Chapter Two: Impossible Dreams

Downton Abbey, 1913

The day Mary's engagement to Patrick was announced in the papers, she didn't know what to think or how to feel. The sinking of the Titanic and Cousin James's death had bought her a year to find another option, to fall in love or to catch a Duke or a Marquess, and she had failed spectacularly. Nobody wanted an Earl's daughter with no fortune. Nobody had looked twice except for excitement and flirtation.

And it had been her need for excitement and flirtation that had ruined everything.

When she found herself with too much time and not enough distraction, Mary would run through the events of that fateful day of he hunt and try to pinpoint the moment at which her life irrevocably changed. Had it been when she saw him first, arriving a little late as they assembled outside the house, looking just the right balance between excitingly dishevelled and properly attired as a gentleman? Had it been when she made the mad decision in the heat of the moment to jump the stream with him, her blood feeling hot in a way it never had before? Or perhaps when she followed him out of the drawing room after dinner? Surely she should have known then what he wanted from her, what she had made him want, had given him ample reason to want? It could have been any one of those moments, and she changed her mind every time she thought of it.

But what she feared the most was that it had been another moment altogether. Some part of her knew that the final, dreadful mistake she had made had been not to scream. Oh, she had made a fool of herself that day, had made him think she was something she was not, and how could she ever blame him for that, when she had flirted so blatantly, had played with fire and somehow expected to remain unburnt?

But as he stood there in her room, unwelcome and exciting and terrifying real, as it became clear to her what he wanted, she could have screamed. He had said she couldn't, but how had she been so weak, so stupid as to take him at his word without thinking? She remembered how convinced she had been, how terrified that he was right and there was no escape, but in the clear light of day the next morning, and every morning since, she couldn't see what had so clouded her judgement. She could have screamed, she could have picked up her poker or her water jug, or anything really, and fought back.

And instead, she had submitted, like the slut Edith believed her to be. She had stopped fighting, knowing it was fruitless, and surrendered to the strange pull she had felt towards him all day. Even as she had protested that she wasn't who he seemed to think she was, her body had betrayed her, responding to his warmth and the demanding pressure of his hands, the weight and friction of his body on hers going to her head like strong wine. She had let him, had offered no real resistance, and for that, she would never forgive herself.

And now there were rumours, and she had to marry soon, and there was nobody willing but Patrick, who seemed to love her in his own boyish way. That horrible night had been the final push she had needed to force her to accept that her future lay as Countess of Grantham, married to a man who was more like an irritating brother than a lover.

And yet, she didn't expect to be particularly unhappy. This was what she had always expected, even if a small part of her had wondered about love. She would do her duty to Downton. She would ensure Patrick ran the estate well and fairly and she would raise her son to love Downton as she did. That was what women of her social standing did. Love did not come into the marriages of the aristocracy unless by happy accident.

Her parents were deeply in love now, she knew that. But she also knew they had not married for love. They had barely known each other. At least she would begin her marriage to Patrick with some measure of familial love on both sides. It was a start, and besides, no man could ever come close to competing with her love for her home. Patrick knew and accepted this.

She went for a long walk in the grounds and reminded herself why she was doing this. She would be the Countess of Grantham, would wear the beautiful coronet, would host brilliant parties and hunts and balls, would be mother to the next Earl. She would provide for her mother and sisters when her father was gone. Sybil (and Edith too, she supposed) would be able to marry who she wanted, without the stifling pressure she had borne as the eldest since before her first season. Edith wouldn't thank her of course, but until today, Edith had still been deluding herself that she might have a chance with Patrick because of her childish, unreciprocated crush.

She remembered what Papa had told her when she had asked why he wouldn't fight for her to inherit in her own right: that his fortune was the work of others who had laboured to build a great dynasty, a dynasty that it was apparently impossible to pass through the female line. He had a duty to that dynasty, and to Downton and everyone who lived there.

And so, she would carry on that dynasty through Patrick, would do her duty as custodian of the home and land she loved so much. And she would make up for her original sin of being born a girl, and do penance for her more recent sin of daring to look for passion.

This was what she had been brought up for, and she would make her family proud.

By the time she returned home, she thought she might almost be happy.

And so when Patrick asked shyly if he could kiss her when they found themselves alone in the library that evening, she smiled and said yes. And it was nice. Nicer than she had expected and much, much nicer than her previous experience… but she wouldn't think of that. Patrick need never know.

Her future may not be exciting, but she had experienced enough excitement now to know that it wasn't necessarily a good thing. She could find excitement riding Diamond or dancing at balls. Her future was secure, and that meant a great deal for a woman in a man's world.

1919

Robert turned to look across the valley at his home. He had lived here since the day he was born, and still its magnificence could take his breath away. He loved Downton, he belonged here, he was part of it all, and he felt a deep sense of rightness as he stood looking out across his home and lands.

