On November 11th, Matthew wakes up with Mary in his arms.
He still marvels at it, whenever it happens – and it happens every morning now. He was convinced for years that such an outcome was impossible, for all kinds of reasons – her indifference and hostility, their painful breakup so soon after gaining hope of getting to marry her, subsequent years of estrangement, the war, finally his devastating injury… And yet here she was, with her head on his chest and an arm thrown over his belly, and with their child making her own belly swell gently under her nightgown.
And the war is going to be over today at eleven.
He still can't wrap his head around the fact that it's really going to be over. It shouldn't be so hard; he's been out of it for three months and obviously never going back to the trenches, but still, it seems so utterly incomprehensible that this horrific, senseless carnage will be finally over. That from today onwards no more young men will be getting killed or injured as he and all the others convalescing at Downton were, their lives irrevocably ruined.
Although, when Matthew pulls Mary closer to him and touches her belly lightly with his other hand, thinking that his child is going to be born in peace and hopefully never experience war in his or her life, he is forced to admit that his own life can hardly be described as ruined. It's different than he's ever expected or wanted, true – and often so dishearteningly difficult to face – but on this morning he doesn't feel as if he has the right to despair at the outcome.
Against all odds, both he and Mary survived the war. Neither of them unscathed, both wounded and crippled in their own way, but they survived. They are married. They will have a child.
And for the first time since waking up after Amiens Matthew gives God his most sincere thanks.
xxx
Mary eyes her reflection with dismay as Anna finishes adjusting her hair.
She hoped never to see her ambulance driver's uniform again. At least it still fits, shapeless as it is, despite the definite though still gentle swell of her middle. But in the last three months she's been doing everything to get rid of the Mary Crawley who drove an unwieldy vehicle full of screaming men and to step again into the shoes of Lady Mary Crawley, the future Countess of Grantham.
Seeing herself in that uniform again is like being confronted by a ghost.
"You don't have to wear this, milady," Anna reminds her delicately. "Neither Lord Grantham nor Captain Crawley expect this of you."
Mary's scowl deepens as she fiddles with her medal.
"They both will be in their uniforms and so will Sybil," she says, telling herself firmly to get a grip. "I will wear it today – but you may burn it after. I never want to see those clothes again. It's bad enough I'm wearing them in my engagement photo."
She doesn't tell Anna, but the uniform and all the gruesome memories it brings are not the only reason she's nervous and twitchy. Sybil got a telegram from Tom.
He's going to be in London at the end of the week and Sybil is going to meet him there.
Mary begged her not to do anything stupid, but she isn't naive – she knows all too well what kind of emotions can be stirred by seeing a man you love safe after months of separation and fear. She smiles ruefully when she touches her stomach briefly, her wedding ring glinting in the weak November sunlight - yes, she knows it very well indeed. But as they discussed it from the beginning, Sybil and Tom are not Mary and Matthew, and Mary's stomach twists in anxiety at the prospect of all hell breaking loose when Sybil finally drops her bomb. She's not sure what she dreads more: losing Sybil to family strife and disinheritance after everything they went through together or the thought of her little sister languishing in some Dublin slum in desperate poverty – if she's not killed for having an English aristocrat for a father. Sybil of course is full of fire and courage, ready to face anything to be with Tom and probably genuine in her often expressed distaste for idle life in luxury, but Mary can't stop thinking that her stubborn little sister is in for an incredibly rude awakening.
xxx
William whistles cheerfully as he's tying Matthew's shoes while Matthew adjusts his tie and pins on his Military Cross. It makes Matthew more cheerful too, just as it did back in the trenches. It was always impossible to brood properly when confronted with William's relentless optimism, even in most desperate circumstances.
"Happy today, Mason?" he asks, his own smile widening when William grins at him.
"The war ends in fifteen minutes, sir," he says with deep satisfaction. "And we both made it!"
