AUTHOR'S NOTE: Since I sadly still don't have time for writing, I give you another chapter of this story. The next one may take longer, since I decided to revise it pretty thoroughly.
Some days later, Matthew finds himself in one of the brothels in town.
It is not his preferred kind of venue, for all that this one is restricted for officers only and thus slightly cleaner and more comfortable than he suspects most of those for the rank are. Summers, whose whining for company resulted in dragging Matthew here, claims it's not bad as far as such places go, and that the girls are clean and easy on the eyes. What strikes Matthew, as he drinks his brandy in one of the downstairs parlours waiting for Summers to finish his business upstairs and join him, is that they are all near naked and yet it does very little to arouse his interest.
To be one of the fifteen or twenty men whom each of those women have to serve in one day – it just doesn't appeal to him at all. Not to mention that being a son of a doctor and a nurse – a very plain speaking nurse at that – Matthew knows entirely too much about venereal diseases to feel much arousal in a place like this. At least not the kind which he cannot ignore with ease.
"It's because you are too fastidious, Crawley," drawls Summers when he finally shows up again, his tunic still unbuttoned and a relaxed grin on his face. "You don't like mud, you don't like tarts. What life pleasures do you like, huh?"
"Since when is mud one of life pleasures?" asks Matthew sardonically and Summers guffaws with laughter.
"You've got me there, but I'm still curious. So, leaving mud aside, tarts are out. What does tickle your toes then?"
Matthew raises his glass in one hand and his cigarette in the other, but Summers waves his hand dismissively.
"Yes, yes, you drink, you smoke, but always in moderation. It doesn't count."
Matthew rolls his eyes at that.
"If the only things meeting your criteria require overindulgence, then I guess there aren't any."
Even as he says it, he knows he's lying. Because there are things which bring him joy and keep him sane – or as sane as one may stay in this hellish place – but they are of a less tangible nature than fucking a tart or getting drunk out of his mind. And if fantasising about a woman who is not his fiancée – while he has a fiancée, at least – does not count as a vice, he is convinced it should. It sure isn't right .
Not that he doesn't fantasize about Lavinia as well. He loves her, after all, and intends to marry her one day. He would have not been able to do either if he wasn't attracted to her. But... well, there is a 'but'. He likes imagining all kinds of things with Lavinia – kissing her, laughing with her, making love to her, yes – and all such visions bring him joy and make him smile. He touches his fingers to his lips and then to her photograph every night, wishing to dream about her.
But... when he is scared out of his mind before going over the top and desperately needs a distraction, it's never Lavinia he imagines. It's Mary, always Mary. Mary, looking at him with those amazingly expressive eyes of hers while he makes love to her. Mary he caresses. Mary, whose body he worships in his mind until his nerves settle and he is able to clear his head and be the brave and dutiful officer he is supposed to be. It never works with anybody or anything else. He knows, he has tried everything. It's only Mary.
And the dreams... The dreams are another realm which belong to Mary exclusively. Despite making every effort to think of Lavinia as he falls asleep, it's unavoidably Mary who sneaks into his unconscious mind. Whether they are nightmares or erotic in nature, if a woman appears in them, it will be Mary. In dreams, he is never free of her. He used to despair of it and resent her for it somewhat fierce, but it got better after they reconciled and became friends. It got better when he simply accepted the fact that he will always love her and stopped fighting it. Dreams are at least not a conscious betrayal of his fiancée. Not like conjuring images of Mary before every battle is.
He wonders if he will keep this habit after the war is over and he is married and feels an overwhelming mix of shame and panic at the thought of giving it up. He knows he will never have Mary in any other way than his dreams and imagination, so he guards both jealously. But he knows it's wrong, so wrong, on so many levels. Not right at all, unfair to both Mary and Lavinia, and shameful and unhealthy for him. And yet, and yet... whenever he tries to tell himself he really needs to stop , the panic is clawing at his throat. He cannot stop. He cannot give up this last shred of being with Mary, even if it's only in the confines of his own mind.
So he tells himself that it's all just the war messing up with his head. That it's all going to pass, to be different, when he is safe and clean and married to such a sweet woman who is perfect for him really. That being happily married and seeing Mary happily married to someone else is going to lessen the power of those visions on him and that he will be able to let go of them. Surely when he is no longer in such desperate need of a mental crutch, the intensity of his longing will fade?