Yet it couldn't make him smile. Since Patrick's death, the whole house had been plunged into a deep melancholy. For him to have made it through three years of hell, to die in the last year of fighting, just seemed too cruel. He had loved Patrick almost like a son, and he had certainly been glad when he had become his son-in-law. He hadn't been certain until the moment that Mary said her vows that she would go through with it, but her love for Downton had won over any romantic notions or higher ambitions she might have had. She had married because she loved the estate as he did, as generations of Crawleys had. It was just unfair that she had had to marry a man she didn't love to get it.

Robert had never understood the complexities of Mary and Patrick's marriage. Neither had seemed to be particularly unhappy, but then, Mary had always been able to hide her feelings, and Patrick would surely have been happy with anyone after living with his bullying father for most of his life. Patrick had had some sort of crush on Mary, but they had not married for love, and they had been kept apart by war for most of their marriage, so of course they had never really had time to build much of a life together.

Now Patrick was dead, Robert couldn't be sure if Mary's deep depression was grief for her husband, or for the loss of her home and her future. Because the moment Mary's child, Patrick's child, had been born a girl, everything had fallen apart. If Mary had had a son, she could have lived here forever, or at least until the boy married. She could have had her home and her land and her son would have been an Earl, even if she would never be a Countess.

But now, everything would go to Matthew. The solicitor from Manchester. The world was a mad place.

He was trying to resign himself to the fact that Matthew would be his heir, and to reserve judgement about the man until he had known him for longer. The poor man was still grieving for his fiancée and recovering from his war wounds, but he seemed to be a decent enough chap. He was clever too. Murray had make enquiries. Top of the class at Radley, a First from Oxford, well on his way to being a partner in one of the most successful law firms in Manchester. A Captain in the army, and highly commended for his war service. Wounded in action, but making a remarkable recovery. And yet so deep in his grief, Robert felt he didn't really know the man yet.

Robert understood grief. Losing Patrick and then coming so close to losing Cora to the same epidemic that had killed Matthew's fiancée had taught him more than he ever wanted to know, and that was without even thinking of the dozens of boys on the estate that had been killed, or of all the young men Cora had always been scheming to marry the girls to. Billy Russel, an only son whose death had left his poor parents completely devastated. Tom Belasis, so high-spirited and witty, it seemed impossible they would never heard his clever impressions again. Billy Skelton's son, as eccentric as his father and barely old enough to fight, and killed within weeks. Sybil had once said she felt as if all the men she had ever danced with were dead, and it broke his heart to think that it was barely an exaggeration.

And for Matthew to have come home wounded and begun to recover, only for the woman he had loved to die seemed too cruel.

But Matthew had been here a nearly a month now, and Robert hoped desperately that his heir would soon emerge from his fog of grief and begin to take a real interest in the estate, even if he did insist on working. He had come along willingly enough to meet the tenants and see the estate, even if he still couldn't walk far, and surely things could only get better from here.

And yet, if there had been any way he could have done it, of course he would have left Downton to Mary, who would presumably leave it to little Elizabeth. He had tried, but Murray had said it was impossible; the entail was bomb proof. Unlike poor Patrick.

Before the war, he might have tried to encourage Matthew to pick a wife from among his daughters, but everything was different now. Edith was married to Anthony Strallen and seemed to be unaccountably happy, despite Anthony's injury. Mary, of course, was a grieving widow with a child, and marrying her to the last heir had only brought heartbreak. And Sybil… well, Sybil was free, but he feared she wouldn't want to be a Countess. Since the war ended, he had been almost waiting for her to do something mad. His little girl had grown up, had nursed soldiers with horrific injuries and seemed to find her purpose in life, even if she could never continue with it now. She had become worryingly independent, and she would never be happy going back to her life before the war, however much he wished she would.

Besides, Matthew was still grieving, and it would be indecent to push him towards marriage too soon, however much he wanted the succession settled.

Somehow, Robert had thought life would go back to normal once the war ended. Now, that seemed like an impossible dream.

Matthew massaged his temples, his eyes closed. He had never been prone to headaches before the war, but now they plagued him often. This did not bode well for his new job.

He still had two weeks before he would begin work properly, but there was more preparation to be done before then than he had initially anticipated. He had completely lost his ability to concentrate for any length of time, and after so long without practicing or even thinking about his profession, there was a daunting amount to catch up on. On top of that, there were the files and papers from the new firm he needed to look over so he wouldn't be going in blind on his first day. It was more than a little overwhelming.

They had been quite desperate for him when he had enquired about a job. Far too many of the firm's employees had been killed or badly injured, and they were having difficulty finding replacements. It was the same all over the country, of course. Yet again, he would be filling dead men's shoes. With what felt like half his generation dead, he feared it would be the same for the rest of his life.

