Downton Abbey -- For King and Country

[anythingbutgrey]

For King and Country
This last letter goes to a sailor on the coast.
Downton Abbey, post-S1. Crawley sisters. Mary/Matthew, Sybil/Branson.



Mary drags the nail of her index finger back and forth across the dining room table. There's no sound in these halls, and so the faster she moves the closer it sounds to a guillotine.

"I thought you should hear it from me personally," Matthew says. Mary stops when he speaks and keeps moving when he pauses.

Mary says, "You could have sent a letter." She sounds calm as summer to her own ears.

Matthew nods. Mary is having trouble looking at him, but keeps sneaking glances. "I could have. But it didn't feel right."

The hand scratching at the table falls back to her lap. She doesn't look him in the eye just yet. She's quite ashamed of this fact, but Mary has never been afraid of anything like a war before. She's already fallen into half-mourning. Her wardrobe has been cleared out of any pastels or jewel toned frocks. Anna promised to keep the ruby red dresses in the cellar. Mary said she didn't care. Give them the poor if you'd like.

"And when do you leave," Mary says.

"As soon as I get back to Manchester. That's why I have to leave tonight."

Her head snaps up and her neck cracks. "But you just got here," she protests, and then gasps at the sight of him. There are those eyes again. He's hard to look at sometimes. He always was, but now it's worse.

Matthew nods. He never has trouble looking her in the eye, probably because he has nothing to be ashamed of and nothing he's worried she'll find. "And now I have to leave," he says. Behind him, out the window, the sun is just beginning to move toward the earth.

His hands are flat on the table, but she doesn't touch him. Last they were in this room together he kissed her and she thought about surrendering the fight. Now, she leans back in her chair. Mary knows about what wives do in war, and she knows about the weeping and the handkerchiefs. But Mary is not a wife, and she has never been one to stand at the shore. She doesn't know what she is, but she knows she is not a wife. She saw to that.

And now Matthew is standing. She follows, though her spine does not feel like her own. As she stretches into proper posture, well-ingrained, she feels even taller than usual, as though drifting a few inches from the ground like fog.

He tips his hat, and backs away, keeping his eyes on hers. Mary needs to look at him now, needs to because this is the picture she will carry until he returns, as he must return. He doesn't turn his back until he gets to the door and even then, even then he pauses with one hand pressed against the door and one on the handle and his back curved forward ever slightly, hunched in what Mary would like to think is his last remaining moment of weakness. There won't be any time for exhaustion anymore. She wants to reach out her fingers and hold on to whatever she can. A woman far braver than Mary would move. A woman far braver than Mary would say something. A woman far braver than Mary would burn draft cards. But that is Sybil's purview. Mary takes two steps forward and stops.

"I feel I must say something, but I don't know what to say," she confesses.

Matthew breathes. He doesn't turn back to her, and if anything his body bends even more. Mary thinks about Matthew bleeding in the forests of France and gasps.

"Wish me luck with it, Mary," he murmurs, and Mary lifts her hand to her mouth. "God knows I wish the best for you."

He doesn't look back at her as he opens the door and steps away. Mary watches him leave through the window.


-


Sybil burns Branson's draft card.

"We'll both get arrested for that," he says, but he's drunk enough by then and Sybil takes advantage. She snatches it out of his hand and grabs at the matches she knows he's started keeping in his coat pocket. It's stressful for men these days; Branson had taken up smoking long before the conscription notice arrived. They knew it was coming. They've discussed it. Sybil said to burn it. Branson said there wasn't a point.

They're in the garden now. It's night, and a surprisingly chilly one at that. Sybil has Branson's coat wrapped over her shoulders because he says he doesn't need it, the vodka will take care of that and it doesn't matter that he's drunk on her father's property because he's shipping out tomorrow and the world is ending. That's the vodka talking.

"Just tell them you've lost your card," Sybil says. "You're still going to turn up, though I think you shouldn't. Are you sure we can't just sneak you off to America or something? Are the Italians fighting yet?"

"Not yet," Branson says, taking another sip of vodka from the bottle. "But give it some time. The whole world seems headed that way."

She shivers, and shoves her hands into Branson's coat pockets. "Are you at all afraid then?"

Branson tilts his head. "With all due respect, Lady Sybil, straight vodka isn't exactly for celebrating."

"Does it taste any good," Sybil asks, leaning in to smell and then quite quickly moving back.

Branson laughs, and pulls the bottle further from her. "Even if it did, the last thing anyone needs is a tipsy Lady Sybil Crawley on the eve of war."

