AUTHOR'S NOTE: What can I say… Better fasten your seatbelts and prepare the tissues.
Liverpool Street Station, London, June 13th, 1917
Mary sighed heavily as she and Aunt Rosamund got off the train from Kent. The time spent there was nice but all the time her anger that her future husband did not care for her enough to keep himself out of danger simmered. Yes, he ensured that she would have her title and estate and the money, but not that she would have him. It was as if he thought that those things were the only ones she cared about, that she would be fine if he never came back as long as she had the title and Downton, that he didn't mean enough for her to matter.
That she could ever be happy if he... If he was…
"White should be waiting in front of the main entrance," said Rosamund, checking her golden watch. "The train was only ten minutes late."
Mary made a non-committal noise as she adjusted her hat before following Rosamund along the platform.
It'd been nearly two weeks since the dinner with General Strutt and she was yet to tell Matthew what she'd learnt. She knew she should, she knew she was only getting angrier the longer she stewed on it, but she just couldn't find words. He'd been busy too, with no opportunity to call and just several short letters over this time, so it wasn't hard to answer them without getting into her messy emotions regarding his return to the front. Being in London and then Kent with Aunt Rosamund helped a lot too, offering a distraction which Mary desperately needed. But she was going home on the 4 o'clock train and there would be no further distraction as she counted the days till their wedding.
She needed to talk to Matthew before. She could not marry him while carrying that black cloud inside her head.
"We should be able to eat a proper luncheon before White will take you to King's Cross," Rosamund continued her previous thread of conversation, paying scant attention to her niece's obvious distraction. She had been distracted for the whole week. Brides! Such preoccupied creatures. "I think Ritz rather than Painswick House, don't you think? To celebrate your last outing before the wedding."
"Ritz sounds lovely, Aunt Rosamund," accepted Mary and then frowned, looking up. "What's all that noise?"
The noise was coming from a formation of fourteen planes, flying low over the City of London, and it was indeed immense, making most of the crowd at the Liverpool Street Station look up. Many of those watching, staring skywards on that warm, hazy summer's morning, cheered enthusiastically as they passed.
"Probably manoeuvres of the squad defending London from the Zeppelin raids," said Rosamund dismissively. "They got very good at repelling them. We haven't had a proper air raid since October last year and hopefully won't have one again. Ghastly things."
"They were always at night, weren't they?" asked Mary, still looking at the planes and shivering slightly. She was very happy that Downton was safely far away from both the capital and the east coast. She could not imagine living with the actual threat of a bomb dropping on her roof.
"Yes," confirmed Rosamund, picking up the pace to get around the spectators blocking her way. "But they never reached Belgravia, thank God."
The white planes in the bright sunlight looked like a shoal of little silver fishes or like large, white butterflies. The first plane was so close to them now that Mary could see the markings on it and she swallowed, looking at it incredulously.
"Aunt Rosamund," she said, her mouth dry. "I'm not sure if those are the British planes…"
Her voice trailed off and she could only stare in horror as one of the planes dropped a bomb, which fell in slow motion at the building just a block away from them. The explosion made the windows on the whole street shatter.
And more planes were coming.
"Oh my God," said Rosamund tremulously, pointing the plane flying seemingly straight at them with a shaking finger.
Her aunt's soft exclamation got Mary out of her stupor. She grabbed Aunt Rosamund's arm and pulled her harshly towards the gate of the train station. The noise of the plane's engine filled the street, nearly covering her desperate yell.
"Aunt Rosamund, RUN!"
General Strutt's temporary quarters, York, June 13th, 1917
Matthew sighed as he leaned back in his chair, trying to stretch surreptitiously. It was just after noon and he had been buried in General Strutt's correspondence since seven in the morning, trying to get through a backlog caused by the intensely packed calendar of military and social events during the last few days.
"The boss working you hard your last two weeks with us, Crawley?" smirked Major Roberts, the general's secretary. Matthew smiled in response.
"I am still going to think of it as a vacation when I'm back in the mud."
Roberts shook his head.
"And I am going to mourn you while I deal with teaching the ropes to whatever fool they will send to replace you. Oh well, that's war for you. We never get to keep nice things," he rested his chin on his hand. "Looking forward to the wedding?"
