AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so happy to be able to share another chapter of this story with you! We're at the beginning of a new arc and I'm very excited for it, although I warn you that it won't be an easy one for the characters.
I'm sorry for the late or missed replies to your reviews, but I'm unfortunately swamped by real life issues; finding time to write is already a challenge :( But please know that I appreciate every review so much and even if I don't have time to respond, I read every one as soon as I get the notification e-mail. They literally make me smile and are the most important motivation for me to keep writing. Thank you for letting me know that you keep reading and enjoying this story!
Descriptions of Battle of Passchendaele come from incomparable Lyn Macdonald's "Passchendaele. The Story of the Third Battle of Ypres 1917".
Château De Lovie, two miles outside Poperinghe, Belgium, July 1917
"My dearest Mary,
It's been mere days since we parted and yet it seems as if whole years passed since I had you in my arms. Our honeymoon feels more like a loveliest of dreams and I have to keep reminding myself that it really happened; that you are truly my wife. My wife! Oh darling, it's so hard for me to believe it after loving you for so long while believing it impossible. And yet, it is true – we are man and wife, despite all the mistakes I've made regarding you and all the suffering I've caused you over the years. If only I could stay by your side now!
You'll be happy to know that my accommodation is beyond anything I've ever experienced in the Army. The General and his staff are based in a charming little chateau which was requisitioned for the British after its Belgian owners fled for calmer waters. We are close enough to the front to hear the guns, but far enough that it's just a background noise, easy enough to ignore after you get used to it. I have a guest bedroom to myself and couldn't be more comfortable. William tells me that the soldier servants are packed like sardines in the servants' attics. He acknowledged without me telling him that it's still a luxury in comparison to the trenches and assured me with a smile that he's not complaining in the least about his lot. He's obviously determined to do his absolute best, whatever his assigned task, and takes such a good care of me that even you couldn't find the smallest fault in it.
There's a lot to be done and I hardly have time to write – I'm writing this letter after midnight, when in all truth I should be sleeping – but despite honest exhaustion I find I can't sleep easily without you by my side. How could mere ten nights be enough to make me unable to sleep alone? I know not and yet every time I close my eyes I wake up searching fruitlessly for your body next to me. Oh Mary, how terribly I miss you! Even with everything which is happening here you're never far from my thoughts.
A clock in the hallway just struck one, so I suppose I must put my pen away and drag myself to my lonely if comfortable bed; my day starts at 5 AM and logically I know I need sleep. Know that my last waking thoughts are going to be of you, my darling, and so will be my first in the morning.
I admit I take a great pleasure in signing this letter for the first time as your loving husband,
Matthew"
Passchendaele, Belgium, July 1917
The General's flotilla of cars was forced to slow down while approaching the British line in Passchendaele. Calling what they were driving on a road would be rather generous, Matthew thought. The cars moved through forests of camouflaged tents, stretching as far as an eye could see, and columns of marching soldiers kicking up clouds of dust, exacerbated further by the wheels of the limbers and wagons that moved in endless convoys along the roads. The brown churned up fields were full of horses and transport lines; the glistening white marquees, each marked with a red cross, were the casualty clearing stations; great dumps of stores, aerodromes and wagon parks were squeezed wherever possible, and everywhere, on almost every open space, battalions of men were swarming across the earth, training and practising, parading and exercising, as busy and disciplines as their hard-pressed officers could contrive.
The British Army was getting ready for the battle, with everything they got. The only previous time when Matthew had seen something on this scale had been during the days leading up to the Battle of Somme and he couldn't contain a shudder at the memory of the carnage which had followed.
"God, what is this stench?" asked William, looking rather green, when they reached the end of the camp.
Matthew smirked mirthlessly.
"That, Mason, are the trenches," he said matter-of-factly. "You'll get used to it."
