AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I definitely didn't plan to land myself in a hospital on the eve of my most important deadline week... But on the bright side, it gave me the opportunity to finally work on this chapter. I missed this story!
Content warning: Matthew has a nightmare including a reference to a brutal death. The description is not graphic, but if you are sensitive to this kind of things, better skip this scene. The death itself is at the very end of the nightmare, so you should be warned in advance when you approach it.
"My darling Matthew,
Now I know why the Army needs censors! It's obviously less for fear of betraying military secrets to the enemy than to keep its soldiers from becoming quite inappropriate in their letters. I'm afraid though that your future wife is a very wicked woman indeed and enjoyed every one of your scandalous allusions most thoroughly. Please keep them coming as often as possible. It's now 78 days to our wedding and I am as much in need of distraction as you are. Yes, I am counting the days as well.
Since the wedding date is set, we just need to figure out two things, one more urgently than the other. To get anything started, we must decide where the reception is going to take place. In normal circumstances Downton would be a doubly natural choice, as the home of the bride and your seat as the Earl, but there is a reason Edith chose to hold hers at Loxley Hall. As you can imagine, the whole matter sparked quite a debate..."
"But what are we going to do about the reception? We can hardly have it here among all the convalescents," asked Isobel.
Mary pursed her lips.
"But how can we hold it anywhere else?" she asked. "Matthew is the Earl of Grantham. He should have his wedding reception here."
"The reception is usually held at the house of the bride."
Mary raised her eyebrow.
"Which changes the matter how, exactly?" she asked sardonically.
"We could set it up as a garden party," offered Cora thoughtfully.
They all looked at each other. The idea sounded well, but...
"Putting all our trust in the English weather sounds very adventurous," Violet summed up their collective doubts.
"Well, there is always the village hall," proposed Isobel brightly only to be met with three horrified stares.
"The Earl of Grantham , holding reception at the village hall ?!" said Violet, completely aghast. "Why not at the inn then?"
Isobel opened her mouth, but Violet immediately raised her hand to stop her.
"No! It was not supposed to be taken as a suggestion."
"Maybe Edith would agree to host it at Loxley as well?" proposed Cora hesitantly.
Isobel and even Violet looked like they were willing to consider it at least, even if without much enthusiasm, but Mary's lips instantly thinned.
"No," she said firmly. "I will not be celebrating my marriage in Edith's house of all people."
It was the testament to the popular opinion about the strength of Mary and Edith's mutual dislike that nobody tried to quarrel the point with her.
"Dower House is too small..." said Cora slowly.
"Yes, it most definitely is," agreed Violet promptly. "How about one of the smaller properties? Maybe the one at Eryholme?"
"It has potential," agreed Mary reluctantly. "And if we cannot figure out anything else, we will use it. It at least beats the village hall or Edith's house. But I've never imagined celebrating my wedding anywhere else than Downton and with Matthew being the Earl, it is the only truly fitting place."
"But how do you propose to do that?" asked Isobel, ever practical.
Mary frowned thoughtfully.
"We only need the great hall, really. If we moved the tables away for one day..."
"Absolutely not!" exclaimed Isobel. "Where would all the patients eat? It would ruin all the schedules!"
But Isobel's protest just made Cora's eyes gleam. Isobel was going against Cora's daughter and soon-to-be mistress of the house.
"Surely the matters can be managed," she said sweetly. "The patients still in their pyjamas could eat off the tray for one day. Maybe for two, so the great hall can be cleaned and decorated the day before. And those well enough to wear uniforms could use the dining room as an exception. They surely could not object to that."
"But wouldn't it be inconvenient for the guests to have all the nurses and orderlies mingling around in the middle of the reception?" asked Violet sceptically.
"The reception will last just few hours. I'm sure we can accommodate everyone," said Cora confidently.
"You know, we could actually invite the patients who are well enough to attend to participate in the reception," said Mary, getting more and more enthusiastic about the idea. "I'm sure they would like to have such a happy reason for the break in their routine and I cannot imagine Matthew objecting to it."
Isobel found herself firmly outnumbered on the matter and did not like it one bit. She could feel the balance of power shifting.
