As they battle to rebuild their own and others' lives & livelihoods in a country irrevocably changed by war, VAD Nurse Mary Crawley & convalescing Captain Matthew Crawley are swept into a web of scandal & corruption that threatens to rip the Crawley...
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When he saw her standing, singing beside the piano, he was mesmerised. It was as if no one else was there. Just Mary and her joy and elation upon seeing him safely returned. Her expression so very warm that his skin prickled.
And as she started to sing again,
"... With nothing to mar our joy
I would say such wonderful things to you..."
her sweet voice pierced his very soul. And of course, he walked to her, took her hand, and joined in.
"There would be such wonderful things to do
If you were the only girl in the world
and I were the only boy."
They held each other's gaze, motionless, drinking each other in, and then his lips found hers, and he tasted nectar, and her arms were around him so fiercely, so tightly that he was compelled to lift her up and swing her around. And as the shouting and cheering and cat-calls from the concert-goers came back into his consciousness, he knelt down, took her hand, and asked her to marry him. And she said yes.
0-0-0-0-0-0
It had happened again. The same dream. The same blissful happiness on awakening. Then the crushing disappointment as reality dawned. He, cold and uncomfortable in the early morning darkness of the dugout. Promised to Lavinia. She, back in the comfort and warmth of Downton. Promised to that cad, Sir Richard Carlisle.
The regret hit him first. Then the confusion. And the guilt. He groaned inwardly, and turned over, pulling the blankets over his head. For he knew now, had known since the concert, that they were both living a lie.
January 25 1918
Dear Cousin Mary,
We have a reprieve at last and I am finally able to write for the first time in several weeks. Winter is settling in. There is a strange beauty that comes when snow covers the mud. A soft white blanket soothes the rawness of the earth and lets us forget for a precious few hours the horrors that lie beneath. The never-ending wet and ooze that traps your boots. The brutal coils of wire that lie in wait to grab at any bare flesh. Battle detritus. Splintered wood, ruined wheels, broken machinery, weapons and shrapnel. And the dead boys. So many dead boys.
Matthew crossed the last two sentences out. Damn it, the censor probably would anyway.
The cold is biting. It seeps in under your clothes and out on patrol it's a battle to stay warm. We seem to spend most of it stamping our feet and rubbing our hands together. Our officer quarters aren't so bad. We have a stove, which we gather around to warm our hands. It's tougher out in the trenches. The men scavenge for wood and build small fires wherever they can.