They did. Against all odds, they both survived the hell which should have devoured them and William is of course right, it is a cause for celebration. Yet, Matthew can stop a sigh when he looks at his legs.
William, perceptive as always, notices right away.
"I know it could've ended better for you, sir," he says seriously. "But you've still made it and you're married to Lady Mary, like you've always wanted – and with a little one on the way. And I'm here and I'm going to marry Daisy now that the war is over. That's heaps better than what we thought would happen, isn't it, sir?"
Matthew raises his head with a determined smile.
"Damn right as always, Mason. Come on, get me to the big house. Let's see that war bloody ending."
xxx
Matthew startles when he sees Mary in her driver's uniform. For a terrifying moment he is brought back there, expecting to be torn from her at any moment without a guarantee that he will ever see her again - but then he sees her slender hand resting lightly in her belly and he's brought back.
The war is over and they're never going to be apart again.
The light reflects on Mary's Military Medal and his throat gets tight at everything it means.
It's thanks to her that he's able to see the war ending.
Unaware of his thoughts, Mary approaches him with a wry smile.
"I'm lucky this dreadful thing still fits," she says dryly. "But I've already told Anna to burn it straight after the ceremony. I'm never going to wear it again."
"What if your unit decides to meet and reminisce one day?" asks Matthew teasingly, although he shares her sentiments. The war might have brought them together, but he's more than happy at the prospect of putting it behind them for good.
"Then we can do it at a nice restaurant while dressed in decent clothes," says Mary firmly. "I'm done with looking frumpy."
"You never did," protests Matthew honestly. "Not even splattered with mud. I don't think you're capable of looking frumpy if you tried."
Mary gives him an incredulous look, but caresses his face briefly in thanks.
Then it is time for them all to gather in the great hall. Robert makes a heartfelt speech and then the clock strikes eleven.
The war is over.
Matthew thinks of all the men he knew who didn't make it – Summers, Davis, Collins, Brooke, Taylor, Harkness, Russell, MacDonald, Evans, Smith, Jones, Fuller, Irving... so many others, British and German, whom he saw die, often at his own hands – and he can't help a bitter reflection whether any of this terrible sacrifice was ever worth it. His own, paltry in comparison to the final price paid by them, but still irrevocably life changing for him and Mary. Mary's scars, visible and invisible, her nightmares matching his.
He feels Mary squeeze his shoulder lightly, her eyes far away, lost in her own memories and reflections, and he's filled again with a sense of deep gratitude among his habitual bitterness.
The war is over and they both are alive to witness it.
xxx
The contrast between the whistling William of yesterday and the morose, red-eyed figure coming to help him out of bed the next morning couldn't be more startling.
"William!" exclaims Matthew, forgetting the proper address for a moment in his anxiety. "Whatever is the matter?"
William is too low to even attempt to hide his distress.
"Daisy and I are no longer engaged, sir," he confesses miserably.
"Why?" asks Matthew, truly shocked by this development. He knows all too well how deeply William loves Daisy. Although of course he did hint at some troubles between them since they came back...
"She doesn't love me, sir," says William and his heart is so clearly broken that Matthew's own clenches painfully in response. "I wanted to choose the wedding date last night and she said... She said that she only agreed to be engaged because she didn't want me to go to war sad. She says she likes me, but she doesn't love me – and that she never did."
William's voice breaks on the last word and despite his furious blinking fresh tears gather in his eyes.
"I'm sorry for blubbering, sir," he says hoarsely, averting his face. "I'm just..."
"In more pain than you've ever expected to be," says Matthew softly. "I'm so sorry, William."
He was there, four years ago, dealing with the blow of expecting to be married to the love of his life only to learn that she doesn't love him enough to marry him – or at least not without outside trappings. His own pain was bad enough to send him running straight into the horrors of the war. He doesn't want to think how badly William is hurting right now.
It strikes him though that while he left the country to escape Mary, William is employed with Daisy in the same small household.