Matthew felt his mouth stretching in a wide smile. Oh yes, he was definitely looking forward to all sorts of things.
Roberts snorted before he could answer him.
"Forget I asked. It's obvious that you do and I really don't want to hear any details."
"Your loss," answered Matthew cheekily. "I was thinking of reciting some poetry to you."
"Save it for your future wife," grumbled Roberts.
A phone rang and Roberts reached for it with a practised gesture.
"General Haig's office," he said and then blanched in a way Matthew had never seen before.
"I will notify the General at once," he put the receiver down and looked at Matthew with wide eyes. "There's been an air raid in London. The casualties are like nothing we've seen before."
Matthew felt his own eyes widen.
"They used zeppelins in daytime? Why haven't we managed to repel them?"
Roberts paused for a moment before he entered General Strutt's office.
"They didn't use zeppelins, they had Gotha bombing planes, and judging from the results our air defence was bloody useless against them."
Matthew stared after him, trying to process it all and fighting nausea at the thought of the war coming here. What was the damn point of years of bloodshed and sacrifice abroad if not keeping it from happening here? The long familiar images of bombed out French towns danced in front of his eyes, overlaying the ones of London, Manchester and Downton. All too easily, he imagined the bombs falling on the Abbey, Crawley House, Painswick House…
No!
He had no reason to think that Mary was in any way affected by that air raid. There were over seven million people in London and the zeppelins never reached Belgravia; it would have been such incredible and unlikely bad luck for Mary to be in any kind of danger. Besides, she was in Kent visiting some friends of Lady Rosamund, he was sure of that. She was only going to come back to London on…
On the 13th. Which was today.
Matthew swallowed thickly and wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his uniform trousers. There was still no reason to worry. London was huge and he didn't know yet where the bombs hit; it most likely was miles away from any place Mary was likely to be.
There was no reason to worry, he repeated sternly to himself as he got up to answer the summons to the conference room for an urgent meeting of the staff.
No reason at all.
xxx
"Word of the approaching formation reached Home Defence headquarters, and aircraft took to the skies as the first anti-aircraft gun opened fire from Romford in Essex at 11.24am," General Strutt relayed grimly. "They were unsuccessful in stopping them though. Fourteen Gotha planes reached London, whilst three bombed Margate and Shoeburyness. At about 11.25am, bombs began to drop in the east end of London and in the City of London. Seventy two bombs were dropped within a one mile radius of Liverpool Street Station and in the east end. As you can imagine, the casualties and property loss are immense, but we do not have a final toll yet."
He looked at the sombre faces of his staff, gathered around the oak table.
"This event is going to have a huge impact, one which is hard to predict or react to until we have more information. Crawley, cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day and tomorrow; call Colonel Bradbury and tell him to join me here instead, General Stephens as well, come to think of it. Roberts, relay any messages from the War Office immediately. Nobody is to speak of it to anyone until we know what the official response is going to be. Am I understood?"
They all nodded and got up from the table.
As Matthew sat by the telephone with the general's calendar in hand, having cleared it as instructed, his hand hesitated on the receiver. He was alone in the room, Roberts was sequestered with the general who was dictating several messages to him; nobody would know if he made a private call. He was not supposed to, of course, but… Oh, to hell with it, he would hardly be able to concentrate on his duties for the rest of the day if he didn't first confirm that Mary was perfectly safe and out of danger. He picked up the receiver and ordered a call to Lady Rosamund Painswick.
"Lady Rosamund Painswick's residence," answered the butler – Meade, if Matthew remembered correctly – and he told himself firmly that it was just his nerves making him think that the butler sounded anxious.
"Good afternoon, Meade, this is Captain Crawley speaking," he said, keeping his voice even. There was no need to worry, after all. "Is Lady Mary in?"
"No, sir," answered Meade and there was no mistaking anxiety in his voice now. "White, the chauffeur, was supposed to pick them up from Liverpool Street Train Station at 11.15. and take them to lunch before taking Lady Mary to King's Cross for the train to York. They have not come back yet though and did not call, and with the air raid we are all anxious for news."
"I understand, Meade," answered Matthew, his mind reeling. Liverpool Street Station! "Could you please ask Lady Mary to call me at General Strutt's York quarters as soon as she comes back or to call me yourself if you get any news?"