Mother, of course, thought he was starting too soon. He was still grieving, she said, and his back needed more time to heal.

There was some truth in it. Unless he improved very quickly in the next three weeks, getting to and from work was going to be a challenge. He couldn't cycle, probably wouldn't be able to for another year or so, if at all, and he still relied heavily on two sticks if he had to walk any distance. He would have to hire cabs, he supposed, unless he asked Cousin Robert for the use of one of his cars, and he didn't want to do that.

Lavinia's car had been sold. He hadn't even been able to look at it, and Reggie Swire had no use for it.

But he needed to work. His life was so empty now, he needed something to occupy and distract his mind. More than that, he needed to remind himself who he was. He had been 'Captain Crawley' for too long, and now he was expected to be 'the future Earl of Grantham'; 'Mr Matthew Crawley, the solicitor from Manchester' seemed like a stranger. He needed to be around people who weren't interested in his war service or his personal life, who simply cared about his capacity to do the work required of him.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the stab of pain in his head caused by the light from the window. He needed to lie down in a dark room, but the thought of negotiating the stairs was just too horrific to contemplate. He cursed his stupid back. It had been more than seven months now, and still he could barely walk.

Of course he knew he should be grateful. He had been in a fog of pain and drugs and misery when he had first been brought home, but he remembered well enough the hopelessness of those early weeks when they had believed he would be crippled for life, with no chance of recovery. But although the impossible had happened and he was back on his feet, he could find little to be grateful for in what had happened after. Everything had been going well enough when the spinal shock had finally begun to wear off, but then…

No. He couldn't think about what had happened next. Not with this pounding headache that was threatening to make him sick.

He considered lying down on the sofa, but of course he was too tall. He turned to look slowly around the room, and settled on his armchair as a destination. He could put his feet up on the footstool, and it might ease the pain in his back, even if it would do little for his head. God, what a wreck he was. Not even thirty-five and worse than an old man.

He stood up with a loud groan and made his slow, awkward way to the armchair, sinking into it with a grateful sigh. Mother was right that it was better for his back than the sofa, but he had spent so many months with little choice but to follow the orders of various doctors and nurses and he didn't want to feel like he was back in hospital when he was in his own home, so he frequently ignored her sensible and well-intentioned advice. Today though, she was out at the hospital, probably terrorising the poor country doctor and the unsuspecting young nurses, so he could do as she said without her knowing.

Mother was already determinedly settling into village life, and was spending most of her time at the hospital. They seemed grateful for her presence, finding themselves short-staffed as the volunteer nurses gradually returned home and the army funding dried up.

Of course, Mother being Mother, that wasn't enough to occupy her, and she was already involved in some local charity providing assistance for those wounded men who would never recover enough to return to their old jobs. He knew she looked at them and saw him, as he might have been if things had gone differently.

Yes, Mother was settling in perfectly, even if she did miss Manchester.

He, on the other hand, was not. Cousin Robert was already trying to involve him in the running of the estate, which had so far mainly involved introducing him to the tenants and trying to familiarise him with the land.

Neither effort was going well. Lord Grantham was obviously accustomed to walking around the estate, which it had soon become apparent was impractical for the time being, as even with two sticks, Matthew could barely walk a hundred yards on uneven ground without risking a fall. Cousin Robert had quickly grasped the situation on their first outing, but his awkward sympathy and solicitousness had only made Matthew feel worse.

Of course, he had never been particularly keen on traipsing around the muddy countryside even before his injury. He had always loved to be outdoors on his bicycle and to visit Heaton Park, but he had always been a city boy, and knew absolutely nothing about farming or even the correct attire for country walks.

Meeting the tenants was even worse. So many families had lost sons or husbands, or were unable to farm the land effectively with the shortage of able-bodied farmhands. Whether they looked at him with pity, or sadness, or anger, or understanding, it was always unbearable, and he could never find the right words. It was painfully awkward every time, and he knew he would never live up to what everyone appeared to be expecting of him. He would never adequately fill the shoes of The Honourable Patrick Crawley, perfect heir, cousin and husband.

Robert was very kind, of course, and seemed to be trying to make the best of the situation, but Matthew could never forget for a second that he was a poor substitute and a constant disappointment. As for the rest of the family, they may not be personally hostile, but they clearly hated the idea of him, the middle class interloper who would never fit into their way of life.

Lady Mary, of course, clearly hated him, and only seemed interested in making everyone around her as miserable as she was. Of course it was an impossible situation for her, and it was terribly unfair that she and her daughter were to be passed over in favour of him, but she seemed so cold and angry, he rather pitied her child. A daughter whom she never spoke of, or seemed to spend time with.