"William," he starts carefully, "would you prefer for Daisy to go back to working in the big house? I'm sure Mrs Patmore and Lady Grantham would agree to take her back and Lady Mary and I can get another cook."
William looks up at him, startled.
"Oh, no, sir, not at all!" he says immediately. "That wouldn't be right, taking away Daisy's position just because I was mistaken about her feelings. She deserves to be a cook, not just a kitchen maid."
"But you don't intend to leave?" asks Matthew and doesn't even care that apprehension is loud and clear in his voice. He can't imagine anybody but William assisting him with everything he can't do for himself anymore.
To his great relief, William immediately denies any such plans.
"No, sir, never!" he states firmly. "I could never leave you, after everything you did for me. You took a bullet for me, sir. I can handle some awkwardness with Daisy until we can be friends again. I don't want to never see her again. I... I care too much about her even if she..." his voice breaks again.
Matthew throws the propriety to the wind and reaches out to place his hand on William's arm. He doesn't know what to say – he doesn't think there is anything he could say to make it better – but he wants William to know that he is sorry to see his friend in so much pain.
It somehow neither shocks nor scandalises him when William squeezes his hand for dear life and bursts out into choking, breathless sobs.
xxx
As soon as Sybil is back from London, Mary wastes no time in dragging her to the Countess Cottage to ensure that she has adequate privacy to grill her.
"And?" she asks anxiously as soon as they are seated in Mary's sitting room.
Sybil doesn't even bother to pretend that she doesn't get Mary's meaning.
"We're engaged!" she says brightly, but with a defiant look in her blue eyes. "We're going to marry as soon as Tom has a paying position."
"As who?" asks Mary, keeping her composure. To be honest, she's nearly wilted in relief. She was afraid they might have already married in London. She thinks dryly that maybe she's judging by herself.
"As a journalist, as I've told you multiple times," points out Sybil, making Mary roll her eyes.
"I know that this is what he would like to do," she says. "But does he have a reasonable chance to get such a job? Is he any good?"
Sybil nods sharply.
"He is," she says assuredly. "I've read his work. He has clear, passionate views on many things and he expresses them beautifully. Better than many journalists whose articles I've been reading over the years."
"But will he find a newspaper willing to accept those views of his?" asks Mary shrewdly. "One which pays, at least? Because as far as I know most socialist rags don't and he's not likely to be accepted by a conservative paper."
For the first time, Sybil's confidence seems to fall a little.
"He wouldn't want to work for a paper which is against the causes he wholeheartedly cares for," she admits, which doesn't surprise Mary in the slightest. She's had enough discussions with Tom Branson to know that he has more passion than good sense when it comes to politics. If only he wasn't determined to drag an admittedly very willing Sybil into it! "But there are reputable papers which support Irish independence and vote for women. I'm sure he will get a position with one of them."
"Yes, in Dublin," says Mary darkly. "I don't expect he's likely to find any paper he likes in England."
Sybil looks at her earnestly.
"Yes, it probably will be in Dublin," she says calmly. "He's on his way there now. But Mary, I don't mind. I've already written to the Royal College of Surgeons to inquire what requirements I would have to fulfil to be accepted as a student there."
Mary rubbed her brow against an oncoming headache.
"But you do realise that if Papa cuts you off, you won't be able to afford your studies? Not if you are forced to work for a living as well!"
Sybil's eyes are clear and determined when she looks at her.
"Then I will work," she says simply. "But I will be free to live my life on my own rules, with the man I love. I know you worry about me, Mary, but you don't have to. However it all plays out, I'll be getting what I want."
xxx
"I have no idea what to do," says Mary desperately to Matthew when he's half-lying in bed, reclining against the pillows, and she paces nervously through his bedroom. Their bedroom, really, since she doesn't even remember when she slept in her own. "I was considering asking Michael Gregson if he wouldn't give Tom an interview, but I don't trust that man to accept it!"
