FIC: What Happiness Befalls Me by Maidenjedi (Downton Abbey, 1/1)
TITLE: What Happiness Befalls Me
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mary/Matthew
Word Count: 2107
Summary: Christmas, after the war. An alternate version of the Christmas special.
A/N: Written last year for the Downton Exchange, for shan_3414. German lyrics for "O, Tannenbaum" used liberally, and the title comes from one English version of the song. No idea why I didn't post this sooner, except that I really had forgotten I wrote it at all. Pregnancy brain attack? Sure.
"Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!"
Matthew sang this under his breath, not anxious for anyone to hear the German words. He had learned them on the field, during the temporary armistice that would accompany Christmas Day. There were other, more reverent songs, that did not simply praise the beauty of common evergreens. Tonight, this was the only song he could recall.
The tree at Downton Abbey was impossibly tall and stately, and for the first time lit in electric lights. It was the one modernization against which Lord Grantham had rebelled, but this year, it felt right and proper to move completely into the new century, now nearly twenty years old. Even the Dowager had remarked on the beauty of twinkling glass bulbs nestled in the branches.
Most of the small party had left the room, keen to enjoy the other beauties of Downton, and necessarily escorted by the family. It was early yet, dinner probably an hour off. Matthew relished a moment alone - he had not been able to gather his wits since his arrival the day before from Manchester.
He was denied, however, as Mary alone hung back, seemingly unaware that her cousin was still there as well. He watched her quietly. She was staring at the tree, or rather, she was staring in the direction of the tree. Matthew fancied he still knew her well enough to know when her thoughts were elsewhere.
He wondered if she was pining for her fiance, who was absent from this gathering for reasons undisclosed. It would be right and proper, though Matthew was frustrated to find the thought sad and terrible to him. Why it should be, why it still was, a problem for him that Mary was engaged - he tried so hard to forget!
Yet he stood there, in the room with her, alone.
Mary sighed and sat on the sofa facing the tree. Matthew wanted to leave, the impulse pulled at his limbs, but he stayed. He did not move.
So he spoke.
"It is lovely, isn't it?"
Mary turned with a start. "I...did not know you were still here." She made as if to stand, and he waved his hand at her.
"I should go, I am disturbing you."
She shook her head. "No. I just needed a moment. Don't leave on my account."
They both stayed, the distance between them not ten feet, and yet the gulf as wide as ever.
"It is lovely, as you say," Mary said at last, clearly uncomfortable with silence. She looked at the tree for a long moment before turning back to look at Matthew. "What were you singing, before?"
He had not realized she heard him, that anyone had. He felt himself redden. "A folk song I heard in the war. About evergreens."
"Do you know the English?"
"Yes, though it is not nearly as beautiful."
"Oh, I don't know. 'Green in winter when it snows.' I have always loved these trees. It is like the song says, they are so loyal, fickle seasons do not daunt them." She dropped her gaze.
Matthew blinked, and only wondered where Sir Richard was, and why Mary had not explained his absence.
---
Sir Richard had not been delayed, or kept away by business. Nor was he absent for any of the more romantic reasons anyone not intimate with Mary might have guessed at. It was as simple as this: Mary refused to set a date for the wedding, he had finally snapped, and any day now, a story would appear in one of his papers about an old scandal involving a dead Turk and Lady Mary Crawley's virtue.
She had not been able to summon the courage to tell a soul. But she was certain it would happen, and was determined to take what small pleasures she could beforehand.
Like enjoying Matthew's company, which had long been denied her.
He was not aware, she knew, that she had left roses at Lavinia's grave every Sunday since the funeral, that she was anxious to make whatever small amends she could. She had taken to haunting the hospital, delivering goods for flu patients, not quite up to nursing but certainly working to make someone, anyone, comfortable if she could. She had considered making a donation for a special ward in Lavinia's name, but after talking with Isobel, had settled on smaller, less ostentatious displays of generosity.
And no, Matthew had not been told.
She was not about to let him in on any of that now, and the silence between them grew. Matthew made his way over to the sofa, and sat carefully apart from Mary. He looked up at the tree.
"Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit," he sang, very quietly. "O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, that's what your dress should teach me."
Mary's German was rusty, out of fashion as it was since the war began, but she translated as best she could. "Your hope and durability, is that right?"
Matthew nodded. "They provide comfort and strength. I don't know if I ever gave it much thought, or that it occured to me before today."
"It's Christmas, making you sentimental. It makes me sentimental."
He glanced over at her, his mouth twisted in a doubtful smile. "You, sentimental?"
"Why, of course. Remember the dog, after all."
And he did. Yes, of course he did.
---
They were called into dinner, and were seated at opposite ends of the table. It was a small party, but there were still friends to entertain and appearances to keep up, so Mary did her duty and Matthew sank into the background as much as he could, given Lord Grantham's anxiety to find out how Manchester treated him and Edith's desire to keep him talking about the weather and every mundane thing so that he might not miss Lavinia.
The truth, though Matthew hardly owned yet even to himself, was that Manchester had only made him think of Mary. Not often in a happy or joyous way, not even in a particularly fond way. But Lavinia was fading, he had to admit that much. She was stronger here, where he had last laughed with her, where she had told him to move on. But she was gone, and he did not feel that as keenly as he might have.
The ladies left the men to their brandy, and Matthew talked about farming with Sir Anthony, who was apparently making one of his own first appearances since the war. Another gentleman, a Sir Edward Ross, kept Lord Grantham in conversation. It was all very ordinary, and it was difficult to think that the previous year had passed in such dramatic fashion. It was hard to think there had been Christmases in the trenches at all, though his Lordship's hair was thinner and Strallan looked grayer, thinner, more worried. Matthew did not like to think how he may have changed.
They went in to join the ladies after a decent interval, and Sir Anthony abandoned Matthew to elict a shy smile or two from Edith. Whatever had happened there was clearly a matter left to the past, and Matthew did not wonder about it. Sir Edward was speaking to Lady Grantham, the Dowager was in high dudgeon over something Isobel had said, and Matthew was left to speak to Mary, who stood slightly apart, sipping wine.
"Fancy going for a walk tomorrow afternoon?" He was asking her before he realized it. "If the weather holds, that is?"
Mary was taken aback, but hardly showed it. Matthew would be the only one who noticed - he always had been. "That sounds lovely. After luncheon?"
He nodded, suddenly nervous. "I can come 'round about two."
She smiled.
---
The weather wasn't really holding; snow was probably minutes away, though Mary found she was often terrible at predicting weather. She didn't care, however, as Matthew arrived as planned and they set out to walk towards the village.
"It may yet snow."
"Yes."
Small talk was all they seemed capable of. So they walked in silence, though it was not entirely uncomfortable.
Halfway to the village, snow did begin to fall, so lightly that neither paid it much mind, though Mary drew her coat more firmly around her. Matthew seemed to take some courage from the change, and spoke.
"I was wrong, you know."
Mary stopped. The snow was falling a little steadier, and some caught in her lashes. Matthew looked at his feet.
"I was wrong. We were not - not responsible, not wholly."
Mary said nothing.
Matthew rushed on, the floodgate open. "I could not think straight, not for a long time after she passed. It was difficult to have everything happen at once. I wanted you, I knew I owed her, and it was all a jumble. I know the chance has passed me, I knew it then, and I wanted to push you away."
Mary shook her head. "There is much you do not know."
Matthew took her hand. "I don't think I care, not anymore. Are you marrying him?"
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
"I am getting too old not to be married, Matthew. Mamma is quite right about that. But I can't marry someone who despises me, even while he professes to love me. I used to think I could, but when I know what it is to be loved, how can I...." Her voice faltered and she pulled her hand from his. She started walking again, not wanting to face him if she really was about to tell him everything.
"You would not judge me, would you?" she said, as he followed her.
"Mary, what...."
"He knows too much, you see. And he could not look past it. I'm not sure anyone could, and that's why I never told you, that's what started this whole abominable mess. My heart was always yours, but...."
