would have. "If Mrs Hughes will show us the way, please..."
"I can help," volunteered Lady Mary and once again Carson was overwhelmed by her kindness to him.
"No, let me. I know what I'm doing," said Lady Sybil immediately, reaching under Carson's other arm and helping him rise.
"I'm sure that's not necessary, milady," protested Carson, aghast. To have Lord Grantham help him upstairs was already catastrophic enough, but Lady Sybil as well!
"It's not "milady" now, Carson. It's Nurse Crawley," Lady Sybil chided him gently but firmly and Carson gave up further protest as apparently futile.
To complete his humiliation, he heard the elder Lady Grantham comment to Sir Richard as his helpers were walking him out of the dining room.
"You'll find there's never a dull moment in this house."
Dining room, Downton Abbey, Easter Sunday, April 1917
"Excellent port, Lord Grantham. Not easy to find during the war."
Matthew repressed a sigh threatening to erupt. After Carson's frightening collapse, the dinner did continue, with Anna and Bates managing it perfectly well among themselves. Dr Clarkson happily proclaimed Carson out of danger and only in need of a proper rest, an order not at all graciously accepted by the patient. Matthew trusted the tight lips and steely eyes of Mrs Hughes enough to be convinced that she will make sure Carson will, in fact, rest, whether he wants it or not. With that solved, he had no excuse but to share the post dinner drinks and cigars with Sir Richard Carlisle.
He could not imagine many things he would have liked less.
"It's still part of the stock my late cousin acquired, Sir Richard. I hardly had time to even check what we have in the cellars, but on the other hand I have not had much opportunity to deplete them either."
"You have been away, true, but Lady Grantham has been entertaining in your absence. I had the pleasure of her hospitality myself on one occasion."
Matthew clenched his teeth at the remembrance that the occasion had been Cora's attempt to push Sir Richard at Mary.
"My cousin has my full support to invite whichever guests she chooses. My understanding is that she uses that privilege quite sparingly though, considering her recent mourning for her husband, opening up the house as the convalescent home and general cutting on entertaining in the war time. So the wine cellars remain quite well stocked."
"Then let us drink to a quick end to the war and many more occasions to deplete your cellars, Lord Grantham."
He should probably offer Sir Richard to address him by his first name – or, at the very least, correct him and ask him to use his military title instead, as he should while remaining the part of active forces – but he had not the slightest inclination to do either. Everything in his guest was rubbing him the wrong way and he had to put real effort into remaining polite to him. In fact, he took perverse pleasure at being called by a title he still barely considered his own.
It's not jealousy, exactly. He felt utterly secure in knowledge that Mary loved him and cared nothing for that Sir Richard; there was no need for jealousy. And yet, there was something behind his instinctive dislike of the man, something not even remotely noble. He finally identified it as possessiveness. Mary was his and he felt the primitive part of him striving to snarl at the man to keep away from her. Maybe it was the aggression he had to find and develop in himself to survive in the trenches rearing its ugly head. Maybe he had always been like that and just never had a cause before.
He supposed he should feel ashamed of such feelings, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He drained his only glass of port and put it firmly away. The last thing he wanted to do on the last night of his leave was to linger here with Sir Richard Carlisle.
"Shall we join the ladies, Sir Richard?"
Small library, Downton Abbey, Easter Sunday, April 1917
"I apologise for today's chaos, Sir Richard. I have not expected such excitement when I have invited you to spend Easter with us," said Cora regretfully and more honestly than her words implied. When she had issued her invitation, she had still harboured some hope of a very different match for her stubborn eldest daughter. Those hopes came to nothing, of course, but the invitation could hardly be rescinded.
"No need to apologise, Lady Grantham. I can safely say that it was the least boring Easter Sunday I have ever had, at least."
"You're too gracious," said Cora, distracted by the sight of her daughter talking animatedly to her fiancé by the window. Nobody looking at them could mistake the expression on Mary's face for anything else than a deep love – and Matthew's was just the same.
She noticed that Sir Richard was observing them as well.
"Lady Mary seems very happy," he noted.
Cora couldn't restrain a sigh.
"She is," she answered tiredly. "And yet I cannot stop thinking it's a bad idea."
Sir Richard's eyebrows rose.
"Surely you cannot have any objections to Lord Grantham? He is titled, rich – with your own fortune, as far as I understand – and seems to genuinely adore her."
"And he can be killed or maimed horribly within months," snapped Cora. "If it wasn't for the war, I would have been over the moon about this engagement, but as it is, I feel so much dread."
Sir Richard's expression turned pensive.
"I see your point, however I think you take it too seriously."
"Too seriously ?" Cora gaped at him.
Sir Richard shrugged.