Sometimes he even believes himself when he thinks that.
He is not going to confess any of that to Summers, of course. He cannot confess it to anyone. So they all think him so honourable, so in control, so fastidious , when he knows he is anything but. He might not like tarts or mud, true, but he knows exactly how painfully short he falls to being the man he wants to be. An honourable man. A brave man. A principled man. He is neither of those things.
Not while visions of Mary continue to haunt him and he welcomes them with open arms.
Summers gets bored with ribbing him, so they finish their drinks and their cigarettes, Summers buttons up his tunic and they leave the brothel for the sunny crowded street.
Where they nearly walk into Mary of all people.
Mary, whose eyes flicker between them and the place they've just left and whose eyebrows raise in mocking surprise.
Oh God.
"Mary," Matthew stammers, with no idea what to say whatsoever, but desperate to explain himself somehow . "I have not... It's not what... I don't want you to think..."
Mary's expression becomes more amused with every incoherent word and Matthew wants to die . Oh, where is a stray shell when a man needs one? Because as much as Matthew feels he is going to die of embarrassment any moment now, he has to acknowledge that people usually don't perish out of being embarrassed. Even if he dearly would wish to right now.
He glares at Summers, because it is all his fault in the first place, and to be fair, the man tries to make himself useful.
"What Crawley is trying to explain so eloquently," he drawls, putting his arm over Matthew's shoulder, "is that he came here for my delightful company and some drinks only. He is not in a habit of partaking in other services on offer in this establishment."
Mary raises her eyebrows.
"Should I assume that you don't share his qualms?"
Matthew tries to convey telepathically that Summers should end this most inappropriate conversation right this moment , but Summers is shameless and grins unrepentantly.
"Sometimes a man needs to know he is still alive," he answers airily and then takes his arm off Matthew and saunters off, the traitor.
Leaving him alone with Mary. Oh God.
"I really don't..." he starts tentatively and thank all that's holy she decides to take pity on him.
"You really don't need to explain yourself to me, Matthew," she says matter-of-factly. "It's none of my business what you do or don't in your free time."
Technically, she's right, it isn't, but he just cannot stand the thought that she should think he is the kind of man who would spend his free time fucking a tart. Just... no.
"I know I don't," he says, grateful to be finally able to form a complete sentence. "But I don't want you to have a wrong impression of me."
Mary rolls her eyes, which sets him more at ease than anything else she could do. She wouldn't do that if she was truly angry or contemptuous of him. He knows very well how her expression looks like when she is.
"You should worry more what Lavinia would think of it," she points out mercilessly and laughs at what is undoubtedly a proper panic on his face. "Don't worry, I wouldn't have told her even if I didn't believe Captain Summers."
"But you do believe him?" he asks plaintively and she laughs again.
"Matthew," she says in an amused tone. "I do know you."
You don't know half of the worst things about me , he thinks, but is too relieved to protest her statement.
"May I walk you home?" he asks instead.
"I'm walking in search of a decent estaminet actually," she says. "I am on a nightshift tonight and I am sick to death of canteen food."
"May I join you for dinner then?" he asks and something in him loosens when she smiles and accepts. He has not even realised how tense he was until the tension is gone.
He offers her his arm, another thing she accepts with a smile, and walks companionably with her, enjoying the jealous looks of other soldiers passing them by. It's easy to pretend for a moment that this amazing girl on his arm is truly his and he is the luckiest chap in the world. He allows himself this illusion for the course of the afternoon. He will need to come back to Earth soon enough.
When he helps her out of her overcoat in the crowded but inviting looking estaminet, he notices a book sticking out of its pocket.
"What are you reading?" he asks with interest.
" Claudine à l'école by Collette," she answers and Matthew feels his eyebrow go up.
"That's quite scandalous of you," he remarks and laughs at her playfully indignant expression.
"And how do you know enough about this book to make an observation like this?" Mary asks pointedly and he grins.
"Because I've read it too, of course."
"I'm only doing it to improve my French," she says primly but her laughing eyes betray her completely.
"As have I," he assures her with equal solemnity.
"So, do you think there will be a publisher brave enough to translate it into English in this century or will people have to wait until the next one?" she asks with a smirk.
"Maybe for the first volume. The sequels on the other hand..."