And very poor trenches they were, he thought assesing them with a jaundiced eye when they got out of their cars and accompanied General Strutt on the tour of the soon to be battlefield. The Fifth Army was disposed along the line from Zillebeke, round Ypres and along the canal bank to Boesinghe. The whole area was a natural bog. It was useless to try to construct a conventional trench system with deep dug-outs as they had on the Somme: in the northern swamp, trenches simply filled up with water as fast as they were dug. Except for the dug-outs which had been burrowed into the thick ramparts around the ruins of Ypres, the Allied troops had no such comforts here. For one thing – and it was the old, old story, thought Matthew tiredly – there was a shortage of concrete and a feeling that such shelters would not be worth the trouble and expense. More important, the Allies were, at least in theory, an army on the attack – even though neither side made any significant progress here since 1914 – and the provision of such sturdy bastions might have been detrimental to the offensive spirit of the troops, or so the conviction of the HQ went. So the British and Colonial forces had to throw up breastworks of mud as best they could and crouch behind their barbed wire in a series of stinking ditches half-sunk in the morass. For more than two years this was the British front line while the Germans sat in heavily armed concrete pillboxes and bunkers constructed on raised ground and ridges generously called hills.
As Matthew took it all in while following General Strutt along the lines of troops he was inspecting, he could not get rid of the bad feeling about it all.
This place looked like a horrible idea for a grand battle.
He told himself that first impressions might be wrong – after all hadn't the British achieved a resounding victory taking the Messines ridge here in June, just mere weeks ago? – but he survived through the whole Battle of Somme and the salient looked worse. There must have been a reason this place was chosen by the High Command for the attack on the Germans, and he was bound to learn it soon in the meetings he was going to attend with the General, but his first impression of Passchendaele begged for the question how could anyone see this place and find it promising.
Maybe he should have more faith in the HQ, but one didn't go through the Somme without becoming rather cynical about their collective genius.
His musings were interrupted by the sight of a line of very familiar faces.
"Crawley!" exclaimed Captain Summers cheerfully with a beaming smile. "Aren't you an elegant one with that golden aiguillette! You positively blinded me with it!"
"Nice to see that the heat didn't cook your sense of humour yet, Summers," answered Matthew, feeling a smile growing on his own face. Then he looked at the men standing in an orderly line behind Summers and his throat tightened.
His men. More tanned and weary than when he had last seen them back in April – and, he noted with apprehension, not all of them – but looking back at him without any trace of resentment he feared he deserved from them.
"Sir!" Wakefield called with joy written all over his face. "You were missed!"
"I missed you all too, Wakefield," said Matthew, his throat still tight. "I'm very glad to see most of you made it here."
"Only Dascher, Riley and Irving are dead, sir," Thompson told him gravely. "Roberts, Littleton, Murphy and Fawkes have been wounded."
"Murphy was shot in the arse," piped in Houghton. "And wasn't he cursing the Boche and his mother until he was blue in the face over it!"
The commotion gained the attention of General Strutt who came over to them.
"Is this your former unit, Crawley?" he inquired amiably.
Matthew straightened.
"Yes, sir," he answered proudly. "We've been together since Loos and survived the Somme, and I won't hesitate to say they are some of the best soldiers in the whole Army. It was an honour to be their officer."
The men stood taller at the praise and General Strutt looked at them seriously.
"I've come to know Captain Crawley well over the last few months and I know he is not prone to exaggeration. If he says you all are good soldiers, I believe him. I'm glad to hear you're going to be a part of this offensive."
He turned towards Matthew.
"Why don't you stay with your men for half an hour and catch up? You may join me in the mess hall for lunch."
"Yes, sir. Thank you," said Matthew feelingly.
In seemingly no time he was sitting with them in the poor excuse of the trench, thankfully dry at present due to weeks of dry and hot weather, and listening avidly to the cacophony of several dozen voices racing to fill him in on all their adventures, with wide-eyed William by his side.
"Arras was a bitch, sir, good thing they didn't send us there."
"As if attacking the bloody Hindenburg Line was any better!"
"Well, it wasn't so bloody long at least, quite a peaceful spring, to be honest."
"Sir, don't listen to him, he's gone bonkers ever since he got that shrapnel to the head."
"Come on, in comparison to the Somme it was nothing! Walk in a park!"
"The lice are something else here, sir, in this damn heat, and the Belgians are stingy with their water like you wouldn't believe."
"We played a beautiful game against the 46th last Saturday, sir, three to one, Barris was inspired with the ball."
"You should have seen the fireworks when we blew up the Boche at Messines, sir! We dug tunnels under them and placed bombs, with them none the wiser, until we lit their arses on fire!"