Matthew grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. "Mary, what are you talking about?"
And she told him, in a hesitant, tremulous voice, what would soon be common knowledge. Matthew stared at her in wonder, that she could have kept something like this to herself, that she had not confided in him, that it had happened at all. He did not know how to feel about it.
"That was a different time, a different world."
"Yes. But can you tell me it would not have mattered, had you known? Can you tell me it doesn't matter now?"
He could not. He did not let go of her hand, however.
"We should go back." The snow was getting heavier, and the road decidedly wet. He tucked her hand under his arm, and they made their way back to Downton without anything else said.
---
That night, dinner was decidedly more formal, and yet it was just the family. Sibyl's absence was keenly felt, though she sent a cheerful letter to be read before they sang carols around the tree after the meal. Everyone seemed content, happy. Matthew wondered how soon it would shatter, if it would at all.
The room emptied, slowly. Everyone was in thrall to the beautifully lit tree, even the Dowager, who called for the chauffeur rather later than usual. Isobel left before Matthew, claiming fatigue. At last even Lord Grantham left the room, and Matthew was alone.
Mary, knowing this would be the case, did not wander far, and came up next to him.
"Can you teach me the song? In German?"
They sat singing, very softly, on the sofa, again with as much distance as possible between them. Mary stumbled over the words the first couple of times through, but soon they sang in harmony, and Matthew thought of the muddy trenches and the small hope felt when the two sides could find common ground on those cold, weary Christmases of the war.
"It seems we both have ghosts, you know."
He nodded. "Ghosts, and more. Do you think there has been too much that has passed?"
She shook her head. "I don't know." She reached for his hand across the divide. "We don't have to figure it all out right away. There may not be anything left."
Matthew squeezed her fingers, looking down at their linked hands. "I wouldn't say that. There is something."
The twinkling electric lights and dying embers of the fire were the only lights in the room. And the only witness to this tentative change of heart was the Christmas tree.
Posted originally at Dreamwidth, http://maidenjedi.dreamwidth.org/776477.html. Comment here or there. All fanfiction posts will originate at Dreamwidth.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mary/Matthew
Word Count: 2107
Summary: Christmas, after the war. An alternate version of the Christmas special.
A/N: Written last year for the Downton Exchange, for shan_3414. German lyrics for "O, Tannenbaum" used liberally, and the title comes from one English version of the song. No idea why I didn't post this sooner, except that I really had forgotten I wrote it at all. Pregnancy brain attack? Sure.
"Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!"
Matthew sang this under his breath, not anxious for anyone to hear the German words. He had learned them on the field, during the temporary armistice that would accompany Christmas Day. There were other, more reverent songs, that did not simply praise the beauty of common evergreens. Tonight, this was the only song he could recall.
The tree at Downton Abbey was impossibly tall and stately, and for the first time lit in electric lights. It was the one modernization against which Lord Grantham had rebelled, but this year, it felt right and proper to move completely into the new century, now nearly twenty years old. Even the Dowager had remarked on the beauty of twinkling glass bulbs nestled in the branches.
Most of the small party had left the room, keen to enjoy the other beauties of Downton, and necessarily escorted by the family. It was early yet, dinner probably an hour off. Matthew relished a moment alone - he had not been able to gather his wits since his arrival the day before from Manchester.
He was denied, however, as Mary alone hung back, seemingly unaware that her cousin was still there as well. He watched her quietly. She was staring at the tree, or rather, she was staring in the direction of the tree. Matthew fancied he still knew her well enough to know when her thoughts were elsewhere.
He wondered if she was pining for her fiance, who was absent from this gathering for reasons undisclosed. It would be right and proper, though Matthew was frustrated to find the thought sad and terrible to him. Why it should be, why it still was, a problem for him that Mary was engaged - he tried so hard to forget!
Yet he stood there, in the room with her, alone.
Mary sighed and sat on the sofa facing the tree. Matthew wanted to leave, the impulse pulled at his limbs, but he stayed. He did not move.
So he spoke.
"It is lovely, isn't it?"
