"Are you sure you want to do it?" asks Mary, looking sceptically at Matthew dressed immaculately in shooting tweeds and holding a double barrel gun on his lap. He should look ridiculous attired like that while seated in a wheelchair, but somehow Mary can only see how handsome he is. The casual competence with which his hands grip the gun make her uneasy somehow, the contrast with her memory of the previous shoots she had attended with him pointed and sharp. "You were never keen on it, before the war."
Matthew shrugs.
"I'm still not," he answers, "but Robert is. I hope to climb up a little higher back into his good graces."
Mary's face tightens with annoyance.
It's been a week since the drama following Sybil's announcement and Papa has not yet relented or came to terms with it. He keeps stubbornly insisting that Sybil's ambition is a passing fancy and her plans sheer lunacy; anyone helping her on this path is a traitor by definition. Since Matthew and Mary are funding the whole escapade, they are on the top of that list, of course, but by no means the only ones. Edith earned her banishment by pointing out the discussions of abolishing the laws preventing women from joining most professions currently reserved for men, which surely would mean that Sybil having one wouldn't be so unusual in her generation, and Isobel for agreeing with Edith. Aunt Rosamund by offering Sybil to live with her in London while she prepares for her exams. The most shocking addition was definitely Granny who admitted to putting Aunt Rosamund up to it.
"Do you know what Sybil was going to do until I told Rosamund to invite her?" she asked, rolling her eyes at her son with her usual lack of reverence. "Have you even asked? Because I did and her plan was to room with a friend of hers, a secretary and a former servant, in some fourth floor walk up flat in a part of London not suited even for charity visits. Is that what you would have preferred?"
It wasn't, of course – everybody could see that Robert was aghast at the prospect – but he doubled down hard.
"Maybe if she was uncomfortable enough, she would have given up the whole sorry business sooner."
Mary and Matthew, who remembered the house in France very well indeed, only exchanged exasperated looks. If Robert was going to wait for Sybil to be discouraged by lack of creature comforts, he would be waiting a long time.
The only person in the family Robert is still talking with normally is Cora and Mary has suspicion that it is less due to her mother agreeing with him than diplomatically taking his side and quietly plotting to turn him over to Sybil's side behind closed doors, as usual. Cora is still despairing over Sybil, but she at least knows her child well enough to realise that trying to force her to change her mind is only going to push her further away.
It's this charming state of affairs at Downton which marks the occasion of the very first January shoot since the war started. It hasn't been held on New Year, since the house was still playing convalescent home for its few remaining patients; but now, with the last of them gone, the shoot is to celebrate Downton's return to business as usual. The earl's youngest daughter might be rebelling against her father and the role prescribed by centuries of tradition, but the shoot at least would follow the protocol to the smallest letter, under Lord Grantham and Carson's watchful eyes. The invitations have been sent, the neighbours mustered, the villagers hired to get the birds in line to get shot at, the guns and the silver cleaned. Everything is expected to be perfect and, if Robert has his wish, with no hint of either the war or the changing world trying to rise from its ashes.
If Mary was to be honest, she never liked the shoots. There is no active role for her to play, unlike with the fox hunts. Standing besides guns and celebrating their sporting achievements bored her to death unless the man in question was enticing enough to flirt with which used to be her chief occupation since she was out anyway. Now she doesn't object to spending time with Matthew in that way, except she is rather worried that it will either bring bad memories or, at the very least, kill his back with being pushed all over the uneven terrain. She knows better than to mention any of it though; it would be bound to make Matthew only more stubborn about going.
A trait most of their family share and one which proves Matthew's belonging among them more convincingly than Debrett or Burke.
Our baby is doomed, thinks Mary, caressing her stomach and feeling the said baby move under her hand. Or, more accurately, we are.
She's been feeling the baby move for several weeks now but it still startles her every time it happens; the sensation so alien and strange. There is another human being inside her, moving independently of her will – something she finds really hard to comprehend. Matthew has been trying time and again to feel it too, his hands reaching for Mary's belly every time they are alone, but so far with little luck. The kicks are still too light to be felt easily from the outside although they are definitely getting stronger. Mary is convinced, and both Isobel and Doctor Clarkson confirm it's true, that it shouldn't take long now for them to be noticeable by other people. Matthew is not consoled by their words and prone to sulking slightly when yet again it's only Mary's skin he feels under his palm.