"You've read the sequels too?" she asks with delight and Matthew finds himself grinning again.
"I really wanted to improve my French."
They get into a lively discussion of Claudine and Renaud, Miss Sergent and Miss Lanthenay, then debate whether it is Colette or Willy who is more lik ely to be the author of the books, and discover they are both trying to get their hands on La Vagabonde. It is the most delightful dinner Matthew can remember having in years. He wants it to last forever.
Sadly, much sooner than he would like, the food is eaten, the drinks drunk, and the hour of Mary's shift is approaching. He himself has to get back to the camp; there is still paperwork he must complete before morning. Mary looks reluctant to end their evening as well and accepts his offer to walk her to the hospital with alacrity.
It's bitingly cold outside, although thankfully dry, and very dark – most of the houses have their windows completely covered and the streetlights are off in fear of air raids. Matthew takes out his pocket torch and offers Mary his arm again to guide her on uneven sidewalk. Not many people still mill about in the frigid darkness and the walk feels more intimate than anything they shared since early June 1914. They don't speak, neither of them willing to risk breaking the perfect peace and accord between them.
They reach the hospital in good time and hesitate only for a moment before exchanging farewells.
"Godspeed, Mary," he says softly. "Be safe."
"You too, Matthew," she answers, placing a quick kiss on his cold cheek. "And such good luck, as always!"
He feels her lips on his cheek all the way back to the camp.
xxx
To Mary's utter annoyance, it is not a peaceful night. The Germans decided to bomb the army camp, so instead of basking in the nice feeling of reminiscing about her evening and analysing every nuance of Matthew's face and expression, she needs to drive the ambulance there as fast as possible in the darkness without turning the headlights on.
The initial report is that thankfully most of the bombs missed their target and the casualties are not heavy, but she prays fervently the whole way there. He must have been spared; he must have . She cannot imagine such a perfect evening together ending with his death. By the time she reaches the camp, she is frantic with fear.
It is with sheer relief that she hears that the camp was hit by just two bombs in the end; one landing on the kitchen tent and the other on empty sleeping quarters. Only a cook was killed and just a dozen or so soldiers wounded by shrapnel. Her glare is thankfully enough to silence the soldier who's filling her in before he can finish telling her with relish where the poor cook's entrails ended up. She doesn't need that mental picture.
She doesn't see Matthew, but he is not among the wounded and he definitely is not the dead cook, so he must be safe and she can finally breathe again. She recognises another man among the wounded though.
"Corporal Wakefield? I hope you're not too badly hurt?"
"No, not too badly," he smiles at her despite bloody bandages covering his head and arm. "I just need some patching up and I should be right as rain."
She hardly knows him but he was there with her at the cottage and in the birch copse, and he is one of Matthew's men, so she invites him to ride in the front with her. Matthew is their common topic, so to Mary's delight he jumps straight into sharing stories of him.
"You know, I remember one night when I had a touch of flu and I wasn't feeling very well. Some of the boys were going out on a trench raid, and before they went over Captain Crawley, he was still a Lieutenant back then, took off his greatcoat and gave it to me to keep me warm, and told me to crawl into a little bivouac, lie down and try to rest. It was an hour or two before they returned. They'd had a stiff time and lost one or two chaps, but the first thing the captain did when he got back into the trench was to come along and ask how I was feeling."
There is a pleasant warmth in her chest as she listens to this particular story. It's just so... so very much like the Matthew she used to know that she nearly weeps. She loves any version of him, however he changes, but to have it confirmed that in essentials he is still the caring, kind man she has first fallen in love with... that the war hasn't manage to destroy those qualities in him completely... it's precious.
xxx
Whatever pleasant feelings Corporal Wakefield's story inspired in her evaporate rapidly as soon as she finds a clearly shaken Sybil in the kitchen. She is trying to make tea, but her hands shake too much to pour the water.
"I nearly got carved up with a knife last night," says Sybil with a nervous little laugh. "We had a patient who had shellshock, and he went berserk. I was walking up the ward to see to him when one of the other men called out to me and said, 'don't go any further, Sister, he has a knife'. And two bed further on there was this chap throwing himself about. He wasn't particularly after me, he was just going berserk. The other men got him, picked him up, put him on the bed and sat on him, while I sent for the Medical Officer and the Night Sister. We have a sort of kitchen, you know, where the men can make tea or coffee, and he got this knife from the kitchen. They took him away after that, to a special hospital. He was alright up until then, just nervous and quiet. I was amazed when he suddenly went berserk."
