Chapter Three: A Dying World

Mary glanced sideways at Cousin Matthew. She was beginning to wonder if Mama had placed them next to each other at dinner yet again to contain the misery to one corner of the table. Once, she might have believed Mama was playing the same old game, trying yet again to make her marry the man placed next to her at dinner. Now… well, everything was different now.

She was aware that she was casting a dark shadow of gloom over the house, that she had been ever since the telegram had come informing her that her husband was missing. But she couldn't be alone in her loss and pain, couldn't allow everyone else to carry on as if her life and future had not been ruined. It might be selfish, but she had always known that she was a selfish person. She could not find it in herself to care.

She did not like Cousin Matthew. He had been in the village for weeks now, and her opinion of him had changed very little from her first impression. He was impossibly dull, and seemed to be deliberately making a show of being middle class as if it was something to be proud of. And worse, she almost felt as if, without saying anything, he had gone into competition with her in his grief: which one of them could be the most silent, the most morose, the least likely to smile? Which one of them could say the rudest thing to the other without breaking the rules of propriety? Which one of them was in more pain?

It was intolerable.

What did he have to be so unhappy about? Of course his fiancée was dead, and she was very sorry for it, but it was not the same as losing a husband; they may have been in love, and of course it was very tragic, but they had not truly built a life together as she and Patrick had just begun to do, and he did not have a daughter whose home and future had been lost with the father she would never know.

And he would have Downton: the house, her home, the title, Patrick's title, the money, her Mother's fortune.

He could not possibly deserve it.

Hard times were coming for the great estates, and she was determined to ensure Downton would not be one of those that fell. She had no real interest in farming and finances, and had hardly spent the war labouring in muddy fields like Edith seemed to have done, but with the future Earl away in France, it had seemed necessary for the future Countess to devote at least some of her time to looking after their future, and she had dutifully done so. And to her surprise, she had found she had an aptitude for it. She loved Downton more than anything, and when she had put her mind to it, she had realised that taking a serious interest in the land and the tenants and the business of managing it all had been a natural extension of that love. Patrick, when he had been home, had always supported her ideas, and Papa had even begun, for the first time in her life, to truly listen to her.

Of course, as soon as Clarkson had announced she had a beautiful baby girl, everything had changed. Mary had been excluded from everything, her contributions and ideas and plans abandoned. Downton would never be hers, or her daughter's, and nobody cared to hear her opinions without the backing of her husband's position.

Keeping Downton afloat would be difficult, and Matthew, the middle class solicitor with no knowledge of farming, or estates, or anything about this way of life, would never be up to the task.

And yet tonight, at what was intended to be a happy family dinner, Cousin Matthew and his utter lack of gratitude, competence or grace was not truly the source of her dark mood. His excessive depression, while infuriating, was infinitely more bearable than Edith's cheerfulness.

Mary had never had an easy relationship with her middle sister, but in this moment, she truly hated her. There she sat, Lady Strallen, pregnant and glowing with her second child having already given Anthony an heir. She smiled too much, and her tinkling laugh gave Mary a headache. She was married to a dull old man without the use of his right arm, and yet she was disgustingly happy. Anthony was older than Papa, and yet he had come home to his wife and children while Patrick, young, naïve and still boyish, his whole life ahead of him, had been blown into pieces too small to bury.

Mary had married the handsome heir to the Earldom and Edith had married a glorified farmer with a title that was barely a title, and yet everything had gone wrong for Mary while Edith had it all. And now everyone expected Mary to be happy for her pregnant, happily married, smug little sister.

She glanced again at Cousin Matthew as he stabbed a carrot with unnecessary violence. His manners were appalling, but at least there was one person here who didn't want to try to encourage her to cheer up, even if she did dislike him thoroughly.

Matthew glanced sideways at Cousin Mary. It was abundantly clear that she hated him, but being placed next to her as he so often was somehow made dinner more bearable. She didn't talk to him except when necessary, which suited him perfectly, and she was one of the few people who could look at him without a trace of pity, worry, or sympathy in her eyes.

He suspected she was watching him for any fault in his manners, and he took a perverse pleasure in behaving perfectly so there was nothing for her to criticise. His parents had taught him well, and what he hadn't learnt from them he had picked up at Oxford.

But how ridiculous all of this was! All the rules of etiquette that mattered so much to Lady Mary meant nothing. Everyone here had lived through four years of war and a catastrophic epidemic, had lost their precious heir. The house had even been a convalescent home until a few weeks before he arrived, and they still acted as if the correct protocol at dinner was the most important thing in the world.

