Chapter Text
(July 1917)
Daisy
“When are you leaving, then?”
William rolls a teacup between his fingers; there’s a stray thread coming off from his left cuff, and Daisy reaches out to snap it away—he catches her hand, holds it firmly, till her reddened fingers begin to hurt a little.
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll catch the milk train to the camp—then I’m off to board a ship for France. Join Mr. Crawley’s unit.” His face is very pale, lips pressed tightly together (she suddenly remembered how they felt, parting in surprise under her own), brow furrowed. She has never seen him like this.
“Don’t be afraid,” she mutters, awkwardly, unsure how to voice her feelings. “You will be back with us soon, safe and sound. Mr. Carson says it won’t last.”
“But what if he’s wrong?” William’s voice, quite low throughout dinner, comes down to a whisper, urgent and plaintive, the ends of his words shaking like small animals, like the baby mice she used to kill with a broom at Mrs. Patmore’s orders. It somehow still fills the empty, darkened kitchen, and makes Daisy’s insides flutter with a feeling she can’t name. She isn’t used to seeing him like that, not after all the confidence and pride that’d been shining in his eyes just hours before. “What if I’m not coming back? So many things… Daisy.” His grip on her hand tightens, but she’s frozen, paralysed by the pain in his eyes. “So many things I’ve never—”
Later, she’d find herself unsure of why she turns over her hand and grabs his, equally strongly. Unsure why her mind supplies readily the thought of a marriage she doesn’t even want—not really—as an excuse. Unsure if she even wants it, with him, and on this night of all nights.
Later, she’ll be all that.
Right now, though, she gets up on shaky legs and leads him down the hallway, up the stairs—they both know which steps to skip and avoid the wood moaning loudly in the still of the night—and down a stuffy-aired attic passageway, straight into the cupboard-sized room where the servants’ laundry is kept, waiting for its turn in hot water and soap.
She’s shaking more than his voice had done when William loosens her shabby corset strings and leans down to her breasts; her breath catches at the sharp pain when he breaks something inside her and stills, breathing right next to her ear. He cradles her head in his hands and looks at her, with the intensity that frightens her and makes her clench inwardly… which leads to much more movement, her mouth opened against his shoulder, teeth grazing pale, sweat-drenched flesh.
“I love you, Daisy,” he tells her much, much later, when she’s biding him goodbye by the back door. “’M gonna come back and set things right. Make everything proper.”
“’Course you are,” she replies, wide-eyed and hurting in very strange places. “Write to us, alright?”
He nods mutely and reaches out, hugs her tightly. “Every day.”
When would I find the time to read that many letters?, she shakes her head as he rounds the corner, setting a brisk pace for himself. A metallic jangle behind her back brings her back to the present moment, makes her back straighten instinctively.
“Did I miss him?”
Elsie
“He’s just gone, Mrs. Hughes,” the girl answers shakily, and scurries inside the house. She looks pale and drawn—Elsie wonders whether she’d had any sleep last night, but dismisses the thought on the spot: she’s Mrs. Patmore’s responsibility, not hers: and the cook will definitely have a thing or two to say if Daisy doesn’t perform her duties correctly today.
She looks out onto the misty yard and sighs—she has been hoping to see the boy off, offer a few words of encouragement, maybe. Such a good lad, hardworking and brave.
May he be spared.
Something moves in the mist, but it’s not William, hurrying back for some forgotten trinket: it’s the postman, bleary-eyed and grumpy, depositing a neat stack of envelopes and papers into her hands. She thanks him curtly and takes everything into the kitchen, for the footmen to sort, iron and distribute.
Everything, that is, but a small, rectangular envelope with a Scottish stamp, addressed to herself in an untidy scrawl. Tiny hairs rise on the back of her neck. The letter inside is painfully short, typed out on a machine working with a tired ink ribbon, faded at places: very on point for the institution that has sent the missive.
Dear Miss—she’s always “miss” to them, a sore reminder of her actual social standing—we hereby inform… war effort… growing costs… additional £8 a year… Sincerely yours.
The paper slips from her fingers and floats down onto the edge of her pristine desk. She stares blankly at the wall, calculations flying around her brain like scattered chickens. Eight pounds? She can definitely manage that—but that means eating away from whatever small amount she usually saves from her wages, generous as they are at Downton. Where would that put her, once her time comes and she can no longer do her work properly? What would happen to Becky? How would she ever be able to afford caring for her then?