Matthew swallowed hard.
"I wanted to be here with you all, Thompson," he said thickly. "I should have been. I fully expected to come back to my post, but when General Strutt replaced General Gough unexpectedly, he decided he needed me with him."
"Oh, don't feel bad about it, sir," said Wakefield earnestly. "Most of us would jump at the chance to get out of the mud if we got it."
"Yeah," nodded Houghton. "You did your part, same as we. Nice to see a good officer promoted for a change."
"What, I'm not good enough for you, Houghton?" asked Summers teasingly as he wrapped his arm around Matthew's shoulders. "You've wounded me straight into the heart, I swear. Come, Crawley, let's go to have a drink while those upstanding gentlemen corrupt your batman a bit. He looks as green as they come."
Matthew noted with amusement that William looked slightly alarmed by the prospect, but obediently stayed in the trench as the two captains walked towards the officers' dugout, in what at some point in the past used to be a farm. Now it was nothing but a heap of ruins. In the cellars of this salubrious spot, the officers had done their best to make themselves at home. You couldn't have called it an officers' mess exactly, but by some devious miracle Summers had managed to bring his portable gramophone, which he promptly set up now. A cheery musical number filled the grimy cellar.
"At seventeen he falls in love quite madly," hummed Summers along with the tune as he hunted for a bottle of red wine and two glasses of doubtful cleanliness. "Speaking of love, how is married life treating you?"
"Amazing, but too short," answered Matthew, sitting on one of the folding chairs with a sigh. "We only had ten days together."
"Yeah," agreed Summers, his customary exuberant mood fading for a moment. "I've spent less than twenty with Cynthia since I signed up. But," he added in a deliberately lighter tone. "We're captains now. This means four leaves per year."
"I know," said Matthew gloomily. He appreciated it – he really did — but it still meant he had months until he was going to have a chance to see Mary. "I'm glad that you're the one who was put in charge of the company."
"Seems I owe my promotion to you," said Summers drily. "They only did it when Strutt snatched you for himself. I'm well aware this command was intended for you."
Matthew shrugged uncomfortably.
"It seems silly to complain about my lot," he said slowly. "But to be honest, I'd feel better if I were here with you all."
"Muddy, lousy and stinking with the rest of us," grinned Summers and slapped Matthew on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Crawley. With any luck I may be blown up tomorrow and the Army gets desperate enough for officers that they'll replace me with you after all."
Matthew gave him a chiding look, his stomach twisting unpleasantly at the very real possibility that Summer could be right.
"Don't joke like that. The only way I'm willing to replace you now is if you get promoted to a major."
Summer grinned wolfishly.
"If this battle turns out to be such a success as Haig expects, who knows how high I may end up."
"And do you think it will?" asked Matthew seriously.
Summers shrugged.
"Who knows. Messines was good. If we attacked straight after, who knows what could have happened. But we've been sitting on our arses for weeks, allowing the Germans to dig in and wasting good weather," he threw a look at the sunlight falling into the cellar through the open door. "But we should be fine if it doesn't rain. Damn place changes into a swamp when it does."
Matthew's eyes followed Summers'.
"It's the end of July," he said uncertainly, praying he was right. "The heatwave should hold up for a few weeks longer. August is usually sunny here, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Summers agreed, but his voice was devoid of its usual bravado and good humour. "It should hold."
Matthew's Study, Downton Abbey, July 1917
"You didn't have to come all the way here, Sir Richard," said Mary, pouring him tea Carson had just brought. "I certainly didn't expect you to drop everything in response to my troubles. Surely you have more important matters requiring your attention."
"I am indeed a busy man, Lady Grantham," conceded Sir Richard with a smile as he accepted his cup from her. "But never too busy to help such a good friend as you."
Mary looked at him sceptically. She hardly considered their relationship deep enough for such declarations.
Then again, if he did, she was not above using it.
"So you found Vera Bates' address? That was impressively quick. The police claimed it to be a near impossible task."
Sir Richard smirked.
"I dare say I have better resources at my disposal. It's amazing how much neighbours and acquaintances open up with a little incentive on offer."
Mary's brows frowned.
"Tell me how much it has cost you," she said firmly. "I should reimburse you."
He dismissed her words with a casual wave of his hand.