Mary turned with a start. "I...did not know you were still here." She made as if to stand, and he waved his hand at her.
"I should go, I am disturbing you."
She shook her head. "No. I just needed a moment. Don't leave on my account."
They both stayed, the distance between them not ten feet, and yet the gulf as wide as ever.
"It is lovely, as you say," Mary said at last, clearly uncomfortable with silence. She looked at the tree for a long moment before turning back to look at Matthew. "What were you singing, before?"
He had not realized she heard him, that anyone had. He felt himself redden. "A folk song I heard in the war. About evergreens."
"Do you know the English?"
"Yes, though it is not nearly as beautiful."
"Oh, I don't know. 'Green in winter when it snows.' I have always loved these trees. It is like the song says, they are so loyal, fickle seasons do not daunt them." She dropped her gaze.
Matthew blinked, and only wondered where Sir Richard was, and why Mary had not explained his absence.
---
Sir Richard had not been delayed, or kept away by business. Nor was he absent for any of the more romantic reasons anyone not intimate with Mary might have guessed at. It was as simple as this: Mary refused to set a date for the wedding, he had finally snapped, and any day now, a story would appear in one of his papers about an old scandal involving a dead Turk and Lady Mary Crawley's virtue.
She had not been able to summon the courage to tell a soul. But she was certain it would happen, and was determined to take what small pleasures she could beforehand.
Like enjoying Matthew's company, which had long been denied her.
He was not aware, she knew, that she had left roses at Lavinia's grave every Sunday since the funeral, that she was anxious to make whatever small amends she could. She had taken to haunting the hospital, delivering goods for flu patients, not quite up to nursing but certainly working to make someone, anyone, comfortable if she could. She had considered making a donation for a special ward in Lavinia's name, but after talking with Isobel, had settled on smaller, less ostentatious displays of generosity.
And no, Matthew had not been told.
She was not about to let him in on any of that now, and the silence between them grew. Matthew made his way over to the sofa, and sat carefully apart from Mary. He looked up at the tree.
"Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit," he sang, very quietly. "O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, that's what your dress should teach me."
Mary's German was rusty, out of fashion as it was since the war began, but she translated as best she could. "Your hope and durability, is that right?"
Matthew nodded. "They provide comfort and strength. I don't know if I ever gave it much thought, or that it occured to me before today."
"It's Christmas, making you sentimental. It makes me sentimental."
He glanced over at her, his mouth twisted in a doubtful smile. "You, sentimental?"
"Why, of course. Remember the dog, after all."
And he did. Yes, of course he did.
---
They were called into dinner, and were seated at opposite ends of the table. It was a small party, but there were still friends to entertain and appearances to keep up, so Mary did her duty and Matthew sank into the background as much as he could, given Lord Grantham's anxiety to find out how Manchester treated him and Edith's desire to keep him talking about the weather and every mundane thing so that he might not miss Lavinia.
The truth, though Matthew hardly owned yet even to himself, was that Manchester had only made him think of Mary. Not often in a happy or joyous way, not even in a particularly fond way. But Lavinia was fading, he had to admit that much. She was stronger here, where he had last laughed with her, where she had told him to move on. But she was gone, and he did not feel that as keenly as he might have.
The ladies left the men to their brandy, and Matthew talked about farming with Sir Anthony, who was apparently making one of his own first appearances since the war. Another gentleman, a Sir Edward Ross, kept Lord Grantham in conversation. It was all very ordinary, and it was difficult to think that the previous year had passed in such dramatic fashion. It was hard to think there had been Christmases in the trenches at all, though his Lordship's hair was thinner and Strallan looked grayer, thinner, more worried. Matthew did not like to think how he may have changed.
They went in to join the ladies after a decent interval, and Sir Anthony abandoned Matthew to elict a shy smile or two from Edith. Whatever had happened there was clearly a matter left to the past, and Matthew did not wonder about it. Sir Edward was speaking to Lady Grantham, the Dowager was in high dudgeon over something Isobel had said, and Matthew was left to speak to Mary, who stood slightly apart, sipping wine.