"A very heated debate. In the end what we came up with is this: we will plan the reception in the great hall, but also prepare for a garden party, with the final decision made in the morning, when we see what kind of weather we will be blessed with. We will invite all the convalescents and staff to the wedding and reception. Your mother is not very happy with that plan, I'm afraid, and foresees all kinds of difficulties, but Mama, Sgt. Barrow and Sybil all assure me that it can be done. It will make for an unusual reception, to be sure, but it is a wartime wedding of an officer in His Majesty's Army who has been also generous enough to open his own home to help his fellow officers. To be frank, darling, I think it will make for very good press in the present climate and any irregularities will be readily forgiven. Please let me know if you agree and whether we can proceed with planning everything and sending invitations. Please also send me the list of people you would like to invite.
Oh my darling, I've never thought I would say that I cannot wait for Edith's wedding, but I really can't - since this is the whole day we will spend together!
Army barracks, Manchester, April 1917
"Good morning, sir," rasped Davis, entering Matthew's room at the barracks. Matthew looked up from Mary's letter, his initial joy at seeing his manservant promptly morphing into concern.
"Goodness, Davis, are you alright?" he asked with a frown, taking note of the man's paleness, deeply bruised eyes and generally haggard appearance.
Davis opened his mouth, most likely to answer in positive, but started coughing viciously instead. To Matthew's horror, there were traces of blood on Davis's lips.
"Good God, man, have you seen a doctor about it?"
Davis shook his head sheepishly, gasping for breath.
"I thought I was getting better," he said finally. "Sleeping in a real bed and eating my wife's food did make me feel better a lot."
"But apparently not enough. That's it, we're going to the hospital with you."
"But sir, don't you have to get ready to start your day with the general?"
"I still have an hour. Come, Davis, let's not waste time quarrelling about it," said Matthew decisively.
xxx
Matthew did make it in time for the start of his working day. Barely. But as he was taking the seat at his desk, it took him a long moment to focus on the General's correspondence.
David had pneumonia. He must have had it for quite some time and now it was serious. Very serious. In fact, the doctor could not assure him that Davis would live.
He was immediately admitted, of course. Matthew sent a message to his wife, Ellen, and thanked God that if Davis had to end up in a hospital, possibly dying, it happened in Manchester, his hometown, so his wife could attend to him without difficulties. Other than finding somebody to mind their three children, of course.
He rubbed his forehead, trying and failing not to let guilt overwhelm him.
He should have made Davis do something about his cough earlier. He had inquired about it, he had sent him to see a medic, repeatedly - but he should have done more. He should have done something to make sure that Davis would have a chance to come home to his wife and children. He should have taken better care of him.
Well, but he hadn't, had he?
With a tired sigh, Matthew forced himself to take the first of the small heap of letters. He had a job to do.
Small Library, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Mary walked into the small library and could immediately see that she stepped into the middle of yet another confrontation. Cora and Isobel were glaring at each other and Doctor Clarkson looked like he wished to be anywhere but there.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you in the middle of something?"
"We're discussing some arrangements," answered Cora with a smile which Mary knew very well was far from sincere.
"Oh, good. We've had a letter from Evelyn Napier. He's in a hospital in Middlesborough, and he's heard that we're a convalescent home now, and wonders if he can come here once he's released."
"I hope he is not badly wounded," said Cora with concern.
"He calls it a 'nasty scratch', but it could mean his arm's been blown off. You know what they're like."
Cora winced.
"Don't be so macabre. But of course he can come here."
"Well, now. Just a minute," protested Clarkson.
"There's no question of him coming here," agreed Isobel.
"What?" asked Cora in shock, while Mary narrowed her eyes.
"The Middlesborough General will have their own arrangements for where their patients convalesce."
"I'm afraid Mrs Crawley is right. Downton must function as part of the official system or it cannot function at all."
Which was probably true, but it did not mean Mary had to like it.
Or do nothing about it.
Evelyn was one of the very few people she considered her friends. The way he had helped her with the rumours floating around in London - defending her valiantly to all and sundry – going so far as to uncover it was Edith behind it all – and then telling her, so very gently, that it had been her own sister who betrayed her so – well, he had made her his friend for life. Not many people ever acted as they were on Mary's side and she was never going to forget that he had.