"Lady Mary would be, of course, devasted if he was to be killed, there is no doubt about it. But in time, after she mourns him enough, she would just get married again. She is too beautiful, sophisticated and rich to remain alone."
"She can be awfully stubborn about such things," muttered Cora.
"I can well believe it," said Sir Richard with a smile. "But you forget to account for the passion of her feelings for the brave captain. With him gone, I am sure she would be more open to other possibilities – in good time, of course."
Cora took a sip of her sherry, eyeing him thoughtfully.
"But would anybody still take her? There are plenty of war widows already and there will be many more before it all ends."
"Believe me, Lady Grantham, I would be thoroughly shocked if there weren't many suitors lining up to her door as soon as she is out of mourning clothes if not sooner. Your daughter is like none other."
He spoke it fervently, his eyes not leaving Mary, and Cora found herself much less worried about Mary's future than she was at the beginning of their conversation.
Carson's bedroom, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Mary opened the door to Carson's bedroom gingerly, in case he was sleeping. Even if he was, she just needed to look at him for a moment and confirm he was well. She was still shaken by the sight of him red and gasping for air in the dining room.
The very same room Papa had died in.
"May I come in?" she asked, seeing him sitting in bed.
"That's very kind of you, m'lady, but do you think you should?" he said, visibly embarrassed by receiving her so.
"Let's hope my reputation will survive it. And rest easy. Please," she said, as he tried to sit bolt upright, and took a chair to the bed.
"I gather it isn't too serious."
"Ah, I've been very stupid, m'lady. I let myself get flustered. I regard that as highly unprofessional. It won't happen again."
"You mustn't be too hard on yourself."
"I was particularly sorry to spoil things for Lord Grantham, knowing it was his last night on leave."
"Don't be. I think he was mostly concerned about you. Now that we know you're going to be alright, there is no need to apologise."
"He is a good man, m'lady, and one we all might be rightly proud to serve. I hope you will allow me to say that I am very happy you two are to be married."
"As am I, Carson. Only..." she lowered her eyes.
"What is it, m'lady?"
When she raised her eyes, they were filled with tears.
"I am so very afraid of what may happen when he goes back to the front."
"May I give you one piece of advice, m'lady? Don't let this fear hold you back when he's concerned. Tell him what's in your heart. Let him know how much you love him. Then, even if he's killed – and he may be – you won't be sorry. But if you don't tell him, if you try to protect yourself by withholding your affection for him, you could regret it all your life long."
Mary smiled at him, despite her tears. How well he understood her!
"Don't worry, Carson. I've already learnt that particular lesson."
Downton Train Station, April 1917
"You really didn't have to come with me at such ungodly hour," said Matthew fondly, lacing his fingers with Mary's as they walked slowly along the platform. The train was not there yet. "I'm only going to Manchester, it's hardly dangerous."
Mary gave him a playful look.
"So you keep saying. And while I dearly hope there will be less bombs threatening to fall on your head than in France, I've heard enough horror stories about Manchester to doubt you."
Matthew raised his eyes heavenward.
"I will yet convince you to come to my city and admit it's a perfectly civilised place."
"Good luck with that," answered Mary pleasantly. "You will need it."
"Oh, I am very impressed with my luck as of late," said Matthew in that low voice which never failed to make Mary shiver. "I got officially engaged to the most wonderful woman I've ever met, after all."
"And would I deserve such praise if I didn't come to say goodbye to my fiancé when he's going to be gone for weeks?" asked Mary, reaching with her free hand to caress Matthew's face. He leaned into it.
"I will try to come and visit whenever we will be close enough in the area," he promised. "I don't yet know the itinerary, but I know that York and Darlington are both on it. And even Leeds is just two hours away, I might be able to steal some hours."
"I will hold you up to it," Mary whispered against his lips. "Because it's going to be maddening to know you are so close yet unable to see you."
"Do you prefer to have me far then?" asked Matthew, kissing her lips thirstily one more time, heady with the knowledge that this time he was for once assured of doing it again in the future. This goodbye was not forever and it was amazing to kiss her without the fear of never seeing her again.
"Of course not," murmured Mary between the kisses, her fingers finding their way to his hair. "That is even worse ."
The piercing whistle of the oncoming train and the presence of the station master lured out of his office by the sound made them pull apart reluctantly. Matthew checked the time and sighed.
"Right on time, worse luck," he said ruefully, giving Mary one last kiss on the cheek, mindful of the station master's eyes.
Mary touched his wrist and smiled.
"You're wearing your Christmas present!"
"Always," answered Matthew with a smile of his own and indicated his pocket. "And your lucky charm too. Whether in the trenches or the wilds of Manchester."
"Good. I hope it'll keep you from harm. Especially in the wilds of Manchester."
As he finally boarded the train, Matthew thought that he would have never guessed during that last parting from Mary at this very station back in September that at their next one he would be so very happy.