"There's no need," he said lazily. "I'd never be so crass as to demand money from you for helping you out. Besides, the sum we're speaking off is insignificant – nobody Vera Bates associates with was the kind that requires a big amount to rat her out."
Mary accepted that explanation as most likely true and dropped the matter.
"I will give the address to the police," she said instead, then added darkly. "Maybe having everything handed to them on a silver platter will make them act on the charges I brought against her, but I wouldn't be surprised if the inspector came up with another excuse to dismiss the whole matter."
Sir Richard's eyes were sharp and calculating as he looked at her.
"You mentioned that in addition to organising an attack on your maid, she was blackmailing you. How?"
Mary shrugged with studied disinterest.
"She came across some old rumours concerning me," she answered calmly. "She has no proof – she can't have, considering that the rumours aren't true – and I sent her packing when she demanded money from me back in October. But she brought the rumours again to Lord Grantham in April after spying on the house to catch him during a spontaneous visit home and now with her attack on Anna I lost my patience. If that's how she wants to play, I'm not going to leave it unanswered. If bringing up charges for blackmail is the only way to get rid of her before she escalates her behaviour further, then so be it."
"You realise that such a case would necessarily catch the attention of the press," pointed out Sir Richard, still observing her carefully. "It would cover the rumours as well."
Mary's fingers tightened on her teacup to stop them from shaking. She took a sip of her tea to make sure she answered with composure.
"I do realise it. It's the main reason I haven't acted until now. But I'm done with inaction. It seems that appeasing this woman is just encouraging her to go further in her malicious actions. If I have to brave the storm of unwanted and undeserved publicity, I will," she took another slow sip of her tea, then levelled her gaze on him. "Besides, while I don't doubt that the press will jump on such a juicy, sordid story, can't it be framed as what it is – an unprovoked and vicious attack on an innocent woman over another woman's angry delusions? I may not be an expert on how the press works – that's your area – but I suppose it could prove equally captivating to your readers. People like tales of righteous punishment of villains like Vera Bates, don't they?"
She thought that she detected a flash of admiration in Sir Richard's eyes.
"You certainly have spunk, Lady Grantham," he said, leaning back in the armchair. "Pity we don't conscript women as officers – you would make a formidable one."
"Then let's hope I'll win this round, Sir Richard," answered Mary steely. "Can I count on your continued support on this?"
"You may be assured of it, Lady Grantham," said Sir Richard smoothly. "This is the kind of battle I excel at."
Château De Lovie, two miles outside Poperinghe, Belgium, July 1917
Matthew climbed wearily up the stairs leading to his bedroom, his stomach twisting uneasily with every step.
He wasn't sure what was distressing him most: the apprehension of the oncoming battle and his increasing doubts regarding its outcome, the fact that he would spend it in a château while his friends and men were dying, or the most alarming letter he'd received from Mary this morning.
As he entered his assigned room – maybe one third of the size of his bedroom at Downton, but still luxurious by any reasonable standards – it was the last topic which took over the forefront of his mind. The more he thought what Vera Bates' decision to organise an attack on Anna by a man armed with a knife meant, the more dread he felt. All his initial impressions of Mrs Bates, which he started to dismiss as fancies of a paranoid mind, appeared now fully justified.
She was dangerous.
And he left Mary alone to deal with her.
Mary's letter was filled with confidence that she had a plan to handle it and deal with Mrs Bates as she deserved, but it didn't stop Matthew's apprehension or the fervent need to be with her and protect her if necessary. The fact that it was impossible chafed on him in the worst possible way.
For God's sake, he didn't even know when he was going to see his wife again, much less whether he could trust she was safe with a deranged and violent criminal fixated on their home and its inhabitants. True, she seemed to focus on Anna and Bates now, but how long until her anger turned to Mary as well? Especially when she realised that Mary went fully on the offensive against her?
And he was utterly powerless to do anything about any of it. There was nothing he could do, trapped in godforsaken Belgium as he was.
With a muffled curse, Matthew sat abruptly at a small writing desk in the corner of his room – absurdly delicate and ornate for a room of a soldier – and reached for a sheet of paper and a pen.