"But the war's already started," Sybil reminds him, and then freezes.

He seems to smile a little, the wistful, half-pained sort with his head just slightly turned from her. "The eve of mine, then."

They are quiet for a while. Sybil doesn't like quiet, but in her position she learns to tolerate it. Around Branson, she rarely has it, and so now she tries to fit herself around these pauses. She does have a million questions for him, things like if he's at all excited about the war, and where he's going and who he'll meet. What he's bringing with him, because Sybil has read of the packs men carry from city to city and how they stuff what little room they have free with mementos and letters from home. Sybil wants to know about his mementos. Perhaps he will still remember her after the war. But of course he will, because the war will soon be over.

"You won't be gone long though, surely," Sybil insists, as though Branson had somehow protested.

Branson looks over at her. He's leaning back on his palms with his fingers pressed into the dirt. "I hope you are right, Lady Sybil."

She rolls her eyes. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. We're friends, aren't we?"

Branson pushes himself to upright, and tucks one leg under him and then the other until he sits facing her. There is still dirt on his hands but Sybil doesn't mind the chill of earth against her skin when he brushes his fingers against her cheek. "Yes, Lady Sybil," he says. "We are friends."


-


Edith takes a new pen out of the desk drawer. This last letter goes to a sailor on the coast. Edith feels the least for the Navy who sweep their way around Great Britain. They step on English soil more often than the rest and this makes them lucky, though Edith knows better than to say this in her letters. The letters to the front are the most difficult. Edith is not the type to cry, and better for it given her history, but sometimes she thinks of those boys in the mud and winces in the silence of her bedroom. Reports come in slowly, but they do tremble through.

Edith reads about the war in the paper. Grandmother says that it's oh so dreadful to concern yourself with such things, but Edith has always been well-informed and well-read, and this is all anyone speaks of anymore. At the parties, Edith is ready with information should anyone need her to speak. Until they do, she sits with her ankles crossed. Edith is quite good at that which others expect. Better than Mary most certainly, though Edith then remembers that it is not a time for fighting, no matter recent personal events. For King and country, she reminds herself. The radio whispered how we all have a role. She signs her name at the bottom of the letter and stamps the envelope closed.

It's not too late, but Edith feels exhausted. Her hands have been cramping lately. Anna once noted the cautious way Edith picks up her knife after a day of being shut away in her bedroom, but no one else has said a word. Maybe she will mention it tomorrow at dinner, just so her parents remain apprised of her activities. Her mother spends too much time saying nothing these days, and her father doesn't like to think of his servants drifting off to war, one by one. It's quiet at the dinner table, though Mary still sometimes likes to drag up the old spite. Edith thinks Mary finds it comforting to be untransmutable, though Edith herself finds little solace in it.

Edith places the envelope in her letterbox and blows out the candle at her desk. The moon always lights Edith's bedroom well enough in September, enough to even keep her from sleep some nights. An accident of placement, she knows, though Edith must admit she has lately bordered on insomniatic. Edith doesn't like to think of those young boys off at war. Perhaps her letters will bring them some happiness, she thinks, and when they return the boys can give some in return. Surely she is kind enough, and bright. A bit plain, yes, but they don't know Mary or Sybil; they do not know the bright colors against whom Edith always pales.

Edith wanders to the window. Outside, Sybil and Branson are chasing each other around the garden like children. Sybil laughs with her head thrown back while Branson trips over his own feet. Edith presses her fingers against the windowpane, leaving prints she regrets Anna will have to wash away in the morning, as Edith hasn't the supplies. Branson is leaving tomorrow, Edith knows. It's unfortunate. Perhaps Sybil will want to write him letters, and Edith can show her how to address a regiment and comfort her when the responses take weeks or even longer. She'd quite like to be an older sister, a proper one who teaches small things like where the nice paper is hidden in Papa's study, or the way to recreate the precise fold of a handkerchief after crying. All she learned from Mary was how to spite people, and not very well at that. Edith thus cannot well calculate small cracks, but, rather, only large explosions. Then again, Edith is good at society, and Sybil will care little to learn anything from her. Sybil still thinks society is beneath her. Sybil forgets her place. Mary wants to forget. Edith never forgets.

Edith turns from the window. She doesn't need the moon to find her way back to her bed, but she is grateful for the help. In the morning there will be oats and black tea. We must all do our part, Papa will murmur, and it will be the only sentence he says all morning. Everyone will try not to look at William. Even Sybil will be quiet. Mary will pretend to be angry about something. Her mother will always smile and say thank you. Edith will sit up straight.