"Of course, sir."
Matthew put down the receiver with a trembling hand.
That didn't have to mean anything, he told himself firmly. The air raid must have meant panic and confusion and blocked streets. Mary and Lady Rosamund must have been just stuck in traffic somewhere, or taking shelter in some safe spot; there was no reason to suspect the worst.
Even if they were in the worst affected area at the time just before the bombing started.
With a still trembling hand, he picked the receiver again.
"The War Office," he ordered confidently. "A call from General Strutt's office to Major Weatherby."
Matthew did feel bad for misappropriating the Army resources for his private business, but he did not even hesitate.
"Jack," he said desperately when he got him on the line. "Please. If you hear anything, if you see Mary's name on any of the casualty lists…"
"I will let you know immediately, of course. But Matthew, it's a bloody mess out there, the rescue operations still ongoing, people taken to hospitals all over London – we're talking hundreds of casualties – do try and not panic if you don't hear anything for some time."
Matthew laughed shakily.
"Easier said than done," he said dryly. "But I will do my best."
xxx
Predictably, no message reached him before the time came for the crisis meeting of the top Army command in York, one which Matthew was required to attend with General Strutt. Before he did, he put William by the phone.
"Mason, come to me the moment you receive any news, whatever they are and whatever I'm doing."
"Yes, sir!" William hesitated for a moment. "But what if you're still in the meeting with the general?"
Matthew bit his lip. His first impulse was to answer with 'sod the general', but of course this was impossible. He was a professional and an officer. He would do his duty, whatever his personal turmoil. But he also knew that he would be able to concentrate on his duty so much more if only he knew Mary was safe.
He did not allow himself to even consider receiving a different kind of news.
"If you receive a word while I am in a meeting, come in anyway, but just hand me a note."
William nodded.
"That's why we fight, isn't it, sir?" he asked earnestly. "To stop them from doing such things?"
Matthew looked at him, thinking bleakly that if that was the reason, they were failing very badly then.
"Yes, Mason," he answered after a moment. "This is why we fight."
Before he could leave the room, the telephone rang. Matthew ran to it, his palm open to demand the receiver from William.
"It's Lady Grantham, sir," mouthed William, his eyes full of compassion.
"Cora, it's me," he said, wondering frantically if she got any news of Mary.
As it happened, she was wondering the same about him.
"Matthew, Mary was supposed to come tonight on the eight o'clock train, but she wasn't on it. There was no telegram or call to notify us not to expect her, so I called Rosamund's house and Meade said there was an air raid and that she and Rosamund never came back from Kent," Cora's voice shook as she finished. "Do you know anything?"
"I don't," admitted Matthew painfully. "Except the fact that the air raid was very bad and half of the city is in chaos. I'm sure Mary and Lady Rosamund are simply stuck somewhere safe and haven't managed to get to Painswick House yet."
"Or send a word?" asked Cora sceptically. Matthew closed his eyes and strived to be as reassuring as possible.
"The city is in chaos, Cora. I'm sure they will contact us soon. I will let you know if I hear anything."
"I will do the same, of course," she said quietly. "Matthew, do you truly believe she's alright?"
"Of course I do," said Matthew, hoping desperately that she could not hear how constricted his throat was when he was saying it. "There's no reason to expect otherwise."
xxx
"So far we have reports of over 150 deaths," recited General Strutt. "Hundreds more wounded, but we are still receiving additional names, neither list is treated as closed and final yet. The bombs dropped were high explosive, filled with shrapnel, with many deaths resulting from terrible shrapnel wounds. According to the City Coroner, we have forty seven bodies so far which had been mutilated beyond recognition, which adds to the difficulty with compiling the casualty list. And there of course was the school in Poplar."
He stopped for a moment to take a drink of water before he was able to continue.
"In Poplar, the Upper North Street School suffered a direct hit, with the loss of 18 children and a further 37 injured, 24 gravely. The bomb fell through the three storeys of the building and exploded in the infant classroom. Most of the children who died were aged 5 or 6 years."
"Jesus," someone said under his breath, they all equally stunned.
"This is an enormous fuck up by the Home Defense and a disaster for the government and the Army," insisted Colonel Bradbury. "The public outrage is going to be beyond anything we've seen so far."