"Goodness, Sybil," she says, coming over to hug her as fiercely as she can. "I didn't even think you get shellshock cases there! Aren't they all supposed to go to special hospitals at once?"
"Well, no," explains Sybil, leaning into Mary's embrace. "We have to identify them first and the RAMC doctors are not allowed to diagnose them as shell-shocked at the field anymore. We are supposed to observe them first for a bit and check whether some rest and food won't solve the matter. It quite often does, when it's not a proper shellshock, but just extreme exhaustion. When a man goes without sleep for days on end, the symptoms can be remarkably similar."
Explaining the procedure seems to have a calming effect on her and she soon moves out of Mary's arm to reach for her tea.
"Were you very scared?" asks Mary hesitantly, unwilling to upset Sybil all over again, but feeling something more should be said; that an experience of this kind can't be just dismissed.
Sybil looks thoughtful for a moment.
"You know, not so much, not in the middle of it all. Only now, when I came back and thought that if the other men didn't notice he had the knife before I approached him, he could have carved me up."
Mary shivers at the words, but Sybil smiles at her.
"But since it didn't happen, there is no reason for such a face. Come and have some tea as well, you must be exhausted after your shift too."
xxx
She spends the afternoon in the garage with Branson, as he tries to make her ambulance a little closer to functioning.
"They really give the female volunteers the worst cars they have on hand," grumbles Branson from under the vehicle. "I thought you all were exaggerating until I looked into some. Phryne's even worse than yours."
Mary scoffs.
"Yes, we are such an insult to the war and honour by coming here to help. Sometimes I think they are all treating the war as an exclusive male club which our very presence contaminates in some way and takes away from their fun," she narrows her eyes. "You call Miss Fisher by her Christian name?"
Branson sticks his head from under the car for a moment.
"She asked me to! She's not one for etiquette or formality."
Mary's scowl deepens. She doesn't approve of Branson's relationship with Sybil, not at all, be if he is two-timing her with Phryne and taking advantage of the young girl while doing so, he is not getting out of this garage alive.
Her silence must be ominous enough, because Branson's face reappears. He looks rather indignant.
"Miss Fisher and I are friends, your ladyship. I can't believe you would think me capable of anything else."
"You hardly showed me your best side by seducing my baby sister, Branson," points out Mary, fully expecting the spluttering protest against her use of the word "seducing". "Not to mention the fact that we are both here thanks to you. Has she told you about the shellshock case last night?"
Branson sobers.
"No, but one of the lads at the hospital did. Jesus Christ," he looks up at Mary. "I've never wanted her to face such things. You know, I was once angry and jealous after I heard an officer flirting with her and I told her that her job was just delivering hot drinks to a bunch of randy officers. Oh, she was furious with me then, and rightly so. But I often wish I was right then."
He gets out from under the car and asks with honest concern.
"How is she taking it?"
Mary shakes her head ruefully.
"She was quite shaken this morning, straight after her shift, but by lunchtime she was all level-headed and practical again. I wouldn't be surprised if she's going to take it more in stride than either of us."
She frowns at Branson in puzzlement when he suddenly grins at her.
"It's the first time you compared your concern for Sybil to mine, your ladyship," he explains, his mouth still stretched out in that grin, and Mary can only huff in exasperation at the cheek of him.
xxx
"I cannot believe it," announces Matthew to Mary straight after coming into her house. "For the first time in four years I am going to have a leave on Christmas."
Mary's eyes widen.
"Haven't you just had a leave in October though?"
He grins at her.
"Privilege of rank and advantages of my promotion. Captains get four leaves per year."
"Well, I envy you then. Even if FANY would relieve me from my duties, VAD is not likely to release Sybil from their clutches yet, so we're spending Christmas here," she grumbles as Matthew gives her a sympathetic look of someone who spent his last three Christmases at the front and knows how utterly awful it is. "What are you going to do with your leave then?"
"Since Mother is in France too, I won't be going to Downton. I will probably divide my time between London and Boulogne."
Mary bites her lip and nods, then puts a bright smile on her face.