She squeezes her eyes shut, bites her lip and tells herself firmly to stop with the dramatics, right now. She will find a way. She always has, and this doesn’t have to be any different. As her eyes flutter open, she’s back to being herself: a force of nature, a stable foundation for the staff of this house. (Yes, yes, there’s Mr. Carson, too—bless him, lovely man of such an impressive stature: a thought she only entertains in her most private time—but he can get ever so flustered about propriety and rules, and where does that leave everyone? Precisely.)
She doesn’t spare the notice another look as she sweeps from the room in a flurry of skirts and keys—and thus doesn’t see the piece of paper get caught in a draft of wind and rest gently on the floor by the half-closed door.
Mary
She doesn’t sleep much these days, if at all, and her dreams are full of earth dripping down with blood, of sharp noises and pain, always pain.
She never shares these dreams with anyone. How could she? They grimace at her sharpness at breakfast, believing it to be yet another Mary-ism, putting it down to the non-heiress’ bitterness at her fate, and a sour disposition—and she doesn’t correct them, no matter how much her heart trembles and squeezes painfully in her chest.
Can you die of a heart you’ve broken yourself?
Quite possibly.
There is not much news to devour, sitting primly at her mother’s side in the drawing room and feigning disinterest—cousin Isobel busies herself with the hospital and seldom dines at the big house anymore; when she does come, she is usually accompanied by the bereft Miss Swire, perfectly polite and rather bland in her opinions, but also very obviously in love with Matthew. Mary thinks she can almost (almost) see it—the two of them together—after the volatile catastrophe that was her not-quite-relationship with dear cousin Matthew. Such a quaint, quiet life to have.
She still cannot say whether she loathes or envies them both for attempting to have it.
That is not a morning thought, she chastises herself, watching the postman cycle away in the summer morning mist. These thoughts usually come at night, when all she can do is toss around her pristine bedsheets and think of Matthew, cold and drenched with muddy water, Lavinia on his mind and herself, Mary, the furthest away she could be.
The footman, William, was supposed to leave today, and join Matthew—she remembers suddenly, and smiles at the foggy landscape outside. Matthew will have a piece of Downton with him: a second piece, if he had kept the stuffed toy she’d forced into his hand months ago. This place—his home—will keep him safe. And he, in turn, will keep William—and Downton—safe.
Yes, she thinks, getting up from the chair she’s spent the last two or three hours in, watching the day begin, this is good. Matthew may not want, or in fact know of, her fervent prayers for his life and health, but he will have a friendly soul to turn to in times of need: before, that is, he comes back home, marries Lavinia, and hopefully forgets about this dreadful affair entirely.
She’s not sure whether by “dreadful affair” she means the war, or… herself. Both, probably.
Mary has no way to influence the outcome of the war: but she can decide what her own relationship with Matthew is going to look like—to spare him the trauma and the hurt, make his post-war life easier. She will be good, she decides there and then: supportive, understanding, all smiles and charms and kindness for Lavinia: poor girl is going to need it, especially with Granny being the way she is. She has no way of knowing what lies ahead of her: but Mary will help her, ease her on the way, because she is what Matthew needs right now.
He needs Lavinia’s calm, unwavering devotion—not Mary’s problematic past and unforeseen future.
She feels a tug inside her chest, and quickly readjusts her silent promise: yes, she will be good—as long as Lavinia is, too. For if she hurts Matthew in any way… no. This is another thought for the stillness of the summer night that never goes dark enough these days: just as no day is truly light and bright to Mary’s eyes, ever since the garden party three years ago.
Everything is going to work out. The war will end. Matthew will marry… and she will be happy for him.
He deserves nothing less.
--
There is an envelope on the desk, still open, a letter inside it, when Anna brings the tea tray: she picks it up, careful not to glance at the writing, and turns to Mary with a small smile. “Shall I post it today?”
Mary puts her teacup down, extends her hand—reads the address—shakes her head, and tosses the paper carelessly into the fire. Watches the letters “Richard Carlyle” blacken and twist.
“I forgot about it,” she says, offhandedly. “I meant to throw it away.”
Sir Richard is an easy way out.
She deserves nothing less than a difficult one.
tbc…