He could do nothing, but there were people he could ask for help.
xxx
"Sergeant Barrow,
In the light of the attack on Miss Smith, which I just learnt of, I ask you to double your effort at ensuring the safety of Downton and its inhabitants. I understand that Mr Bates resigned, but unfortunately I am not convinced that this is enough to keep his wife at bay, not after she proved herself to be both dangerous and irrational in her actions. I'll implore Lady Mary to take all possible precautions, especially when leaving the house, but please make sure she is as protected whenever she does as possible, whether she wishes for it or not. Use all the means you can to achieve that, on my authority and expense.
I'm entrusting the most precious thing in my life to you, Barrow, and I'll never be able to repay you if you do keep her safe.
Yours sincerely,
Cpt. Matthew Crawley"
xxx
"Sir,
You may trust me. I'll do everything in my power to protect Lady Mary in your absence.
You don't have to thank me for it. It's still me who owes you.
Yours sincerely,
Sgt. Thomas Barrow"
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, July 1917
"Have you heard from Bates?" asked Lady Mary with evident concern and Anna had to swallow hard to deal with sudden tightness in her throat. Her hand flew involuntarily to a thin, barely healed scar at the side of her face.
"No," she said, managing to keep her voice steady with only the greatest effort. "And I don't expect to. He's too afraid that any contact from him would entice Vera to harm me somehow again."
A wave of resentment filled her at the thought of John's wife. It wasn't enough for her to put him in prison for years, cheat on him and prevent him from marrying another – no, she had to separate him from Anna for good, even though they loved each other and never did anything wrong. Whenever she remembered John's devastated face as he was looking at her bloodied face, she barely restrained herself from screaming at the injustice of their suffering.
She sincerely wished for Vera Bates to burn in hell.
Lady Mary's eyes flashed with similar sentiment.
"I gave him the address of the best divorce lawyer in England," she said. "One which I've already taken on retainer. Bates will be divorced from that woman and without a need to spend a penny."
Anna stared at her, gaping. She knew that Lady Mary was staunchly on her side, but that was going beyond anything she owed as her mistress. Besides…
"And Mr Bates accepted your generosity?" she asked incredulously.
Lady Mary smirked.
"I already paid the lawyer, so I told Bates he would be wasting my money if he didn't use his services. He protested some more, but accepted it after he realised I won't be talked out of it," she looked at Anna with compassion. "I would keep him from leaving Downton too, if I could, but on this matter he wouldn't budge."
"No," whispered Anna, "he'd never budge on it when he saw it as ensuring my safety."
She saw Lady Mary bite her lip thoughtfully.
"I may telephone Sir Richard and ask him to search for Bates' whereabouts for you."
"But what would he know?" asked Anna, startled at the idea.
"He works in newspapers – a world of spies, tip-offs and private investigators. I promise you, he can find out whatever he likes, just as he found Vera's address."
Everything in Anna fluttered at the possibility of news of what happened to John, but she still hesitated.
"But is it wise to ask Sir Richard for so many favours for our sake?" she asked slowly. "Won't he ask for something in repayment, eventually?"
Lady Mary shrugged carelessly.
"Oh, I expect he will. Probably invitations to some events he wouldn't normally be invited to, or an introduction to one person or another. This is how it usually works and I don't mind doing him such a favour in return."
Her answer didn't settle all the doubts Anna had, but she couldn't find it in her to try to talk Lady Mary out of it, not when there was hope of learning how John was doing. She blinked against the tears threatening to fall and looked at Lady Mary with determined gratitude.
"Thank you, milady. Even if he doesn't dare to come back to me, at least he won't be tied to her anymore."
"He will come back when I put her in jail for blackmailing me," said Lady Mary confidently as she reached for her cold cream. "I will yet see you two married."
Oh, Anna did hope that Lady Mary's conviction was going to come true! But for now she quenched those hopes and searched for a distraction for them both.
Fortunately, she had one on hand.
"Milady," she said carefully. "How long has it been since your last monthly?"
She didn't have to ask; she knew very well that it's been over six weeks now. It'd never happened before, Lady Mary was regular like a clockwork.
Lady Mary's face remained carefully neutral, but she couldn't hide the hope shining in her eyes.
"I'm two weeks late," she said casually, rubbing the cold cream into her slender hands. "But it doesn't have to mean anything."
"No," agreed Anna, feeling a sincere smile growing on her face. "It doesn't."