"Fancy going for a walk tomorrow afternoon?" He was asking her before he realized it. "If the weather holds, that is?"
Mary was taken aback, but hardly showed it. Matthew would be the only one who noticed - he always had been. "That sounds lovely. After luncheon?"
He nodded, suddenly nervous. "I can come 'round about two."
She smiled.
---
The weather wasn't really holding; snow was probably minutes away, though Mary found she was often terrible at predicting weather. She didn't care, however, as Matthew arrived as planned and they set out to walk towards the village.
"It may yet snow."
"Yes."
Small talk was all they seemed capable of. So they walked in silence, though it was not entirely uncomfortable.
Halfway to the village, snow did begin to fall, so lightly that neither paid it much mind, though Mary drew her coat more firmly around her. Matthew seemed to take some courage from the change, and spoke.
"I was wrong, you know."
Mary stopped. The snow was falling a little steadier, and some caught in her lashes. Matthew looked at his feet.
"I was wrong. We were not - not responsible, not wholly."
Mary said nothing.
Matthew rushed on, the floodgate open. "I could not think straight, not for a long time after she passed. It was difficult to have everything happen at once. I wanted you, I knew I owed her, and it was all a jumble. I know the chance has passed me, I knew it then, and I wanted to push you away."
Mary shook her head. "There is much you do not know."
Matthew took her hand. "I don't think I care, not anymore. Are you marrying him?"
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
"I am getting too old not to be married, Matthew. Mamma is quite right about that. But I can't marry someone who despises me, even while he professes to love me. I used to think I could, but when I know what it is to be loved, how can I...." Her voice faltered and she pulled her hand from his. She started walking again, not wanting to face him if she really was about to tell him everything.
"You would not judge me, would you?" she said, as he followed her.
"Mary, what...."
"He knows too much, you see. And he could not look past it. I'm not sure anyone could, and that's why I never told you, that's what started this whole abominable mess. My heart was always yours, but...."
Matthew grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. "Mary, what are you talking about?"
And she told him, in a hesitant, tremulous voice, what would soon be common knowledge. Matthew stared at her in wonder, that she could have kept something like this to herself, that she had not confided in him, that it had happened at all. He did not know how to feel about it.
"That was a different time, a different world."
"Yes. But can you tell me it would not have mattered, had you known? Can you tell me it doesn't matter now?"
He could not. He did not let go of her hand, however.
"We should go back." The snow was getting heavier, and the road decidedly wet. He tucked her hand under his arm, and they made their way back to Downton without anything else said.
---
That night, dinner was decidedly more formal, and yet it was just the family. Sibyl's absence was keenly felt, though she sent a cheerful letter to be read before they sang carols around the tree after the meal. Everyone seemed content, happy. Matthew wondered how soon it would shatter, if it would at all.
The room emptied, slowly. Everyone was in thrall to the beautifully lit tree, even the Dowager, who called for the chauffeur rather later than usual. Isobel left before Matthew, claiming fatigue. At last even Lord Grantham left the room, and Matthew was alone.
Mary, knowing this would be the case, did not wander far, and came up next to him.
"Can you teach me the song? In German?"
They sat singing, very softly, on the sofa, again with as much distance as possible between them. Mary stumbled over the words the first couple of times through, but soon they sang in harmony, and Matthew thought of the muddy trenches and the small hope felt when the two sides could find common ground on those cold, weary Christmases of the war.
"It seems we both have ghosts, you know."
He nodded. "Ghosts, and more. Do you think there has been too much that has passed?"
She shook her head. "I don't know." She reached for his hand across the divide. "We don't have to figure it all out right away. There may not be anything left."
Matthew squeezed her fingers, looking down at their linked hands. "I wouldn't say that. There is something."
The twinkling electric lights and dying embers of the fire were the only lights in the room. And the only witness to this tentative change of heart was the Christmas tree.
Posted originally at Dreamwidth, http://maidenjedi.dreamwidth.org/776477.html. Comment here or there. All fanfiction posts will originate at Dreamwidth.