How could they possibly be so blind to the way the world had changed? The past was lost forever, and nothing would ever be the same again. How could they possibly be so delusional as to think clinging to the old ways would protect them from the way the world had fallen apart?

He exhaled angrily and speared a carrot violently, wishing there was something more satisfying to stab.

Obviously his action hadn't gone unnoticed, as he caught Cousin Mary looking at him coolly. Damn. She would only hate him more now.

But why did he care if she hated him? He didn't. Not at all. He glared at her. She glared back.

"Do you ever do anything other than watch and find fault with others?" he asked irritably.

If possible, she looked even angrier now, but her lip curled in a sarcastic smile. "That's what widows do, is it not? Meddle and criticise and make everyone uncomfortable? My life is over, so I interfere with everyone else's. There's little enough else for me to do, I suppose."

Matthew stared at her. He had barely heard her speak more than a sentence before today. He suddenly felt awful for angering her. She was hurting, as he was. She was sad and lost and angry with the world, as he was. He sensed that there was far more to her anger than simply annoyance with him.

"Cousin Mary, I…" he began, but she just shook her head and turned away. Now he felt even worse. He realised suddenly that the conversations around the table had stopped and that everything was silent. Obviously everyone had heard Mary's outburst. Cousin Edith and her husband looked away, but everyone else was staring at him. Mother was looking at him with curiosity, Cousin Robert with sympathy, and Cousin Cora and, oddly, Carson the butler, stared at him with… accusation, he thought it was. He felt even guiltier. Obviously it was an unspoken rule in the house that nobody must upset Lady Mary.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, turning in Cousin Mary's direction but looking down at the table.

She didn't acknowledge him.

"Have you been able to explore the village?" Cousin Robert asked, breaking the silence.

"Indeed I have," Mother replied, eagerly grasping the opportunity to move the conversation on. "And I thought the hospital a great credit to your father's memory. It is better equipped than I expected for such a small cottage hospital, and I believe I can be useful there."

"I'm glad you think so," Robert replied.

"The good doctor may be a little behind the times, but the nurse who is helping Matthew with his physiotherapy seems very competent and up to date on the latest techniques."

Matthew stared intently down at his plate as he felt several pairs of eyes turn to him again. He wished Mother was not so keen to discuss the (far too slow) progress of his recovery with everyone who would listen. Of course he knew she had been heartbroken at his initial diagnosis, and had poured all her energy into doing everything she could to ensure he recovered as fully as possible once she knew there was hope, and of course he was grateful. But it was not something he wanted anyone, least of all his new family, to be thinking about.

During the dark days when it had seemed that he would be crippled for life, he had foreseen a life defined by his injury, in which everyone he met would judge him based solely on his unconcealable disability. Now, free from the hated wheelchair at last, and with the prospect of further recovery ahead of him, he wanted to forget all about it. However far his recovery went from here, he need not be defined by his damaged spine.

He had left the wheelchair in Manchester. He still couldn't walk far, but he had needed to leave that part of him behind completely, to close that chapter of his life as best he could. Nobody at Downton had ever seen him in the pathetic state he had been in only a few months ago, but if Mother kept reminding them of his injury, all of these attempts to leave it all behind would be in vain.

But of course now she had said it, there was no hope of changing the subject.

"Oh," cried Cousin Sybil, voice alight with interest, "you mean Sister Cooper? Yes, she's wonderful. She worked here during the war, when the house was a convalescent home, and she trained in London. I used to work with her all the time, and she taught me so much about rehabilitation." She turned to Matthew. "You must let me know how you get on."

He forced a brief nod, hoping desperately for somebody to change the subject.

"Did you ever consider keeping the house open as a centre of recovery?" Mother asked. "It must have been so wonderful to be useful in that way."

"It was important to us to help the war effort," Cousin Cora said, "but it is our house, and we are glad to have it back."

"But is that really what you want?" Mother persisted. "Are we, is this country, really doing enough for these men? They have had to come back to a very different world, and so much of the help that was available during the war is shutting down."

"There are charities…" Cousin Cora began, before being cut off.

Matthew almost smiled. Mother truly was her unstoppable self tonight.

"But think how much good a house like this could do. You can't truly mean to go back to that life of changing clothes, and killing things and eating them, not when there is so much to be done to improve the world."

"Well, of course some things will be different now," Cousin Cora acknowledged, looking a little offended at having been interrupted. "But the war is over, and the house is useful in the way it always has been. We provide employment, and…"

"But surely," Mother interrupted again, "we will all be leading a simpler life than we did before the war. Don't you agree?"

Nobody appeared inclined to agree, so she turned to Matthew.

"I certainly believe war has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter, and the things that don't," he said quietly. "And I don't see much reason to continue with those things that don't matter."