Kitchen yard, Downton Abbey, July 1917
"You're in so much trouble," drawled Thomas as he lit his cigarette.
O'Brien gave him a sharp look, drawing angrily on her own.
"What in hell do you mean?"
"Carson is searching for any letters sent to Bates' wife," answered Thomas, quite enjoying the way the usually unflappable woman blanched.
"He won't find any way to connect one to me unless you rat me out," she said menacingly. "I'm not stupid enough to post it from the house."
Thomas scoffed.
"As if I would!" he said derisively. "I'm no rat. But I've heard him telling Mrs Hughes that he was going to make inquiries at the post office in the village."
He let O'Brien squirm for a moment longer before adding.
"The postmaster's son owes me a favour. He might alter the register before old Carson shows up there."
"What would it cost me?" asked O'Brien shrewdly. "You weren't the first to do me any favours as of late."
Thomas shrugged.
"I've no reason to do you harm either," he said. "The whole quarrel between us was damn silly anyway. I'm not against forgetting it for good."
The suspicion in O'Brien's eyes didn't lessen.
"For?"
Thomas inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
"Write to her again," he said curtly. "Tell her that Bates ran with his tail between his legs, leaving Anna heartbroken."
"Why?" she asked. "What's in it for you?"
Thomas looked at her as if she was simple.
"So the bloody bitch leaves us alone. If she knows Bates bailed, there's no reason for her to keep bothering us."
O'Brien considered his words for a long moment, before nodding decidedly.
"I'll write her tonight," she said. "You just make sure old Carson doesn't sniff out anything."
Thomas grinned at her.
"He won't," he promised her with full confidence.
Considering that it didn't occur to Carson to make any enquiries at the post office in the first place, Thomas was reasonably certain of it.
Mary and Matthew's room, Downton Abbey, July 1917
"My darling,
You do fret too much. I'm not underestimating how dangerous Vera Bates is – how could I after what she attempted to do to Anna?! – but I'm truly perfectly safe. Everyone at the house is aware that she is not to be let in under any circumstances and I never leave it alone. Branson drives me whenever I go anywhere further and if I feel the need to stretch my legs, I take Sybil or Anna with me. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Carson and Barrow conspire to send somebody trailing after us when we do; I can't count the times I've seen an orderly or a hallboy skulking around in the garden or the woods on one of my walks. They both deny issuing such orders to their staff, but I don't believe them in the slightest and in fact suspect that you are behind it all. Anyway, there is no way she's going to be able to harm me, and with any luck she's going to be behind bars sooner rather than later. The police might be minimising the danger Vera Bates presents to society and reluctant to act, but with everyone giving them their statements regarding her attempt at blackmailing me and with Vera's address handed to them, they have no choice but to arrest her soon. I'll let you know as soon as I hear of it.
Life is pretty uneventful here otherwise, save for smaller or bigger dramas unavoidable in such a crowded house. Some officers are naturally bored and all too eager to alleviate it by flirting outrageously with anyone in a skirt, be it a nurse or a housemaid. Don't worry – none is doing anything truly disrespectful and definitely keeping on the right side of propriety with Sybil and me (and Edith, I suppose, but who would ever want to cross a line with her?), but I am a little concerned about some of the younger maids who don't have enough life experience to realise it's all in good fun and doesn't mean anything. Thankfully Mrs Hughes is keeping a very sharp eye on them, so I don't think anything bad will come of it, besides possibly a bit of heartbreak after a disappointed crush.
Speaking of crushes, I increasingly think that Granny is right and Sybil has something to hide on that front. She certainly spends enough time nursing the officers to develop any kind of feelings and yet she is so close lipped on the subject that I can't help worrying about the reason. The man must be wildly unsuitable, whoever he is, and I feel a headache coming whenever I think what uproar this is going to cause when she finally reveals his identity. I know that falling in love with a man from the middle class is not the end of the world, even if he isn't an heir to an earldom, but believe me, I remember all too well what everybody was saying when your inheritance was in doubt. At this point I'm only hoping Sybil's beau is not married.