Manchester, April 1917
"General, sir!" Matthew saluted sharply. "Captain Crawley reporting for duty."
"Welcome, Crawley," General Strutt greeted him cordially. "Come sit and let's talk your duties for the next three months."
They took their seats at General's desk in the barracks of the Manchester regiment – Matthew's own, as it happened.
"Your main tasks day to day are going to be dealing with my correspondence and coordinating my itineraries ," explained the General. "We will be travelling all over England, starting in the Midlands and then following it with the Lancashire and Yorkshire, so you will schedule appointments and coordinate travel arrangements. You will be also participating with me in all kinds of events, dinners and inspections on this tour, and there will be many. Do you know what the purpose of the whole thing is?"
"I understood that it's a recruitment drive, sir."
"Yes," answered the General. "But what it entails is more complicated that the name indicates. Firstly, we will visit multiple training camps for both officers and the enlisted men. There our role is twofold: to inspect whether the camp is running properly and the training provided for our new recruits appropriate for the challenges they are going to face in the field, but also to help boost their morale. We are far into the war by now, Crawley. Most of them are not starry-eyed lads looking forward to their grand adventure. In fact, the volunteers' numbers are abysmal. So the recruits we will encounter in the camps are chiefly going to be the men drafted into the Army, many of them angry, scared and reluctant. It won't be your role to deal with that but, if you happen to talk with some of them, make sure to answer their questions about conditions honestly but without scaring them out of their wits. It will help them to talk to somebody who has been in the thick of things and survived to tell the tale. For too many of them the war looks like this big black hole devouring men without any hope of releasing them back to their families."
Matthew nodded, keeping his cynical thought of easier said than done unsaid.
"Secondly, we will be meeting with different authorities responsible for recruitment and discussing any ideas they have or challenges they encounter. There will be also charity events related to the war. There our role is more ceremonial and supposed to increase participants' enthusiasm and generosity. Your specific tasks will be to make the evening as smooth for me as possible and, when I have no immediate need of you, to mingle and act diplomatic. I have some hope that your experience with the highest circles of our society will come handy with that."
"You are aware I hope, sir, that this experience has been rather limited. I've only became the heir to the late Earl of Grantham two years before the war started and have been in the Army since 1914."
General Strutt waved his hand dismissively.
"It's still more than an average officer. I don't think you're likely to be overawed by nobility and grand ballrooms, are you Crawley?"
Matthew allowed himself a smirk.
"No, not likely, sir."
The General laughed.
"That's what I'm counting on, as well as relying on you to make sure I will not make a fool of myself on some occasion or other. You're going to be responsible for ensuring that everyone adheres to the Army's and the social protocols – both our hosts, whoever they are, and me. Do you understand?"
Matthew nodded again.
"Finally, there will be dealing with the press. We will be visiting all kinds of places related to the war effort – the training camps, the hospitals, the fundraisers, the factories – and the press hounds will be accompanying us and hopefully writing articles making the Army look good, the victory seem likely and keeping the public spirit up. Your task will be both to plan the itinerary to include as many press friendly events as possible and to ensure we come out of them actually looking good and without the need to use censorship laws to gag the journalists afterwards."
The general stood up, making Matthew immediately rise to his feet as well, and offered him his hand.
"That being said, Matthew, I'm extremely pleased I managed to snatch you for this assignment. I hope we will work as well together as we did in Paris."
They shook hands with a smile.
xxx
"My darling Mary,
I am writing to you with the best possible news. General Strutt has authorized 10 days of leave for me, starting from June 27 th – so this should be our wedding day, unless you require my presence before the wedding itself for any reason. But if not, we would have 9 whole days just for each other before I have to report to the front duty on July 8 th . Please let me know whether the wedding date works for you.
Regarding weddings, I have also spoken with the General about Edith's, and he generously granted me one day pass to attend it. I am happy for Edith's sake, as I know she wished for my presence very much, but I must tell you that the thing I'm mostly looking forward to on that date is dancing with you again. Can you believe that whole three years have passed since we last did it, darling? I know it's a small matter in the grand scheme of things, but I long to hold you in my arms again as we twirl around the dancing floor. It's one of the things I've been dreaming about in all the time we've been apart, even when we were not speaking to each other. I freely admit that I've been imagining all sorts of other things we could share as well – and now, with the wedding date practically set, I am not only giving my imagination a free rein, but I have a proper countdown to the day it will be possible for us to indulge in them. It's fortunate that work for the General will keep me too occupied to leave me much time for such thoughts or I don't know how I would endure that wait! It's only 80 days – or 2 months 19 days – and I am painfully aware of every one of them.
I love you so terribly much, my darling.
Your very impatient fiancé,
Matthew"