"And are we to assume that you think that the way we live our lives doesn't matter?" Lady Mary asked sharply. The rest of the table was suddenly silent again, but Matthew no longer cared if they were watching.

"You can assume what you like," he replied turning to look at her. "But I believe most people are getting by perfectly well with a smaller staff and less extravagance."

"Then you believe we ought to give up our servants so both we and they can fend for ourselves in this new world of yours?" she asked. "You believe in progress, and never mind those left behind?"

"Of course not," he said shortly. "But surely clinging to the old ways now is the most certain way of being left behind there is."

Lady Mary gave a truly spectacular eye roll. "Granny always says that an aristocrat with no servants is about as much use as glass hammer," she said. "Things work differently here than they do in Manchester. I hope you'll learn that before you become master here and dismiss everyone who doesn't fit into your simpler world."

He was rather impressed by how much disdain she managed to pour into the word Manchester, given that he very much doubted she had ever seen the place.

"Do you truly believe that waiting on you is the best employment available?" he asked. "The world is changing."

"I believe that there are a great many men and women out of work. I believe having a secure job in a beautiful house cannot possibly be the worst employment available. I believe it is reasonable to hope that the war has not destroyed absolutely everything about the life I knew before," she replied, her anger and disdain becoming something far more brittle and fragile. "Do you think those beliefs are unreasonable?"

"I'm sure Cousin Matthew will do right by everyone when the time comes," Cousin Sybil said before Matthew had the opportunity to rely, clearly trying her best to reduce the tension.

"Of course!" Cousin Cora said brightly, recognising her daughter's efforts.

"We'll discuss this later," Cousin Robert said firmly.

Mother went up as soon as they arrived back at Crawley House, leaving Matthew downstairs with a glass of whiskey he poured as soon as he heard the door shut upstairs, telling him his mother would not be back down to huff disapprovingly at him.

The alcohol soothed his frayed nerves, softened the sharp pain in his back, made everything a little more bearable. This, of course, was the reason he rarely indulged. He had seen enough veterans find themselves dependent on alcohol or other substances to get through the impossible endless days of post-war life, and however little he cared for himself or his life, he would never inflict that on his mother.

Tonight, however, an exception seemed justified.

Cousin Robert had lectured him for what felt like hours after the ladies had gone through about how everyone had their role to play in life, and how Matthew had so very much to learn about their way of life, and how of course he could never be expected to understand yet… But that had in fact been the easiest part of their conversation, as Matthew had needed to do very little other than to listen and nod in the right places.

No, what had truly shaken him had been the way Robert had turned increasingly melancholic as he drank and talked and lectured. The post-war world, it appeared, was as disorientating to Lord Grantham as it was to him. Robert wanted the world to go back to how it had been before the war, but anyone with any sense knew that was impossible.

And now Matthew was expected to take up his place in a dying world, and to be glad of it.

Only when his second large glass was empty did he realise that it was far later than he had thought. He really ought to have gone to bed as soon as he got back, he was so very tired.

He sighed, heaved himself up from his armchair, and made his way slowly to the stairs. At least Mother was in bed, and therefore not watching him as he dragged himself upstairs, putting so much of his weight on the banister that it creaked ominously a few times.

He almost cried out in shock when he reached his room only to see Molesley emerge from the shadows looking as tired as he was. After the topic of discussion over dinner, the appearance of a servant waiting up halfway through the night to put a grown man to bed made him irrationally angry and sad that this was still the world he was going to be forced to live in, after all the transformations brought by the war.

"You didn't need to wait up," he snapped. "I am perfectly capable of getting into bed without being dressed and undressed like a doll." He neither wanted nor needed anyone's help to change and get into bed (not anymore, thank God), and nor did he want to feel responsible for depriving Molesley of sleep when he had never asked it of the man.

But Molesley's pained expression made Matthew guilty, and he spoke before the valet had the opportunity to reply. "I'm sorry, Molesley. I'm in a foul mood, it's nothing to do with you. I'm sorry. Just… go to bed," he muttered.

When Molesley didn't leave immediately and opened his mouth to say something, Matthew's anger returned, and he simply went into his room and slammed the door, perhaps a little harder than necessary.

He flopped down on the bed, exhausted. Regretted it immediately as pain shot up his spine. Swore under his breath.

He hated this. All of it. This house that was supposed to be home but wasn't, this family he was suddenly part of but didn't want, the servants following and watching his every move, just when he was finally able to be independent again, the endless guilt and grief, the constant pain in his back, the confusing feelings for his beautiful but horrid cousin that he was trying very hard not to acknowledge… all of it.