Edith keeps coming here to help with the officers several times a week and never fails to mention her pregnancy. One would think that if she's half as happy with her husband as she proclaims to be she would spend more time in her own home, but apparently she likes to feel useful. She is popular with the officers (even though they don't try to flirt with her), so I suppose it stokes her ego. At least Mama is happy to see her here so often. It's nearly as if she never moved out.
I'm very glad to hear that your quarters are comfortable and that William works out well as your manservant. I realise you miss Davis – I know how fond you are of him after everything you've been through together – but I'm happy that your position means William is mostly kept out of danger as well. I can't stop thinking about his father who lost his wife and all his other children already. William is all he has left of his family.
Davis, by the way, is doing well. I've been to visit him and his family at their cottage, to thank them for their part in helping Anna. I took great care to present the gift basket I brought them as an expression of my sincere gratitude; I could tell that they would've baulked at charity, even though it's a matter of course for the tenants. But the last thing I wanted was to offend the pride of a soldier and a city dweller!
Oh Matthew, how l long for you to be here with me. It is so strange to be married yet to yearn for you as if I weren't. I keep imagining how it could be without the war to separate us and then I scold myself for indulging in such dreams, since they only make me miss you more. I should be spending each night in your arms. We should be running the estate and hosting guests here together. We should be going to London just to be merry and have some good time. We should be racing our horses all over our grounds. It should be our life – and yet it isn't. It makes me so resentful at times that I want to scream.
But I won't, since I hear the gong and Anna will soon come to help me dress for dinner. Poor Anna, she is as dour as me with Bates God knows where. She truly loves him, as perplexing as I find it at times, and as much as I wish to alleviate her suffering somehow, I know from experience that nothing will do but the ending to the insufferable separation from the man she loves. Just how I can't see myself happy without you back in my arms.
Your wife who misses you something fierce,
Mary"
Inner Hall, Downton Abbey, July 1917
Mary found Anna rolling laundered bandages at a cupboard and automatically reached for one too and started rolling it. She smiled wryly imagining how amusing Matthew would have found it if he saw her now.
Spoiled Lady Mary Crawley – the great Lady Grantham now – actually doing something useful for a change.
"Any news from Sir Richard?" asked Anna, after checking they are alone, something which was not at all a given with the crowd of people living in the house now.
Mary shook her head.
"Not yet, but we won't have long to wait. He assured me that finding Bates shouldn't be difficult."
Anna nodded, then gestured at the stack of the bandages.
"I can finish this, milady, if you want to go to bed," she looked briefly at Mary's middle. "You should take care not to overtire yourself."
"There's no hurry," answered Mary with a slight smile. She barely restrained herself from touching her belly. "I'm not at all tired. Though I do think you should be downstairs. Reading or talking or something. You can't work every hour God sends."
She looked at Anna's bruised eyes and her worn face with concern and silently cursed Vera Bates for a hundredth time. Dear Anna did not deserve this kind of heartbreak.
"I want to," answered Anna stubbornly. "I want to be tired out. I don't want time to myself."
"Do you miss him very much?" asked Mary hesitantly. She knew she was crossing a line by asking her servant such a personal question, but it was Anna. Surely she would know that Mary cared for her more than for just an employee? God knew Anna heard more of Mary's own feelings than anyone besides Matthew.
Her heart stung with longing and fear at the mere passing thought of him. It'd been over three weeks since they parted and Mary was viscerally aware of every passing hour.
Anna looked her straight in the eyes.
"I can't think of anything but him. It's as if I were mad or ill… I suppose that's what love is. A kind of illness. And when you've got it, there's nothing else."
Mary's eyes were filled with understanding when she looked at her maid.
"I know," she said only, earning herself a nod from Anna. Yes, they both knew it well.
They finished rolling the bandages in companionable silence.
Château De Lovie, two miles outside Poperinghe, Belgium, July 31st, 1917
As dusk fell dankly round the streaming eaves of La Louvie Chateau ten miles behind the battle, an orderly drew the curtains and lit the pressure lamps in the room where the gloomy Corps Commanders had been summoned to confer with General Strutt.
"What a perfect bloody curse this rain is!" started the General and there was noone in the room who'd disagree with him on that. Yes, it was a bloody curse. It changed the ground of the salient, blasted with shell after shell for two weeks, into a quagmire of mud like they'd never seen before.