"You're lucky you can feel him," he said mournfully just this morning. "You're getting a head start at knowing him while he remains an abstract idea to me."
He's picked up Mary's habit of referring to the baby as a "he", even though he doesn't stop cautioning her it might very well be a daughter – a logic Mary refuses to acknowledge. She's fully aware of her hypocrisy, considering her own bitterness over the disappointment her sex had been for everyone, but expects she's going to be guilty of the same crime if she has a daughter. It would have been different if she had another chance at having a son, but since it's the only baby she's going to have… well, she's going to assume it's a boy and deal with her disappointed hopes if she turns out to be mistaken. It's a strategy Matthew heavily disapproves of, but gave up on attempting to change her mind about. For all his typical Crawley stubbornness he too knows how to pick his battles, especially with her.
Speaking of battles, Mary can see how profoundly unhappy he is by his break with Robert – thus the participation in the shoot, which he could easily excuse himself from considering his wheelchair. Not that Mary is happy about the state of things, but she supposes she is more used to finding herself at odds with Papa, while it's the first time golden boy Matthew is experiencing that.
He must have seen where her thoughts went, because he's looking at her imploringly.
"He's been kinder and more supportive of me than I ever had any right to expect," he says softly. "Both before the war when he accepted the complete stranger with open arms and did everything in his power to make me feel welcome, and after I came back from France."
Mary releases an impatient huff and acquiesces. Who knows, it all may work. Papa might be happy enough by seeing Matthew shoot down a few birds that he will forget that his heir is aiding and abetting his youngest daughter's rebellion after eloping with his oldest. Pity Matthew can't play cricket anymore.
"Let's go then," she says, gesturing for William, standing ready in the shadows, to come and push Matthew's chair to the gathering place. "And let's hope your aim is better nowadays."
Matthew smiles wryly at her.
"I would feel more confident if it was my pistol," he answers amiably. "Those double barrels are something wholly different. But I hope seeing me try is going to be enough to soften Robert's heart."
Mary scoffs but puts her hand briefly on his shoulder, caressing it in fondness she is rarely ready to display in front of witnesses.
"You've always been the optimistic one."
The look Matthew gives her in response is positively saucy.
"Don't I have reasons to be? I managed to convince you to marry me, after all."
Behind his chair, William bites his lips to stop himself from laughing.
xxx
The uneven ground and the long grass covering the meadow they're walking through makes him rattle in sync with every push of his chair and is killing his back. Matthew clenches his hands on the hunting rifle and grinds his teeth to stop himself from hissing in pain. He can hear William's heavy breathing behind him as he strains to push Matthew forward which is not an easy feat on this terrain. William is strong and very well recovered from his injuries, but Matthew, although nowhere near fat, is not exactly lightweight either, and his chair is made from solid wood.
He wants nothing more than to order William to turn around and bring him back home, but he'll be damned if he does and it's only partially due to his plan of winning Robert over.
His pride would never let him give up now.
For most of the neighbours gathered for the shoot it is the first time they have occasion to lay their eyes on Lord Grantham's crippled heir and not all of them have enough good breeding to stop themselves from gawking at Matthew. It's blatant enough that even Robert, never the quickest to read the undercurrent in any room, puts aside his anger with him and makes a show of welcoming him warmly and loudly expressing hope that he'll enjoy good sport today. Apparently whatever Robert's beef with Matthew, he's not going to allow anyone to see his heir as inadequate in any way. Matthew's throat is too tight at this gesture of unwavering support to answer in any other way than a sharp nod.
He's not going to embarrass Robert by appearing weak and useless now. He can stand a bit of pain.
He knows he's not fooling Mary in the slightest – he sees the concerned looks she directs at him from the corner of her eyes – but she is also determined to spare him humiliation and doesn't do anything which could be interpreted as fussing while she walks steadily by the side of his chair, her head held high. His stormbraver. She may berate him for his foolishness later – he's rather sure she will – but here, in public, she's not going to give even a hint that her husband is not in perfect shape, whether he can walk or not.