He hadn't ever asked her if the rumours were true and he had seen enough to suspect that they might have been.
She smiled and excused herself. There was no point in quarrelling with Isobel and Doctor Clarkson about getting Evelyn here. Clearly, she needed to appeal to a higher authority.
"Carson, could you ask Branson to bring the car? I need to visit Granny."
Dower House, Downton Village, April 1917
"It's always like this," said Violet, pursing her lips in distaste, "when you give these little people power. It goes to their heads like strong drink!"
Mary reflected humorously that people like her grandmother obviously enjoyed their power, but she was not going to fight the system when she hoped it would work in her favour.
"I understand that there are rules in the Army," she said calmly, picking up her teacup. "But Evelyn is my friend . If he wishes to spend his convalescence at Downton, I'm sure it would help his recovery to honour his wishes."
"Of course it would. I'm sure wherever Middlesborough General sends people, it cannot compare to Downton."
"And I am going to be the Countess of Grantham in over two months," stressed Mary, straightening proudly. "It's going to be my home. It feels preposterous that I am to be forbidden from inviting my friend here, just because of some Army bureaucracy. I'm sure it won't kill them to make an exception."
Violet's eyes blazed.
"We will show them, my dear. Let me just call Shrimpie. What's use of connections if one doesn't use them when the need arises?"
Manchester, April 1917
Matthew finished his call with the office of the Mayor of Leeds and smiled with satisfaction, making a note in General Strutt's diary.
"Meeting arranged?" asked Major Roberts, the General's secretary, from the desk opposite Matthew's.
"Yes. We will meet with him on the 20th and have dinner with him and half of the people who matter in Leeds the same day. I will give you all the details after I write it up and check the accommodation."
"It's a pleasure to work with you, Crawley," said Roberts pleasantly. "You're really good at watching out for small details, and all your memos are to the point and informative. It shows that you were a solicitor before all this."
"Thank you," answered Matthew with a smile. "It's nice to work with you as well. At least you appreciate a good memo when you see it."
"And I don't get to see them nearly enough," grumbled Roberts. "The chap that was here before you was useless in that aspect. Took him at least three paragraphs to get to the bloody point. I'm going to cry bitter tears when your time here is up. Are you sure we cannot tempt you to make your assignment permanent?"
Matthew felt his smile faltering and uphold it with effort.
"I'm afraid not," he answered lightly. "It's a wonderful opportunity to work as part of the General's staff and I'm enjoying it immensely, but all good things have to come to an end. I'm needed over there."
"Well, it's a bloody waste if you ask me. I'm sure you're good in the field, but seeing you work I bet you're more useful here than dealing with all that mess at the front. Surely it's easier to find some brave chap to lead our troops there than it is to find an ADC who knows what he's doing."
Matthew shrugged non-committally, eager to finish the conversation. The truth was, he was enjoying himself immensely. It felt marvellous to use the skills he was afraid he had half-forgotten by now and to receive praise for them. Being the General's ADC was not exactly working as a lawyer, but included a lot of aspects which made him like his job. Using his brain, prioritising, organising matters just so – he felt the same satisfaction when he managed to arrange the General's trip down to the smallest detail as when he knew he drew a good contract for his client. When Roberts praised him, he was confident that it was a praise well deserved for a job well done.
He was going to miss it when he inevitably went back to mud and shells and killing. He was going to miss it a lot .
But as much as it was true, he could not imagine staying here, safe and comfortable, while his men kept dying out there. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he abandoned them. As much as he dreaded going back – and he did dread it, oh God, he truly did – there was never any doubts that he would go back. He would keep going back until that damn war finished or he was dead, whichever came sooner. Anything else was simply out of the question.
But for now, he could enjoy working on that memo he promised Roberts. He was going to enjoy every second of his respite from the front.
Matthew's Study, Downton Abbey, April 1917
Mary looked at a wedding invitation she had just received from Cora for approval. Her hand trembled as she picked it up. She could still hardly believe it was really happening.
"Lady Grantham requests the pleasure of your company at the marriage of her daughter Lady Mary Crawley to Captain Matthew Crawley, the 8th Earl of Grantham, at St Michael and All Angels Church, Downton, at 3 o'clock on Friday 27th June, followed by the reception at Downton Abbey."