"It certainly will be, but I wouldn't judge it to be so black and white," answered General Strutt thoughtfully. "As absolutely horrifying as all those deaths are – especially the poor children – I can't help noticing, however cynical it's going to sound, that it's bound to boost our recruitment efforts."
Colonel Bradbury scoffed.
"What better to motivate the public than a score or two of dead infants?" he said derisively. General Strutt shrugged.
"Rage and grief are powerful motivators, Colonel. And it would be better to channel them into fighting the Germans than demanding heads to roll at the War Office."
Matthew's insides twisted unpleasantly. It was inevitable that the deaths of the children from Poplar would be used for propaganda, he knew that, but hearing it coldly discussed like that made him feel dirty, even though his role here was only to listen and await orders.
His stomach twisted even more when he thought that it might be Mary's death used like that, her darling face on the recruitment posters calling for volunteers to avenge her loss and to save countless other British women from such tragic fate, as they did after Whitby.
He nearly jumped out of his seat when the door opened quietly to admit William, who came over discreetly and handed Matthew a note before retreating with equal discretion. Matthew's hands shook when he opened it.
"Major Weatherby called. John White, Lady Rosamund's chauffeur, on the list of dead from Liverpool Street Station. No word of Lady Mary nor Lady Rosamund yet."
She is not dead, he thought desperately. She can't be dead. I would know if she was, I would have felt it somehow.
"The demands for head rolling will come anyway," pointed out Colonel bluntly. "With no raid since October 1916, people felt safe and now they don't. And people don't like to feel scared."
"The message must be carefully coordinated, that's for sure," agreed General Strutt. "Crawley, cancel my appointments for the next three days as well and procure the train tickets to London for us all. It would be inadvisable for me to give any speeches until I coordinate with the War Office first."
Matthew nodded, his hands curled into fists. At least he was going to London.
He would search every street for Mary if he had to.
xxx
Between the flurry of phone calls, telegrams and organising the necessary packing for relocating the general and his staff for several days, Matthew made one more desperate attempt to gather information.
"Sir Richard Carlisle, London, please."
It was a long time and several secretaries until he got Carlisle on the line, but he was adamant that he would speak only with the man himself. He didn't trust any message he could leave not to get lost in the chaos the newsroom must have been in right now.
"Lord Grantham," he finally heard. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I'm quite busy now, as you surely can imagine."
"I know and I won't take much of your time. Lady Mary and Lady Rosamund are missing. They arrived at Liverpool Street Station just before the bombing started and their chauffeur has been reported dead, but nobody's seen them since. If you find any news concerning them and forward them to me at the War Office, I will be forever in your debt."
There was a long moment of stunned silence on the other side of the line.
"I am extremely sorry to hear it," Carlisle said finally and he sounded honestly disturbed. "But why do you expect me to know more than the War Office?"
"Come on, Sir Richard, we both know who is more efficient at gathering and processing information," answered Matthew, looking nervously at the clock. He had no time for playing games with Carlisle; he needed to depart with the general within ten minutes. "Please, will you do it for me?"
"As much as I like you, Lord Grantham, I won't do it for you," answered Carlisle and before Matthew got enough breath to plead or quarrel his case, Carlisle added. "But I will do it for Lady Mary. If I find out any information, I will let you know."
Train from York to London, June 13th, 1917
The train ride was the worst.
With nothing to do for the next four hours, Matthew had nothing to distract him from increasingly frantic thoughts and worries. General Strutt had advised them all to catch some sleep, fully expecting that they would be plenty busy in London from the moment they got off the train, and most of the staff listened, but Matthew felt himself unable to, however much he tried. His mind was too full of Mary.
He could imagine much too easily what she went through – the terror of the bombs dropping all around her, the collapsing buildings, the fires, the screams of the injured and dying – the reality he had been living in for over two years. He shied away from the inevitable conclusion that she could have been injured or killed herself. It couldn't happen to her, not here, where she was supposed to be safe, and not now, not two weeks before they were going to get married. He had been long used to the idea of dying himself; after the Somme he was more or less resigned to the fact that his chances of surviving it all were close to non-existent. The thought that it was her who could die while he somehow kept on living, despite all odds, was simply unfathomable, so it couldn't be true.