He had seen the baby from a distance, being taken around the gardens by a dutiful nanny, but the family seemed to have nothing to do with her. What kind of world had had he been thrust into, where children so rarely saw their parents, and correct protocol remained in place even after the horrors of war?

He leaned back and closed his eyes again, suddenly exhausted. He wouldn't normally sleep in the sitting room, but he was so very tired, and his bed was upstairs and…

He yawned and gave in, allowing himself to drift slowly off, trying to forget about all the hopes and dreams he had once had of children of his own, of the peaceful family life in Manchester or London he had imagined for himself with Lavinia, of the life that would never come to pass.

London, 1916

They met in London. Mother was there visiting relatives, and with so little time to travel and most of his friends scattered across the front, there was little to take him to Manchester.

The dinner was on his second night home, and until she had all but pushed him out the door, he had felt terrible going out when he had so little time to spend with his mother. But it had been so long since he had done something normal, something he wanted to do just because he would enjoy it, and as he walked through the front door and handed his coat to the maid (no footmen anywhere these days), he felt a thrill of excitement. There was music coming from one of the rooms, along with the chatter of voices. It was all so familiar, and yet so very surreal.

Everything was overwhelming. The people dressed in normal clothes, the women, the colours, the music, the laughter, the normality of it all… Matthew felt as if he must be dreaming.

And then there was Reggie Swire, shaking his hand and welcoming him home, calling him 'my dear boy', and it was still a dream, and then…

"My daughter, Lavinia," Reggie Swire said proudly.

She seemed to be a dream herself, pale and sparkling with her blue dress and her beads and her perfectly shiny pale red hair.

Matthew took her gloved hand, small and delicate, and looked into bright, smiling eyes. And for the first time in two years, he felt calm. The smile he gave her was unforced, easy and natural for the first time since he had been home. He was almost tempted to bow and kiss her hand like a character in a novel, a gallant knight greeting his Lady. She seemed so impossibly lovely and bright in a world that had become so dark.

He must have been introduced to innumerable lawyers and their families, important connections for his profession that he should certainly have paid more attention to, but later, he could not recall a single face or name beyond her. Lavinia.

When Matthew went home, he dreamed of red-blonde hair and beaded dresses and a soft voice calling his name.

He went to see her the next day, and the next.

And when he had to go back, far sooner than either of them would have liked, he asked haltingly if they could write to each other. And she smiled, brighter than any smile he had seen in the past two years, and said yes.

He went back to France. He killed men. He got shot himself, just a graze. He watched a childhood friend die in a squalid field hospital, his face burned beyond recognition even as they exchanged stories of their childhood to lighten his last moments. He shot a boy who looked barely old enough to be there. His commanding officer came down with pneumonia and died. He led an ambush that killed countless Germans, but just as many of his own men. He sat and lived and ate and slept in mud and blood.

And then he was home, and he went to dinner at Reggie Swire's again, his mother with him this time. She gave him delighted, knowing looks when he spent almost the whole evening enthralled by Lavinia's soft voice and earnest desire to make the world a better place as she told him of her charity work. He took her out for tea, and watched her blush a very pretty pink when their hands touched by accident when they reached for the cream at the same time. He met her in a park, and the sun shone and her hair shone and her smile shone brightest of all when he asked her to marry him. He kissed her chastely behind a tree, and they laughed together when they were almost caught. He hadn't realised he remembered how to laugh.

His leave was over again, and again he was in hell. He killed people. He watched people die. His dugout collapsed and he barely escaped with his life. He went to Paris, watched his friends try to find some joy or escape or oblivion with women and wine, and sat alone in the corner of a dimly-lit bar, reading Lavinia's letters and smiling to himself. He went back to the front. He rescued a young Private from a shell, only to watch him get shot a week later.

Home again. This time, he took Lavinia to Manchester, showed her all his favourite places, took her to his father's grave. Gave her some memories.

And then back to France and the mud and the death…

And on and on it went, living the reality of war interspersed with brief dream-like periods of leave. Clinging to the brightness and softness and innocence of his lovely fiancée in the midst of a hell where brightness and softness and innocence seemed like lies and illusions.

And then he was broken, and it all fell apart, and he lost himself and lost her. And now the world was dark again.

He never knew if he had loved her truly, or loved his ideal of her, of if the war had rendered him unable to love at all.

Author's Note: Thank you for all the kind reviews! It's so wonderful to know there are still people reading who love M/M as much as I do. On that note, I haven't been reading much fanfic in the last year or so, so if anyone has any recommendations for stories I might have missed, let me know!

I hope the jumping around from past to present and back again isn't too confusing. I think this chapter will have answered some of the questions the first chapter left open, but some of the details of the past are going to be revealed more gradually.

I've managed to get quite a lot written in the last week, so expect the next chapter in 2-3 weeks.