"We are organising a concert at the hospital, to raise the spirits up at Christmas. If it falls at the beginning of your leave, maybe you could attend?"
Matthew smiles at her in response.
"Will you be in it?"
"Yes."
"Really?" he asks, surprised and intrigued. He has never known her to engage in such activities beyond planning and hosting. "How will you perform?"
"I will sing. Sybil bullied me into it, of course," Mary huffs in mock annoyance.
"Then I have to attend. I've never heard you singing."
"You must have suspected I was taught at least one of feminine arts," says Mary archly. "You know I had multiple governesses."
"You were guarding your secret very well, I had not the slightest suspicion. Do you play as well?"
"To my extreme mortification Edith turned out to be more talented at the piano than me, so I abandoned any attempt to master it quickly to avoid unflattering comparisons."
Matthew laughs.
"So I gather your singing must be superb since you kept with it?"
"You will have to judge for yourself, if you come to the concert," she raises her eyebrow in that bewitching way of hers. "For me it was enough that I sounded better than Edith."
Matthew throws back his head and laughs again.
xxx
Because yes, Mother is not at Downton anymore. A letter from her is usually a highlight of his day, but this time Matthew was ready to tear his hair out.
Why are the women he loves the most so bloody determined to put themselves in danger? Surely not just to push him straight into insanity?
She offers to explain everything in person, so the next time he has few hours free he catches a train to Boulogne-sur-Mer and meets her in a little café close to the British Red Cross Wounded and Missing Enquiry Bureau. Which is apparently her new job for the foreseeable future.
Isobel sighs when she sees his surly face.
"I know it doesn't make you happy," she says briskly. "But I need to be in a place where I am useful and appreciated and it's been made abundantly clear to me that it's not at Downton anymore."
She tells him the whole story of the power struggle with Cora and Matthew is of two minds about it. On one hand, he is furious on behalf of Mother. His blood boils at the thought how underappreciated and unwelcome she has been made to feel and he would love to have some words with their cousins, not necessarily polite words too. But on the other hand... he knows Mother. He can well imagine what kind of missteps she has made herself to escalate the situation to this point, all in best intentions of course. All in all, maybe it's for the best that he wasn't involved in the whole thing. But...
"But why France, Mother?" he asks plaintively. "Couldn't you get a position in London? It would still be bad with the air raids, but Boulogne is so much worse with the port being such an important target... I will worry for you day and night."
"Your Aunt Agnes is here. She is the one who offered me the position if I want it. And the need is so great; the office is positively overwhelmed with the requests to locate missing and wounded soldiers. The letters come in thousands."
He is aware of it, but still, does it have to be his mother who puts herself here? The question must be plain on his face before he can voice it, because Mother's face softens and she grasps his hand on the table.
"We all are in this together, my boy. We all need to do our part, however we can."
He nods and doesn't quarrel with her further. He knows very well there is no point in attempting to change her mind.
"How are Mary and Sybil?" she asks, clearly glad that he has dropped the subject of her relocation to France.
"They are well," he answers easily. "Things have been wrapping up for the winter, so we are all less busy, thank God. There was just one last big action three weeks ago and I and Mary actually ran into each other and had to shelter together for the night..."
He pauses abruptly, realising that he has no wish to tell Mother about the dramatic end to this particular night, for all kinds of reasons.
She gets apparently a very different picture in mind.
"You two spent a night together?"
He nearly chokes on his coffee.
"No! I mean yes, but not like that, Mother! There were two ambulance crews, multiple wounded and half of my unit in that cottage. I cannot think of a less intimate scenario."
And yet his traitorous mind reminds him of the hours spent sitting together in the corner, Mary's head resting on his shoulder, their hands grasping each other throughout that awful night. They were surrounded by dozens of people but there was intimacy between them.
His mother is too shrewd by half, as usual, and must read something more in his face than he intends to convey in words.
"Matthew," she sighs. "I wish you wouldn't keep doing it to yourself."
He instantly bristles.
"Doing what?"
"Chasing after that girl even when it brings you nothing but pain."
"I am not..." he starts objecting, but she just gives him a look.
"You may not intend to ," she allows, "but this is what you're doing and you won't convince me otherwise. You have the same look about you as you had many times before when you were spellbound by Mary and hoping that this time it would go better. It never did, did it?"
Matthew clenches his teeth.