It couldn't be true.
He closed his eyes again, willing the train to go faster and himself to sleep.
The War Office, Whitehall, London, June 14th, 1917
They reached London after midnight, but nobody thought of sleeping; the War Office was still a hive of activity, fully in a crisis mode. Matthew had his hands full as well, arranging for General Strutt's and his staff's accommodation, both in terms of an office space and lodgings for what remained of this night and the next two, ensuring all the luggage was appropriately delivered and accompanying the general to one endless meeting after another.
When he did manage to find a moment to himself, he called Painswick House from the telephone in Jack's office. Meade, still awake and apparently keeping watch by the telephone there, answered immediately, but had nothing new to report. Matthew thanked him, put the receiver down and dropped his head in his hands.
Jack put his hand on Matthew's shoulder in wordless support.
"There are still over forty unidentified bodies at the City morgue," he said hesitantly, tightening his grip when he felt Matthew's shudder at his words and their implications. "If there is still no news by morning..."
"I will go there," said Matthew hoarsely. "Better me than anybody else. At least it's not like I haven't seen mangled bodies before..."
He barely held in hysterical laughter at the thought that yes, he could hardly claim to be unfamiliar with the sight of corpses shredded by shrapnel. But they all belonged in France, this hell on Earth it has become, not here, in London, for God's sake not here, where his loved ones were supposed to be safe...
"But not one of the woman you've loved for years," pointed out Jack gently. "Do you want me to go with you?"
Matthew nodded gratefully.
"But she can't be there," he said, his throat so constricted he barely got the words out. "Jack, I will go and check, but she can't be there. She can't. I can't lose her like that two weeks before our wedding. It simply can't be true, can it?"
He hated the pleading note in his voice and the sorrow in Jack's blue eyes as he looked at him.
"She might not be," he agreed. "The hospitals are overwhelmed; we definitely don't have the final list of casualties. Go get some rest. We are bound to know something by morning."
Matthew wiped his eyes tiredly.
"I can't yet. General Strutt is meeting with some big wigs ahead of press conferences in the morning, he will need me."
As if on cue, William put his head through the door.
"Sir, you are required."
"I'm coming, Mason. You go to bed, don't wait up for me. It might take a while."
xxx
It was near four a.m. before he managed to put his head down, too exhausted to dream, thank God, only to be back in uniform and by the general's side by eight for the morning press review.
It made for a grim reading that day. The newspapers were full of heartbreaking reports of dead children and a brave policeman sacrificing his life to save a bunch of women and girls working in a factory who went outside to look at the planes. The death toll was updated to 162 and the list of wounded to 432.
It's then Matthew was handed a telegram. His hands shook again when he was opening it.
"LADY ROSAMUND ADMITTED AS PATIENT AT ST LEONARD'S HOSPITAL AT NUTTALL STREET STOP NO NEWS OF LADY MARY STOP WILL KEEP SEARCHING STOP "
His heart in his throat, Matthew looked up at General Strutt.
"Sir," he said with determination. "I know it is the worst possible time, but could I request two hours of leave?"
The general's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"You're right, it must be the worst possible time. What brought that on?"
Matthew swallowed.
"Lady Mary has been missing since yesterday," he said quietly. "She and her aunt, Lady Rosamund, were travelling from Kent and reached Liverpool Street Station minutes before the bombing. Their chauffeur's name is on the list of the dead and I just got word that Lady Rosamund is in a hospital, but there is still no news of Lady Mary. I must beg you to let me find out what happened to her."
The general gave him a penetrating stare.
"How long have you known about it?"
"Nearly immediately after we got news of the air raid," admitted Matthew honestly. "I made a call to Lady Rosamund's house to check on them and I learnt they were missing."
"And yet you served me in an exemplary fashion through the rest of the day and night," observed the general pensively, then made a dismissive gesture. "Go, Crawley. You have until one o'clock when I will need you for the staff debriefing."
"Thank you, sir," said Matthew gratefully and within moments was on his way out to Nuttall Street.
St Leonard's Hospital, Nuttall Street, London, June 14th, 1917
Matthew got the cab. He had to swallow against the bile in his throat when they passed debris and ruined buildings on the way to Nuttall Street.
"Bloody Jerry," swore the cabbie under his breath. "I hope we will give them hell for this."