Throughout the war, he had looked forward to the end of it all. That was what had kept him going. The thought of normality, of easy domestic life, of peace. And now he was back, and the war was over and he hated it so much, he felt almost nostalgic for the war, for the time when he was still capable of imagining a future that was better, happier.

Suddenly, the room felt stifling and stuffy, and he desperately needed some fresh air. He had spent the better part of four years of his life outdoors, and yet in the past few months had hardly been outside, and suddenly he felt a need to breathe the fresh air, to be cold and to feel alive again. He pushed himself to his feet with a loud groan, still tired from the torturous climb up the stairs, and staggered across the room to the window. He fumbled with the catch, rushing desperately as he felt the warm, still air pressing in on him, and when it finally gave, he pushed the window up with such force, a few flecks of paint floated to the floor like snowflakes. He stood there, breathing deeply as the cold air flooded the room, and he closed his eyes and felt the wildness of the Yorkshire air wash over him, filling his lungs and blowing his hair.

He didn't think. He just stood there, breathing and trying to remember what it was to feel alive.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but he was forcibly pulled from his state of uncaring indifference by a spasm of pain in his back, reminding him he couldn't stand for much longer. He turned reluctantly from the window, suddenly angry again, this time at his useless body for not even allowing him the luxury of the blankness he so craved. He began to make his way back to the bed, but he had unthinkingly tossed his stick aside when he had flung himself onto the bed, and he didn't notice until it was too late that it lay on the floor between him and the bed.

He stumbled, tried to right himself, reaching out for something, anything to steady him. But there was nothing, and his still weakened legs finally gave up and collapsed beneath him.

He hit the floor with a loud thump, and swore loudly. He had been taught, during those endless months of therapy, how to fall safely, but while the correct technique may prevent broken bones, it did nothing to prevent pain shooting through his shoulders, his back, his legs.

He didn't move. What was the point? He just lay there, trying to breathe through the pain and the frustration and the anger, and swearing under his breath as if that was going to make it better.

He heard footsteps rushing down the corridor and swore again when he realised Mother had been in her bedroom, and was a terribly light sleeper, and would have heard it all. He wanted to at least sit up before she came in and saw him like this, but she was too quick for his slow and careful movements and the next thing he knew, she was flinging open the door.

Her eyes found him immediately, a look of pain and horror crossing her face in the instant before she rushed over to him and knelt by his side.

"I fell," he muttered unnecessarily. "I'm fine."

She composed herself instantly, the panic and horror leaving her eyes.

"You're not fine, dear. Tell me what hurts," she said calmly.

Her voice was so soft and yet so firm, so kind and yet so business-like, and Matthew was instantly transported to all those times in his childhood when he had hurt himself playing, and had been patched up by his unflappable mother. And suddenly, he was in tears, and her arms were around him, and he was crying, sobbing into her shoulder as she held him as she always had.

"Everything," he whispered though his tears. "Everything hurts, Mother." His back, his legs, his shoulder and oh, his heart.

All the men dead under his command. All the men he had killed, for no reason other than that they were fighting for their country, as he was. All the families he had deprived of sons and husbands and fathers. The fear and pain and humiliation of his injury, and the endless frustrating months of slow recovery. The short-lived hope and the armistice, so quickly forgotten in the fog of illness and then grief.

Lavinia.

It all hurt so much and every tear he had suppressed for four long years suddenly seemed to be falling from his eyes in an unstoppable flow.

And his Mother held him, and let him cry, and comforted him until finally the flow slowed, and then stopped.

She helped him to his feet in silence, and he sat on the bed, still dressed in his ridiculous white tie dinner attire, while she was in her nightdress.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as she went to close the window.

"My darling boy, you have nothing to be sorry for," she said, her voice tight as if she was near tears herself. "Now go to sleep. Nobody will wake you tomorrow, so sleep as long as you can. You need it. I know everything seems awful, but I promise things will look a little better after a good night's sleep."

Matthew didn't believe her. Far too tired for an argument, however, and having shed his anger and frustration with his tears, he simply lay down and closed his eyes.

But the next day, when he awoke well into the afternoon, embarrassed and probably a little hungover, Matthew found that something inside him felt lighter somehow, as if the heaviness that had increasingly weighed on his soul since the first months of war had lifted just a little. When his mother smiled and asked if he had slept well, the smile he gave her in return took just a little less effort than it ususally did. And when she took his hand and squeezed it, he squeezed back. He wasn't alright, and he still couldn't see how he ever would be, but for her, for this woman who had tried so hard to hold him together when his world had fallen apart, he would try. He owed her that.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and shown interest in this story. It means a lot, and knowing there are people eagerly awaiting the next chapter is the very best inspiration!