"No, it didn't," he admits with highest reluctance, angry beyond belief that Mother brings those memories and that pain to the surface when he has spent years trying to forget it. "But whatever you say, I am not chasing after Mary. I am engaged, remember?"
"Do you ?" she parries calmly. "Because I had my doubts about the speed of things with Lavinia, but now that I know her better and when I've seen the two of you together, I can see you made a good choice in her. You two could be very happy together. But you won't be if you keep insisting on chasing a phantom."
"Mary is not a phantom!"
"The Mary you imagine is ," continues Isobel mercilessly. "You build this ideal image in your head and then crash and burn when you're confronted with the real woman behind it. One who is much more aware of her self-interest than you ever admit, never mind often harsh and even cruel as well."
"You don't know her at all," says Matthew harshly, more harshly than he usually speaks to Mother. He wants to yell at Mother and tell her about what Mary did for him and how much it has cost her. How brave and sensitive and wonderful she is. In his mind he sees Mary asking him if he considers her a monster, if he despises her, and he feels protectiveness raise in him like a tsunami. He knows how horrid Mary can be, he was on the receiving end of that for months when he first arrived at Downton and for reasons he was perfectly innocent of. But there is so much more to her, so much vulnerability beneath all the superiority, arrogance and lashing tongue, and sometimes he thinks he is one of the very few people who can see it. Even Mary herself seems to agree with Mother's opinion of her. I often said myself that I don't have a heart.
She does. She does and sometimes he thinks there is no one to appreciate how precious and fragile it is.
Mother's eyes are wide, her face sad.
"I see," she says heavily. "Matthew, but have you thought what you're actually doing here? My opinion of Mary aside, how right is it to develop this connection I see you crave with Mary while being engaged to Lavinia?"
This is a very good question, for which Matthew has no good answer, so he doesn't even attempt to. He evades instead.
"There is nothing between Mary and me which Lavinia could object to," he says, as his mind hisses liar at him. "We are friends and that's all that matters. I have no illusions that she could ever see me as anything else."
No matter how much he wishes for it to be untrue.
"What does Mary think of it, I wonder, if you look at her the same way you look when you speak of her?"
"How do I look?" asks Matthew petulantly.
"Moonstruck," answers Isobel curtly, making him sputter.
"I do not!"
"You most definitely do. And whatever this girl feels or doesn't feel for you, it must be messing with her head if in the same breath you insist you are going to marry someone else. She was considering marrying you at one point, after all, and there are no doubts about your prospects now, are there?"
Mother would make a wonderful sniper , he thinks. She knows exactly where to aim.
"You are my son and I want to see you happy," says Isobel with emphasis. "Whether you can see it happening with Lavinia or, despite everything which went between the two of you before, with Mary, is for you to figure out. But Matthew, you cannot string along those women like that. This is not the kind of man I brought you up to be."
Matthew's mouth is downturned in a stubborn grimace, but he knows his mother is right. Not about Mary, of course, but about his own behaviour in all of this mess. Oh, he knows, just as he knows what he should do, what's the right thing to do, however much he would wish for it to be otherwise.
He ignores the feeling of desperate panic clawing at his throat.
xxx
He comes back to the camp in a foul mood and it does not get at all better when he receives his new orders. He is swearing up a storm all the way from the command tent.
"Sergeant Stevens," he says, handing him a list of names. "Round up the men. We're going on patrol."
"Which kind, sir?" asks Stevens roughly. "Reconnaissance only?"
"No," answers Matthew grimly. "Offensive."
Before he leaves the dugout, he makes sure his lucky charm is in his pocket.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sybil's incident with a shellshocked patient and Corporal Wakefield's story about an officer lending him his coat are both based on real events. I will add the names and the source later, since I forgot to make a note in my main file.
Brothels were extremely popular among the soldiers of all armies participating in WW1 and, as with most of everything back then, the officers either had separate ones from rank soldiers or, if that couldn't be arranged, had separate hours. The British Army gave up on trying to prevent the soldiers from going there by lecturing them on morality and abstinence (their initial approach) and instead invested a lot of resources into handing out condoms and medical officers providing more practical lectures on sex ed and venereal diseases (which remained a significant problem taking thousands of soldiers temporarily out of the field, the main reason the Army High Command cared about it in the first place).