He needed to swallow again when he got out and looked at the brick facade of St. Leonard's Hospital, but he steeled himself and walked in.
He was determined to find out what happened to Mary.
Inside, he was hit by the familiar and dreadful scene of an overcrowded hospital full of horribly wounded people. The hospital's wards were overflowing, with some of the patients put in corridors and hallways, with a handful of harried nurses and doctors fluttering from one to the other and the bunch of weeping or stunned relatives adding to the chaos.
The woman manning the reception desk had deep shadows under her eyes and hair slowly coming out of its pins, but when Matthew enquired about Lady Rosamund Painswick, she pointed to a ward with barely any hesitation.
"She has been out of surgery for four hours," she said, checking the records. "Her niece is with her now."
Matthew's heart skipped a beat at that, but before he had a chance to comprehend it fully, he heard a melodious, if exhausted sounding voice just behind him.
"Nurse Taylor, could you please get some pain medication for my aunt? She says her pain is getting much worse."
"I will check with the doctor, Lady Mary, and will come right back to you."
He turned so fast he nearly stumbled, his eyes taking her all in, and it was really her in front of him, tired and pale and in clothes splattered with blood, but alive and whole and his and he had never been so bloody relieved in his life as he was right now.
Her eyes widened when she recognized him.
"Matthew," she whispered. "Oh my God, Matthew, what are you doing here?"
"Searching for you, of course," he said, making two hasty, long steps to take her into his arms. "Oh darling, are you alright?"
"I am," she answered faintly, more collapsing into him than leaning. "I am not hurt at all. This is all Aunt Rosamund's blood."
"Thank God," rasped Matthew, hugging her so tightly he was afraid he might be hurting her but unable to let go. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to let her go. It took him a while to recollect that Lady Rosamund was actually wounded. "How is Lady Rosamund?"
Mary shuddered in his arms.
"Her whole left arm is badly lacerated," she whispered. "For a while, it was not certain if they would be able to save her hand from being amputated, but they managed to get a surgeon who did. It took such a long time, they said that there were so many people with more serious injuries and I simply couldn't leave her like that as we waited."
She raised her eyes to him.
"How did you even know to search for me?"
"I called Painswick House as soon as the news of the air raid reached General Strutt," answered Matthew, delicately putting a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. "When I learnt that you were at Liverpool Street Station I was completely beside myself. I felt like I couldn't breathe, Mary, until I knew you were safe, and nobody was able to find you."
"I didn't think anybody would be worried until evening, when I wasn't on the train, and I hoped to be able to get to Painswick House and call or to send a telegram before that, but then they started discussing amputation and Aunt Rosamund got into such a state… I'm so sorry for making you worried."
"It's alright," said Matthew, resting his forehead against hers. "It's all perfectly alright now."
They stayed like that, embracing in a crowded hallway, until the nurse from before approached them again.
"Lady Mary," she said, looking curiously at Matthew. "Doctor Nelson agreed to give Lady Rosamund an additional dose of morphine. I'm going to do that now. She should be asleep for the next several hours at least, maybe you could go home and rest for a bit? Change out of those clothes? You've been sitting up with her whole night."
Mary looked down at herself self-consciously and patted her dishevelled hair.
"I suppose I should," she said tiredly. "You're sure she won't awake soon?"
"Not until four or five at least," said Nurse Taylor firmly. "And even if she does, we will take care of her."
"Then I will just say goodbye to her and will go home," decided Mary and looked at him again. "Will you be able to come with me? I did not ask, are you actually on leave?"
"Only until one," admitted Matthew regretfully. "Then I am needed back at the War Office. But I have enough time to see you home first."
She nodded gratefully and led him through a crowded ward to a scratched metal hospital bed where Lady Rosamund was lying, her arm heavily bandaged from shoulder to wrist.
"She hates it here," whispered Mary before they reached her aunt's bed. "Until a few years ago, St Leonard's used to be a workhouse. She wouldn't set her foot here normally unless on some kind of charity visit, but it was the closest hospital I could manage to get her to."
Lady Rosamund looked up at Matthew when he and Mary stood by her, her eyes unfocused due to pain and morphine in the way he was way too familiar with. He felt guilty for barely giving her any thought in his frantic worry for Mary.