Matthew is neither stupid nor blind; he knows very well that he is once again the talk of the neighbourhood, just as when he had first come here from Manchester of all places. With the casualty rates among junior officers, Lord Grantham is hardly the only one with a crippled heir, but Matthew's injuries are extensive enough to raise more than a few eyebrows with doubts about his suitability for the position. He can see it now, all those surreptitious glances at his chair and at Mary's belly. Bloody Carlisle's article did its job; the nature of his infirmity is a common knowledge, and the speculations rampant. Everyone knows that Matthew won't father another child. The mix of pity, slight revulsion and schadenfreude hangs in the air.
Matthew feels Mary's fingers brush his arm discreetly, her touch full of love, and he holds himself straighter. He's fought hard enough to accept his circumstances, to accept that Mary doesn't see him any different, whatever his limitations. To accept that he can still make her happy. That he still has value. He's not going to allow those judgmental idiots, who have no idea what he and Mary went through, bring him down.
His chair jumps over a hidden root, William muttering apologies behind him, and an electric pain shoots up Matthew's calf. He bites his tongue, hard, to stop himself from reacting to it in any way. He still hasn't told Mary about the returning sensations in his legs and the last thing he wants is to betray his secret now.
He does feel guilty for keeping such a huge secret from her, he truly does, and yet he can't force himself to confess the truth. The implications… they are too big and scary to give voice to them even in the privacy of his own mind, and he knows Mary will find it impossible not to hope for a miracle as soon as she learns of those annoying, pathetic, painful symptoms he's been developing over the last two months. Even Sybil does hope and she understands much better how meaningless they can turn out to be in the big picture. It's all too likely that increased pain and discomfort will be the only change in his condition that he's going to experience. He can't stand seeing that fervent hope die in Mary or Mother's eyes when it will slowly become apparent that no miracle is going to happen.
It's going to be terrible enough to deal with his own disappointed hopes.
So he says nothing, despite Sybil's urgings. It got easier to ignore them now with her gone to London; she honours her promise of keeping his secret enough to not mention it in a letter which might be shared with Mary. He's not fooled though that she's going to remain silent for long, at least about the necessity of Matthew seeing Dr Coates. This is one point she appears currently most adamant about.
He sighs internally. It's not that he disagrees… Obviously Dr Coates might be able to tell him something more definite than Dr Clarkson… but therein lies the rub. It would be definitive, and Matthew is too much of a coward to face it yet. He forbids himself from hoping – he does his utmost not to hope, to tell himself that those new sensations don't mean anything – but damn it all to hell, he does hope, desperately, and the prospect of having this hope crushed fills him with such dread that there's no way he feels ready to look it into face yet. Maybe when he feels stronger, more settled into his situation and the new postwar life, when he's more balanced, more stable… But not yet, God, not yet. He doesn't think he would be able to claw his way out of such despair as before a second time. He has Mary and their child to think of; he can't afford to fall apart as he did when he first learnt that he was never going to walk again.
So for now he pushes the whole matter out of his mind again and focuses on shooting a few birds.
xxx
Mary's hands start to shake as soon as she hears the first gun go.
You're alright, she tells herself sternly, her teeth clenched, this is just a shoot, you've been on dozens of them in your life. She looks at Matthew, fumbling adorably with his gun and muttering silent curses – seriously, she wants to laugh, didn't he spend four years shooting? How can he still be so bad with it? – she concentrates so hard on the familiar smells and views of the Downton woods – and it's getting better. She nearly smiles in triumph, satisfied that she bested it, that she's better – and then, the rest of guns go, and Matthew finally fires his, so close to her, so loud – and everything falls apart.
The morning is still foggy and cold, the weak sunlight filtered through the clouds and mist, the smell of wet leaves and grass mixed with cordite from the guns. She's still in a forest, but the trees are different – it's a beech copse, not Downton's oaks.
And there are guns going off all around her.
She freezes in terror, squeezes her eyes shut and covers her ears, but she still hears it, so loud, so damn loud, so close. She's going to die, she knows it – Matthew is going to die – and Phryne, and William, and Smith, and Wakefield – they are all going to die and there is nothing she can do. Her breath gets stuck in her throat; she tries to suck in desperately needed air and she can't.