She was really going to marry Matthew!
After everything they went through – after all various ways they both went out of their way to ruin things between them – they were really going to get married!
She caressed Matthew's name on the invitation again before taking several of them to send to him.
Leeds, April 1917
Matthew looked at the wedding invitation one last time before going to sleep. He shook his head over his title. It still shocked him that this was a wedding he was going to get – a wedding of Lord Grantham to a Lady, with all the pomp and parade it required, even taking the war into account. It sure wasn't the kind of wedding he had imagined for himself back in Manchester.
He caressed Mary's name on the invitation and went to bed, hoping to dream of her.
He was not so lucky.
He wakes up on a cot in a dugout, full of dread. He knows, he just knows, that he is not alone, that the enemy is coming for him, that they are here . He sits up and reaches for his gun, but it is not there. How can it not be there, he is always putting it just there, by his cot, in easy reach, exactly because one never knows when the Huns decide to ride the British trenches in the middle of the night when it is too dark to spot them. The British are doing the same of course, crawling under the cover of darkness, throwing grenades and planting mines and jumping into the German trenches to kill as many of the poor bastards in their sleep as possible. Nobody can sleep easy in the trenches for there are monsters in the dark for everyone.
But where is his gun? Matthew looks around widely because he knows that THEY ARE COMING, that they are HERE, that THEY ARE GOING TO KILL HIM if he doesn't find his bloody gun and HE DOESN'T KNOW WHERE IT IS.
The ground under him is shaking and the dugout starts to collapse all around him and he has to run out if he doesn't want to end up buried alive – please, Lord, not buried alive, it's one of the top things on his ever extending list of Ways He Does Not Want To Go – and he is out in the trench, only the trench is all wrong, maze like and empty and unending and he doesn't see anyone but he still has this horrible, horrible feeling that THEY ARE HERE already, even if for some reason they are invisible.
And then this one German man is not invisible anymore, he is RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM, and he is raising up his bayonet, ready to stab it straight into Matthew's chest, and Matthew still doesn't have his gun, so he picks up a frozen piece of mud or is it a stone and bashes the German's head in until he stops moving.
Matthew sat up in his bed, his breath coming in huge, raspy gasp, his eyes wide and wild, head swivelling from side to side in search of more Germans, because he still had this feeling that they are coming for him, oh God, they are coming for him...
Except they weren't, because he was in his room in the barracks in Leeds, hundreds of miles from the front, safe. I am safe , he told himself, I am safe , but however much he was repeating it to himself he just could not stop shaking, and his hands still felt wrong, all wrong, as if they were still clutching this stone for dear life, his fingers coated in that soldier's blood and other things he refused to contemplate.
He closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to calm his breathing before he hyperventilated into unconsciousness. He yearned for the calming presence of Davis who would make him tea to bring him down, talking quietly all the time about the way his mum used to brew it for him before his shift in the factory even after he was married, his words washing away the clinging traces of the nightmare with soothing pictures of shabby kitchen and mother's love. But Davis was not here, Davis was in hospital, most probably dying because Matthew hadn't forced him to get this cough checked out sooner, before it got so bad as it was now, and now he was going to have yet another death on his conscience.
He again felt the blood and other things on his fingers and suddenly found himself retching into the washbasin, sick to the stomach.
He straightened shakily, raising his bloodshot eyes to a small shaving mirror hanging on the wall in front of him and barely recognising the haunted face staring back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut both against the image in the mirror and the worse ones in his head.
His hands still felt wrong to him, so he washed them and then washed them again, and then he laughed to himself about understanding Lady Macbeth so much better now – only he was crying at the same time.
He didn't fall back asleep until early hours of the morning.
Downton Village, April 1917
Matthew looked out through the carriage window at the garlands and bunting hung all around the village and grinned at Edith sitting opposite him and looking like a vision in white silk.
"We're sending you off in style, aren't we?"
She beamed at him and he thought that she had never looked so lovely.
He felt truly honoured that Edith asked him to give her away. "My godfather died when I was a little girl," she said in a trembling voice. "And my only uncle is Uncle Harold in America. I could ask some cousin or friend of the family... We are not lacking in those. But none of them is as close to me as you, Matthew. I would be so grateful if you agreed."