Matthew's mouth twitches at the thought of Tom Branson working for a magazine for upper classes. The Sketch covers a wide array of social issues, but definitely not from a socialist or Irish point of view, even if it is often sympathetic to the plight of the poor.
"No, it will be some rebel paper in Ireland, paying pittance and raided by police on the regular basis," rants Mary, hugging herself in genuine distress. "Sybil is going to be lucky if he doesn't end up arrested and she alongside him!"
Matthew extends his arm to her.
"Come here," he coaxes gently and smiles when she obeys, jumping into bed and allowing him to embrace her tightly against his chest. He can't deny a trickle of pride when he feels her tense body relax at his touch. "Darling, you can't control either of them. Both Sybil and Branson are headstrong and opinionated – and they love each other very much. They will do anything to be together, you know it."
"Yes," mumbles Mary into his pyjama shirt, "but does it have to mean to go to a place where they are likely to encounter danger and poverty?"
"You know Branson," says Matthew gently. "You know how deeply he cares for his country. He's been forced to fight for one he sees as the oppressor of his people for a year and a half; I can't imagine he could live with himself if he didn't take the opportunity to stand up for Ireland now, when its fate is hanging in balance."
"He should care for Sybil more!" she cries out, lifting her head to glare at him. "Didn't she sacrifice enough, going to war for him? Does he have to drag her to a place where she'll be despised for who she is and with us powerless to help her if she needs it?"
Matthew reaches his hand to caress her agitated face.
"It's Sybil," he points out. "It won't be probably easy for her there, you're right, but do you truly believe that she won't be able to make people love her?"
Mary bites her lip and lowers her head back to his chest.
"No," she admits reluctantly. "She's beautiful through and through. If anybody can win people over, it's her. But I'm so worried for her."
"Branson won't allow her to come to any real harm," states Matthew with conviction. He remembers Branson's frantic worry for Sybil after he escaped from being taken prisoner by the Germans; no, this wasn't a man who would ever be truly reckless with her safety. "And as for helping her – if she truly needs help, we will."
"How?" asks Mary desperately. "We have no influence in Dublin and if Papa casts her off without any money…"
"We have money of our own," Matthew reminds her. "Not enough to replace her settlement if Robert ends up refusing to give it to her, but surely enough to keep her from starving. If she needs help, we won't leave her alone."
Mary looks at him anxiously.
"Even if Papa forbids it?" she asks tremulously. "He might, you know, if he's angry enough – and he will be angry about that. He will hit the roof."
"He probably will," agrees Matthew, "but it won't stop us from doing what is right. Your settlement and my savings are legally ours; he can do nothing to prevent us from gifting a part of it to Sybil – if you're willing to, of course."
Mary's expression turns incredulous.
"How can you even doubt it? Of course I will give her the money if we can! I hate the thought of going against Papa's orders, but it's Sybil! We can't leave her desperate!"
"So we want," answers Matthew calmly. "If she needs help, we'll help, simple as that. So don't worry about it all so much, my darling. It will be alright. Besides, I don't believe Robert will be able to stay mad at Sybil forever. He forgave me, after all, didn't he?"
Mary scoffs.
"He would have forgiven you if you committed murder," she mutters. "You can do no wrong in his eyes."
Matthew shrugs, unable to deny it. He can still hardly believe what calibre of transgressions Robert forgave him for.
Like marrying his eldest daughter in secret and getting her tied to a crippled husband in the bargain.
"But Sybil is his little girl," he points out. "You'll see, he'll forgive her too."
He ponders the matter for a moment before he adds.
"Not sure if I'd want to be in Branson's shoes though."
Mary laughs heartily at that.
"He'd better hide behind Sybil's skirts," she says drily. "His only hope is that she likes him enough to protect him from Papa's wrath."
xxx
"I've heard I will have to find a different nurse soon," says Matthew as Sybil is prodding his dead legs with the electric wand the next day. In fact, it's hard for him to keep a cheerful tone at the thought. As much as he's keeping his fingers crossed for Sybil and Tom, he knows he's going to miss her terribly.