And the guns keep firing.
"Mary!"
It's Matthew, oh God, it is Matthew, he's going to be killed – she must help him, she must save him – she needs the gun, he gave her his gun, but she can't find it! – it's not here! – she keeps searching for it frantically, but it's not here and she can't breathe and Matthew is going to die…!
"Mary, darling, I'm here, we're at Downton, we're safe!"
She feels hands pulling her own away from her ears – familiar hands, with long, slender, strong fingers – Matthew's hands. Matthew is here – he must have escaped that German – even if she still didn't find his gun. But the battle is still ongoing and they are not safe, neither of them is safe, they are still going to die. Maybe they are dying already, Mary certainly feels like it, what with the way she simply can't breathe – have the Germans used gas? Oh God, not gas, she would prefer to be shot again…
She hears whimpering and dimly realises it's coming from her own mouth.
Matthew's hands on her tighten and she squeezes them back, desperate for comfort they provide, for something that is safe, that is real.
"We're home, we're safe – the war is over – they will stop shooting in a moment, darling, they will be moving to the next peg – and we will go home. You just need to breathe for a bit – for a very little bit – just a short while – and we can go home, I promise."
Matthew's voice is steady, reassuring, strong; his hands never leave hers. The guns do go quiet, one after one, and finally Mary opens her eyes to a blessed silence and Matthew's pale face.
Then she wants to scream.
xxx
Matthew keeps throwing concerned glances at Mary the whole way back to their cottage.
It's not even because of her panic attack – although it has been terrifying to witness – or even a direct concern for her health, or the baby's. It's the way she purses her lips and the way her eyes flash.
It's the fact that she hasn't spoken a word to him the whole time.
Thankfully, nobody but William witnessed the episode. Their peg was well covered by the trees and too far from the others for anyone to hear anything, and Matthew is fiercely glad for it. He made a hasty excuse to Robert that his back was acting up – something which wasn't even a lie, it is bothering him after all that jostling – and between honest concern for him from Robert and gossipy curiosity of the others nobody paid any attention to how pale and silent Mary was. They probably assumed she was either worried or ashamed of her crippled husband, but right now Matthew doesn't give a damn what they all think of him. His only concern is his wife and the thoughts which she's hiding behind those wide, dark eyes of hers.
Mary keeps her stormy silence when they finally reach home. Matthew can see the tension practically waving off her. Before he can manage to figure out what to say to her, she disappears in her own bedroom, the door closing behind her with a resonating thud. She couldn't make the message of 'keep away' more clear so Matthew decides to give her space. Any intrusion on her privacy when she's this upset would be more than likely to backfire. Instead, he rubs his face tiredly and directs William to help him undress from his hunting clothes and get into bed.
Since he's bloody useless either way, he may just as well allow some relief to his screaming back.
The day progresses into the afternoon before Mary finally opens the door connecting their room and walks in. She's dressed in a loose blouse and skirt – she must have rung for Anna at some point – but her steps are still fast and forceful, her hands tightened into fists. She barely looks at Matthew before turning towards one of the French windows instead.
"I wanted to apologise for spoiling your fun," she says stiffly. "That was not my intention."
Matthew scoffs, he can't help it.
"It was hardly fun for me before, as you well know, and it wasn't much better today," he points out. "I didn't mind cutting it short."
She shrugs in a sharp gesture, still turned away from him.
"I'm sorry for spoiling your plan to win Papa over then," she inhales sharply. "I thought I was over this – over those hysterics – but apparently not."
"Mary," says Matthew imploringly, wanting so desperately for her to believe him, but knowing that she won't, "it's not hysterics. You're the least hysterical person I know. It's shellshock. I should have known better than to take you to a shoot, not so soon."
Mary turns towards him furiously.
"I used to be the least hysterical person you knew," she cries. "I'm clearly not that person anymore, with every little thing enough to set me off. Whatever you call it – shellshock, hysteria, nerves – it doesn't change the fact that I came back different. Broken. Wrong. And I hate it!" she takes a deep breath, visibly fighting for composure. "I abhor being so weak. I used to pride myself on controlling my emotions, but clearly, I was deluding myself. I simply have never been tested before. I'm no better than all those delicate debutantes that I used to despise, having vapours at the slightest difficulty. Next I know I will take a page from Edith's book and start having fainting spells."