"The press in London is celebrating a victory," said Matthew with a wince. He'd been instructed to flash the news of the first successes of the morning to London early in the day and, as with the initial reports of the Battle of Somme, the headlines bore little resemblance to the reality on the battlefield. The telegram with some of them made him cringe in the sight of more current communiques coming from the troops. "Great Allied Attack!" "Ypres Salient Widened!" "First Day's Objects Achieved!" None of the mention of the dead and wounded Tommies lying thick on the ground at Zonnenbeke-Langemarck Road. They lay thick on the Frezenberg Ridge too, where Borry Farm and Beck House, gained at such awful cost in the afternoon, had been lost again in the evening. They lay on top of the Westhoek ridge. They lay thickest of all around the Menin Road within sight of Glencorse Wood. In the chaos nobody was able yet to count them properly, but the estimates were horrifying enough.
Matthew felt he was going to be sick.
"We will deliver it yet," said one of the commanders heavily. "This is a dire situation, but the Germans are as trapped by the mud as we are."
"There's no question of pressing home the advantage," agreed Neill Malcolm, General's Chief-of-Staff. "Tomorrow the troops will have to consolidate."
"They will have to be relieved first, at all costs," said General Strutt. "They've been told that they would be withdrawn by nightfall, but from what I hear it's impossible."
"It is," confirmed Matthew who spent most of the evening compiling the incoming conflicting reports from the front into semi-coherent memos. "In the unexpectedly appalling conditions and the confusion of the front, which advanced in some parts, but was severely pushed back in the others, there's no way of getting reliefs up until the Engineers have managed to make some sort of tracks to give them a foothold in the quagmire."
"Will it be achieved by morning?" asked General Strutt sharply. "The troops have been fighting since 3.50 AM, in some of the worst conditions I've seen during this war. They're exhausted."
The commander of the Engineers grimaced.
"My men are doing the best they can," he said grimly. "But the ground is a bloody bog, it's pitch dark, raining buckets and the damn Boche are still shelling us with heavy artillery from the ridge."
"Can the guns be moved?"
"No bloody chance, sir. Not until it's either dryer or we build a timber road to get them there."
The rain kept falling.
Matthew's Study, Downton Abbey, August 1917
"My darling,
I've wanted to keep those news to myself longer, until I'm sure, but I find I can't. I haven't had the doctor's confirmation yet, but in my heart, I am sure, and Anna says I'm right to be. Matthew, I'm pregnant. I'm carrying our baby.
There, I've said it. Oh darling, I'm so very happy. I only wish I could see your face when you learn of it, the way happiness diffuses all over it when you comprehend the meaning of those words: we're going to have a baby.
I haven't told anyone yet, I wanted you to be the first to know (Anna doesn't count since she guessed herself). I'm not going to say anything until I hear back from you. It takes considerable effort to keep quiet while Edith speaks of nothing but her own pregnancy, but I'm bearing it as well as I can, even though I think she's doing it on purpose to rub it in my face that she's pregnant while I'm not. Ha, joke's on her, even if she doesn't know it yet. But what do I care about Edith when I have such a wonderful secret within me? Although I wouldn't mind if it turns out she's carrying a girl and I a boy. Would serve her right, wouldn't it?
I know you said it's alright if we have a daughter, but you know the reasons why I can't stop myself from hoping for a son. Our own little prince to inherit the kingdom. I find myself imagining him, sometimes with your eyes and sometimes with mine. Isn't he fortunate that with parents as good looking as us he is bound to be beautiful whoever he takes after? Oh darling, I am positively giddy when I think of it and it makes it so hard to keep it hidden from everyone. I'm sure your mother and Granny suspect that something is afoot, they're both giving me those searching, suspicious looks.
How are you, Matthew? In all the happy haze of my news, I haven't stopped worrying for you terribly. The papers are full of enthusiasm regarding the new battle in Flanders and even knowing you won't be on the first line of it, thank God, I can't be easy. Please let me know that you're alright and assure me again that you're going to come back to us safe and sound.
I'm reading my last sentence and I'm smiling. You won't be coming back to me only – you'll be coming back to us. To your family. Because we're going to be a proper family now, darling; mother, father and their child, and you must come back to make it complete.
I miss you terribly, now more than ever.
Your wife, happier than ever before,
Mary"