Sybil looks around the room to ensure that they have sufficient privacy, but there's hardly a need for it. Ever since the Armistice, the officers are leaving the convalescent home as soon as they are able to survive more or less on their own, most of them eager to rejoin their families now that the threat of being sent back to the trenches is over, and of course no new ones are coming.
The meat grinder has finally stopped.
"If everything goes right," confirms Sybil. "But I will make sure that you're going to get someone good to take care of you; I won't suffer to have all my hard work at keeping your legs from going spastic wasted."
Matthew gives her more of a grimace than a smile in response. Usually he appreciates her blunt acceptance of the reality of his condition – it's sure easier to bear than the awkward pussyfooting most people use when speaking of it – but he hates thinking that his bloody legs can and probably will get even worse.
He firmly doesn't think about the flicker of hope from the Armistice Day. That must have been a fluke or a momentary delusion.
It couldn't have meant anything.
"Did you get a response from the Royal College of Surgeons?" he asks, both because he's truly interested in Sybil's plans and to distract himself from dangerous thoughts.
"Yes," answers Sybil, appearing torn between enthusiasm and apprehension. "They said that I do have a chance and that my experience as a nurse would be valuable – and that they are willing to wave my lack of formal schooling – if I pass the entrance exams."
"When are they?" asks Matthew. He can't help wondering what kind of chance Sybil really has of passing them. From Mary's disparaging remarks regarding her own education, he doesn't think Sybil had much to prepare her for a medical school.
"In June," says Sybil with a sigh.
"So you have over six months to study," says Matthew as encouragingly as possible.
"I know, but some of the subjects I've never studied before!" admits Sybil with visible frustration. "I learnt quite a lot of maths and biology, just because I was interested – my governesses were not really equipped to tutor me, but there were plenty of books in the library – and I learnt a lot of anatomy in the nursing course and through my work – but there's also chemistry and latin and I have no knowledge of either!"
"But you have the time to learn," says Matthew, looking at her seriously. "I can help you with Latin, if you want, but I think you should hire a proper tutor for chemistry and maybe other subjects as well. It will be a lot of work, but you are very clever. I'm sure you have a chance. And if you fail, you can always try again the next year. It won't necessarily be the end of this dream for you."
Sybil looks at him fondly, even though she's clearly not completely convinced.
"Thank you," she says gratefully. "But of course it won't matter much if Papa casts me off without a penny. I don't care if he does, we'll manage, but it will make going to school difficult, unless beginning journalists earn much more than I suspect."
"I and Mary talked about it already," says Matthew matter-of-factly. "If it happens, we will give you enough money for you to become a doctor. I know you will be a fantastic one."
Sybil gapes at him.
"That's terribly sweet, Matthew, but I couldn't possibly accept!" she exclaims, then looks around in a momentary fear of being overheard. Thankfully, none of the few people present in the physiotherapy room pays them any attention. "Neither of you are so rich yourself."
Matthew shakes his head. Even Sybil, the most down-to-earth of the Crawley sisters, has a truly distorted view of what constitutes wealth, at least in his opinion.
"We have enough to sponsor your education should you need it," he states firmly. "You may treat it as a scholarship or even a loan, if you want to. You may pay us back when you are a rich and famous doctor."
"What if I decide to have my practice in the slums of Dublin instead of Harley Street?" asks Sybil cheekily, but he can see that she's truly touched.
Matthew grins at her.
"I will find myself not at all surprised and will gladly donate to your charity clinic," he looks at her more seriously. "But you know what you should do, in my opinion? Tell Robert that you want to go to medical school. Don't maybe start with an explanation that it's one in Ireland, but ask him to arrange for proper tutors for you. There's no reason for you not to use the resources at your disposal now, before you possibly burn your bridges behind you."
Sybil scoffs, putting the electric rod away as she moves the machine to Matthew's other side.