"No!" Matthew protests with deepest conviction. He hates that she is standing so far from the bed, that he can't reach for her. "Darling, you are so strong – so unbelievably strong – you've always been. You can't compare yourself with Edith or those girls you used to know; neither of them went through the horrors you did. You need to give yourself time to heal."
"I've had time! It's been half a year, Matthew! How long do I need to be coddled to get it into my head that the war is over?" she shook her head, visibly fighting tears. "How come Sybil is not getting lost in her mind and forgetting to breathe? How come you came back undamaged by it while I apparently will never be normal again?"
"I would hardly call myself undamaged," says Matthew quietly, "or that I have much hope of being normal again."
Mary stares at Matthew, aghast at the words which just fell out of her mouth.
"God, Matthew," she whispers, "I'm so sorry."
He dismisses her offence with an elegant gesture of his hand and it only makes her more guilty. She does not deserve this good man's love, she never has. She shakes her head.
"No, I truly am," she says, her anger slowly being replaced by defeat and exhaustion. She hugs herself, her fingers digging into her arms, "but this is what I'm talking about, don't you see? You've been so terribly injured and yet you're dealing with it so well – you're so improved – while I… I can't get over being frightened a few times. Nothing truly bad ever happened to me and yet I can't sleep, I can't keep my hands from shaking, I am so tired and so angry all the time… Even without those ghastly episodes, I don't recognise myself anymore. I don't know how you can."
Matthew can't stand it any more and extends his hand towards her.
"Come here," he pleads, and something untangles itself in his chest when, after a moment of hesitation, she does get into bed and folds herself against his chest, making it finally possible for him to take her into his arms. That is better. "My darling, do you remember what you told me months ago when I insisted that I wasn't the same man you married?"
Mary scoffs, but he doesn't mind when her face is tucked safely against him.
"I told you that you're the same man who just can't do everything you could before. But how does it apply to me? I'm changed by it all. I am made different by it."
"We both are," insists Matthew calmly. "We both survived hell and it left its marks upon us. But you're still my Mary, however changed you feel. You're still the wonderful woman I am so proud to call my wife."
"I'm such a coward," Mary whispers brokenly. "I am safe – I know that I'm safe – but I keep jumping at shadows anyway. How can one phrase or sound be enough to set me off like that? I'm ashamed of myself," she laughs bitterly. "Granny probably is too. I'm no Aunt Roberta after all."
Matthew caresses her silky hair gently, ever so gently.
"No," he says softly. "You're not. You're Lady Mary Crawley, my stormbraver. It's not weak or cowardly to struggle with everything you saw or went through. I don't believe there is anyone who was there and came back completely alright. Some just hide it better than others," he falls silent for a long moment and then adds in an even softer voice. "Besides if we compare ourselves, it's not you who has been the biggest coward, not by half. It's me."
Mary lifts her head a little to see him better, her brows frowning in puzzlement.
"What do you mean?"
Matthew takes a deep, steadying breath. It's now or never. He can't repay her openness, all that vulnerability and brokenness willingly offered to him, with hiding such vital things about himself from her. It wouldn't be right.
"I have been feeling increasing sensations in my legs," he blurts out before he can chicken out again. "I didn't want to say anything because it probably doesn't mean anything – but it happens."
Mary's eyes go wide.
"Matthew…" she whispers with wonder and he hastens to speak before the hope he can already see growing in her can become too big for the pathetically little cause there actually is for it.
"It's probably nothing!" he insists, his voice getting hoarse with effort to contain his own desperate hope and fear of disappointment. "It will be nothing, just some pains and discomfort – not anything more – I know it won't be anything more – but I should have told you anyway."
Mary stares at him still and it makes him want to scream. Or cry. Or hide. Something, anything, to avoid this terribly hopeful, assessing gaze on him.
"Why are you afraid of it?" she asks levelly and suddenly Matthew wants to laugh. His Mary. So understanding of him, however unreasonable and irrational he is, and yet so impatient with any stronger emotion in herself. His heart overflows with love for her and somehow it's easier to give voice to the thoughts he's been guarding so carefully in his head for weeks.