"Matthew," she said weakly. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you two," he said, bending to squeeze her uninjured hand briefly. "You gave us quite a fright."
"We got quite a freight," said Lady Rosamund with a grimace. "It was perfectly ghastly. If Mary didn't pull me out of the way, I don't think I would even be here. The broken glass and shrapnel were flying everywhere."
Matthew felt Mary shiver besides him and nearly shuddered himself at the near miss they'd apparently had.
"Aunt Rosamund, Nurse Taylor will give you another dose of morphine in a minute," said Mary composedly. "She tells me you will be asleep for some time."
"Good. I'm utterly exhausted," answered Lady Rosamund tiredly. "Matthew, you will take Mary home? I could not stand the thought of sending her out alone, not with the Germans sending planes to bomb us, but you will ensure that she gets there safely?"
"Of course, Lady Rosamund."
"Good," she repeated, her eyes closing. "Mary, send my maid to me with toiletries, some actual food and for God's sake some decent nightgown and robe. I may need proper sheets and blankets too if they don't release me soon. I must speak with that Doctor and ask if I can't be transferred to the care of my usual doctor; I can't believe staying here is in any way advancing my healing. God only knows what I can catch here."
"I will send Rivers with everything you need," Mary assured her and they made their goodbyes. To Matthew's concern, Mary leaned heavily on his offered arm as they were leaving the hospital.
"Are you sure you are quite alright, darling?" he asked anxiously.
She nodded.
"Just very, very tired," she said.
"Then let's get you home," he said and looked around for a cab.
Painswick House, 35 Eaton Square, London, June 14th, 1917
Mary stared at herself in a mirror in a guestroom of Painswick House and was filled with the overwhelming feeling of unreality.
Here she was, bathed, dressed in a clean and comfortable blouse and skirt, with her hair washed and brushed by Aunt Rosamund's maid. She looked like herself again, but she felt anything but. Visions and sounds of the bombing and its immediate aftermath were still raging in her head, making it hard to think of anything else and yet it was the very last thing she wanted to think of.
She remembered that Matthew was waiting at her downstairs, hopefully eating the sandwiches she asked Meade to bring for him. She looked quickly at the clock; it was only eleven so they still had time to talk before he needed to head back to the War Office. She was exhausted, more exhausted than she could ever remember being, but there was no way she was going to give up that opportunity.
She got up from the vanity and nearly stumbled from a sudden dizziness. She recalled with some detached surprise that she had not eaten anything since breakfast at the Whartons in Kent the previous day and barely drank anything except some very poor tea at the hospital.
Maybe it wasn't the best time to talk to Matthew, she thought tiredly as she walked down the stairs with a firm grip on the balustrade just in case. She was clearly not in the best of shapes and she needed to be sharp and ready for that conversation with him.
Her heart softened when she entered the sitting room and found Matthew sitting on the sofa, deeply asleep, a half-eaten sandwich still loosely grasped in his hand. How exhausted and frightened he must have been!
She sat by him, pouring herself still warm tea and reaching for a sandwich from the platter. For a moment, she was content simply to eat while looking at him, memorising all over again every beloved feature. She had so few occasions to see him during the last three years and he changed so much in that time. Sometimes she saw the traces of the plump, gentle solicitor she had first fallen in love with, but very often she could not see any resemblance at all. Not that she loved him any less – if anything, after all the heartbreak and fear for him and his incredible, unbelievable forgiveness of her sins she loved him more – but she mourned the loss of that innocence he was looking at the world with when they had first met. That, she knew, was gone for good. The war robbed him of it thoroughly.
Her mind again brought back the rumbling noise of the engines, followed by a whiz and the deafening boom of the explosions, and she shivered. This was but a glimpse of what Matthew had been facing for years and was going to face again. She wondered if he still felt the same terror she had felt in that moment every time he found himself under shelling or if he got used to it, as hard as it was for her to imagine.
She could not believe that he relinquished the opportunity to escape all that, to save his life for her, and lied to her about having no choice on top of that. Her teacup clang loudly when she put in carelessly in its saucer, the anger she had been feeling for weeks resurfacing now that the emotions of the last twenty four hours started fading.
The noise woke Matthew up with a start.