He knew that Mary hated the idea and grumbled about Edith stealing her fiancé from her, and how the first time he was going to ride in a carriage through the village should be with her, as her husband, but in the end she just rolled her eyes and didn't put up a proper fight, even if he rather suspected that she ranted to Anna that evening. Anna was another point of contention - Edith offered her a job as her lady's maid before Mary got engaged. Matthew thanked God that Anna refused the offer, despite it being a promotion for her. He rather suspected that if Edith succeeded in stealing Anna, Mary would find a way to stop her wedding. As it was, Edith hired a new maid and Anna was getting her promotion by becoming Mary's - which, Matthew was convinced, had been Anna's plan all along.
They arrived at the church among loud cheers and Matthew couldn't help but keep smiling as he helped Edith out of the carriage and led her to the altar where he gladly released her to Sir Anthony and took his place by Mary. He felt wonderful when he contemplated the fact that the next time he was going to be in this church, he would be marrying the love of his life.
Who was looking so breathtaking in her pastel blue attire that it was only the crowd around him which kept him from kissing her on the spot. She usually favoured more bold colours, reds, navy and black, more fitting her flair for dramatic in both looks and personality, but she looked exquisitely lovely in softer shades too. But then he suspected she could put on a burlap sack and keep looking just as elegant and beautiful as usual.
He satisfied himself with taking her hand in his and lacing their gloved fingers together. Not nearly as good as kissing her would have been, but still something.
"How was the ride?" asked Mary in a whisper.
"Making me crave riding this carriage with you all the more," he answered. "Especially since you're going to be my wife then."
The ceremony went on. There was a moment when Sir Anthony hesitated with his answers, his obvious nervousness advancing to a proper panic, but to Matthew's amusement it seemed it was Mary's glare at him when his eyes were moving rapidly over the gathered crowd which set him at ease. Soon, Edith and Sir Anthony were pronounced man and wife and left the church among the flurry of flower petals and rice.
"He came to me yesterday trying to say that marrying Edith was a bad idea, with him as old and infirm as he is and her so young and lovely," muttered Mary to him. "I set him right."
"How?" asked Matthew with interest, aghast at what Edith would have gone through if Sir Anthony changed his mind at the eleventh hour like that.
Mary scoffed.
"I told him that if he dared to jilt my sister at the altar, I would make sure he would not live to see proper old age. And that I would aim lower than the German sniper who got him when I would shoot him with one of his own guns."
Matthew coughed in surprise, trying to reconcile the elegant lady on his arm with the violent picture she just put in his mind.
"Oh. And what did he say?"
Mary's smile couldn't be described as anything else than predatory.
"He believed me."
Loxley Hall, April 1917
For all the fact that Loxley Hall was nowhere near as grand as Downton Abbey, Mary had to admit that the reception was very nice. The rooms were lavishly decorated, the food delicious and the drawing room arranged as a perfectly adequate ballroom.
She smiled wryly as she watched Sir Anthony dancing with his bride. The fact that she was the one who played Cupid for this pair in the end didn't cease to amuse her with its irony.
She looked up when Matthew offered her his hand.
"What about it?" he asked in a low voice and Mary felt herself nod and accept his hand as in a trance, barely aware of the crowded room around them, of anything really beyond Matthew's brilliant eyes looking into hers and Matthew's slender, strong body against hers.
"Is this all you dreamed about?" asked Mary and shivered pleasantly as Matthew grinned at her wolfishly in response.
"Regarding the dance – yes," he whispered into her ear. "But there are all sorts of things which are unfortunately still left to my imagination."
"The Army is clearly not keeping you busy enough if you've had enough time to imagine so many things."
His hand caressed her back slowly, teasing the naked skin just over the hem of her dress.
"When I go back to the front," he continued in a whisper, "I intend to rely more on memory than imagination."
"What if the reality doesn't match your dreams? Your imagination seems way too overactive."
"There is absolutely no chance of that, my darling. When it comes to you, my imagination has always been woefully inadequate in comparison to the real thing."
Mary could only hope that any onlookers would attribute her bright blush to the physical effort required by dancing.