"As if Papa would ever approve of such ideas! He wants me to go back to being a sweet debutante and find myself a suitable husband, as if the last four years haven't happened."
"Well, yes," agrees Matthew, "but give him time to get used to the idea. He will refuse at first, but he's never been able to refuse you anything you truly wanted for long. And it's not like you will be able to hide that you're studying for hours every day, so you may just as well come clean."
Sybil ponders his advice for a long moment and finally nods.
"You might be right," she says slowly and reaches with the rod to the muscle of his left tigh. "Ready for round two?"
His muscle twitches and Matthew can't stop himself from a hiss of pain at the sharp pain in his leg.
He regrets it as soon as he notices Sybil's wide, shocked eyes.
"Matthew!" she whispers, staring at him. "You felt it!"
The denial is immediately ready on his lips, but he doesn't think he can fool her.
"It doesn't mean anything," he says instead. "I still don't feel my legs at all – or anything touching them."
"But you felt the current when I used the rod," insists Sybil then lowers it again. "Let's see if it was a one-off thing."
It wasn't and Matthew doesn't hiss only because he clenches his teeth so hard they ache too.
It's pointless since his grimace is enough of an answer for Sybil.
"Oh my God, Matthew," she whispers again. "Oh my God."
"It's nothing," pleads Matthew desperately. "Don't make a big thing out of it."
"But it is a big thing!" protests Sybil. "You felt it – twice! It means that you're healing, that your spine and nerves are recovering!"
"It isn't," insists Matthew. "Sybil, please!"
She looks at him closely.
"Why are you afraid of this?" she asks, puzzled. "It's good news, Matthew! It may mean…"
"But it probably won't," says Matthew harshly. "I spoke with Doctor Clarkson already when I started having sensations in my leg and he said it's most likely just phantom ones, like the amputees experience."
"But what just happened was no phantom sensation," points out Sybil. "You reacted to stimuli."
"Yes, but it still doesn't mean that anything will change. We've already known that my injury is an incomplete one, ever since I regained continence – but there's no guarantee that I will ever improve further in any meaningful way. This," Matthew gestures at the rod still in Sybil's hand, "doesn't mean anything other than I'll like those sessions much less than I used to."
"Matthew," says Sybil slowly, putting the rod away and sitting on the edge of the physiotherapy table to take his hand in hers. "Don't you think it's better to hope? Because I think you have reasons to."
"No," answers Matthew, again in a harsh tone. He feels himself scowl as he turns his eyes away from Sybil. "It's not."
"Why?" asks Sybil gently.
For a long while Matthew is silent. How can he even try to put into words what fills him with such dread at the very thought that this minuscule reaction from just one of his legs means anything? Because he does feel dread, possibly worse than before going over the top. Lack of hope of ever getting better has been crushing enough that it took him months to claw himself out of the depths of despair, but to allow himself to hope now… even a little… is worse.
But this is Sybil and if he can force himself to tell anyone, it's her.
"I can't go through it again," he admits hoarsely. "If I let myself believe that it's a sign of something more and then it all comes to nothing… it would be like waking up after Amiens all over again… and I can't go through it again. I barely survived it the first time around."
Sybil's hand tightens on his. She was there when he learnt it for the first time; she knows how bad it was.
"Then I will hope for you," she says simply. "Because even if it doesn't mean you'll walk again, it is a good sign. There are so many smaller improvements which might be in the cards for you."
Matthew looks up at her desperately.
"Just don't tell Mary," he pleads. "Or Mother. I couldn't stand to see their disappointment when it all comes to nothing."
Sybil bites her lip in indecision but then her expression settles in determination.
"Alright," she says. "But only on the condition that you'll consult Dr Coates about this development."
"Why?" asks Matthew with displeasure. He can't even imagine how he could possibly arrange it without Mary and Mother learning of it.
"Because if I'm right you may need a complete reevaluation of your physiotherapy regime," says Sybil. "At least if you want a chance to possibly get out of this chair."