"Of hope," he says. "Of everybody getting their hopes up for a miracle which is never going to come. Of being forced, once again, to face the fact that this," he gestures at his lap, at his dead legs, "is forever. The first time nearly killed me, after all. I don't think," his voice breaks and he needs to swallow, "I don't think I could survive it again."
Mary nods slowly, no doubt remembering all too well how badly off he was in those horrible summer weeks after Amiens.
"I see," she says thoughtfully, and Matthew is convinced that this is true, that she really does understand what terrifies him so much about this new development. "But Matthew, shouldn't you get it checked by a doctor anyway? Even if it's not a sign of improvement – even if it's something bad – maybe even especially then – at least you would know. And, if it's something bad, maybe there is something we could do to ease your suffering."
"It's not suffering, exactly," evades Matthew. "Some of those sensations are painful, yes, but not unduly so. They're annoying more than anything else. There are those shooting pains and sensations of heat or coldness, but I still don't feel a bloody thing when I touch my legs. It's probably all in my head, like pains from a cut off limb."
Except the moment when he reacted to Sybil's electric wand, of course. That definitely wasn't in his head, but he tries as hard as he can not to consider the implications of it.
"Still," says Mary, and he can recognise that determined set of her features. He has a feeling that he has no chance of winning that fight, "I think you must consult somebody."
"I did speak about it with Doctor Clarkson," confesses Matthew reluctantly. "He agreed with my assessment that it doesn't mean much, other than my injury being a result of an incomplete lesion which we've known for months already."
Mary huffs impatiently.
"Then we need to talk with Doctor Coates," she says firmly. "Even if he gives you disappointing news, we need to make sure you're not getting worse by ignoring those pains."
"I know," admits Matthew desperately, "I know, darling, believe me, but it still terrifies me so much. I told you, I'm a coward."
"And I keep forgetting to breathe," parries Mary immediately. "So?"
He laughs, he can't help it.
"We're quite a pair, aren't we?"
Mary shrugs.
"I'm not promising to keep from lamenting how broken I am again," she says seriously. "It frustrates me too much. But I refuse to allow that damn war to take one more thing from us than it already did. I understand why you're afraid to speak with a specialist about it, but you will – and I will be there doing my best to help you deal with it, good news or bad."
"We'll carry each other," says Matthew earnestly, "like we did back there. Like comrades do."
She looks up at him and he is delighted to see the familiar, teasing spark returning to her brown eyes.
"Is that what we are?" she asks playfully. "Brothers in arms?"
"Among other things," answers Matthew and places his palm on Mary's belly. "Although I assure you I've never thought of you as my sister. Not even a cousin, come to think of it."
Mary's brow raises.
"Oh? Then what was I to you in the beginning, pray? An annoying acquaintance? Or have I earned the status of an enemy?"
"A woman of my dreams," whispers Matthew seriously. "Always."
He kisses her when he feels his hand jostled by a faint but unmistakable kick. He immediately looks down in awe.
"Mary!" he exclaims, making her laugh.
"Yes, it's him," she says, her eyes bright. "My darling, you've finally felt him!"
"I did," he laughs, half incredulous, half mad. He did, he truly felt it – their baby! "He's really there!"
Mary huffs in mock anger.
"Have you thought I made it up to explain getting fat?"
"You're not fat," he protests at once, his eyes and hands still glued to the wondrous curve of her belly and the miracle it contains. To his elation, he feels another little kick poking at his palm. "You're beautiful. And," he adds, forcing himself to raise his eyes to hers and look at her sternly, his usual reminder on his lips, "this baby might be a daughter."
"He isn't," answers Mary stubbornly, but gives in when she realises how upset he is getting with her at that moment. The thought of her being disappointed in their child for any reason is more than he can bear. "But if somehow you're right and it is a girl, you don't have to worry. I will never let her feel like something lesser," her eyes get fierce. "You will only have to make good on your promise and break the entail."
"I will," vows Matthew, kissing her again, his hand greedily waiting for another chance to feel their baby, to confirm the veracity of the miracle of their existence. "We will do it together."