"Oh," he said, his eyes flickering between Mary sitting unexpectedly next to him and a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, which he put down on his plate in embarrassment. "I am so sorry, darling. I did not intend to fall asleep. Have you been here long?"
"Not very long," she answered, amused despite herself by seeing him so flustered. It was not a common sight, he was usually remarkably self-possessed. "Obviously, you needed some rest."
He looked at her seriously, taking her hand in his and caressing her knuckles with his thumb.
"The last day and night were pure hell, Mary," he said, his eyes and voice tortured by the memory."I know I lived for just a day through what you have to endure for months on end... But darling, to know that you could have been in danger and not knowing if you were safe, if you weren't hurt, if you were even still alive... Oh, Mary, for all the hell I have to deal with in France, I think I have the easier part. To endure that last day for years, like you had to for me, like you will have to again when I go back... How do you not go mad? I thought I was going to; I am sure I would have if it lasted any longer."
She looked at him intently, the ever-present anger mixed for a moment with wild hope. He said as if he understood now; would that mean that he…
"Does that mean that you will not go back to France? That you will try for a transfer?"
Matthew looked at her wildly and her hope instantly died, leaving only devastation and fury in its wake.
"I cannot," he whispered with bloodless lips. "Oh God, darling, I am so sorry, so very sorry, but I cannot. I would hate myself if I shirk my duties in that way."
"But you could," she said coldly, her whole insides freezing, icy with the enormity of this. "General Strutt offered you a permanent place on his staff, away from the front, safe, and you refused, didn't you?"
"How do you even…" asked Matthew in shock and raked his free hand through his hair in agitation. "Yes, he did ask – but I couldn't accept it."
She knew it was true, of course she did, it's not like she suspected the general of lying to her, and yet it was still such a blow to hear the confirmation from Matthew's lips.
"You lied to me," she said and took perverse joy in seeing how he flinched at her tone. She could only think good. He hurt her, so very much, there was nothing she wanted more right this moment than lash out at him and make him hurt the same. "You told me there was no chance of you staying in England, that you had no choice but to go back to the front, and yet all the time you knew that you could stay if you wanted to. If what I want was at all important to you."
"Mary!" exclaimed Matthew, looking at her in shock, his voice pleading. "Darling, no! I didn't lie, I just could never accept this offer. It was never a choice I could make and live with it, so I didn't mention it because it was irrelevant."
Mary got up, tearing her hand from his.
"And are my feelings irrelevant to you as well? My fear for you? The fact that I may only get to be your wife for nine days? That I may well be left to mourn you for the rest of my life within weeks from our wedding? Why, Matthew? Why can't you stay? You volunteered as soon as the war started; you've been at the front for over two years, haven't you done enough to prove that damn honour of yours?"
Matthew, who got to his feet as soon as she did, ever the gentleman, raked his hand through his hair again and started pacing.
"You don't understand!" he cried. "It's not about that! I simply can't stay here, safe, when my men are still there, dying. I could never do that, I simply can't. It has nothing to do with how long I have already been there or with my feelings for you."
"Oh, I know it has nothing to do with your feelings for me," she said scathingly. "It's clear that I am not your priority here. To be honest, I wonder whether you love me at all."
He gaped at her in utter disbelief.
"Mary…" he pleaded, coming closer to her but stopping when she recoiled from him. "Mary, please. Please tell me you don't really believe that, that you know it's not true."
"I know nothing of this kind," she said, something in her rejoicing at his pale, shocked expression even as another part of her broke at the same sight and the knowledge that she was causing it. Let him hurt as she was hurting. "Not when you're perfectly happy to abandon me like that to play hero."
"To play…" he inhaled sharply, angry himself now. "It's nothing like that and you know it!"
"I think you should leave," said Mary and, in that moment, meant it completely. She could not stand to look at him.
That stopped him in his tracks.
"Leave?" he repeated, looking wrong-footed and lost. "Do you really want me to go?"
"Yes," she answered emphatically. "I think it might be best if we both get some time to think things over."
Matthew took a deep breath, visibly desperate to compose himself.
"All right," he said. "As you wish. I will go. But darling, I do love you. However angry you are at me for all of it, please believe me that I do."
"You have a funny way of showing it," said Mary and left the room before she could burst into tears.