Chapter Text
Mary had left the drawing room with a red tint to her cheeks after learning she was the only one out of the loop regarding Thomas. If she was to be Countess in the house one day, shouldn't she know what went on under its roof? And those three had made her seem like a naïve, sheltered girl for not knowing—but she did know of that sort of thing, of course, she just never exactly picked up on it from Thomas. Not that she picked up on much from the staff beside Anna and Carson, and not that she cared much what the staff got up to on their own time, but there were some things she really should be more aware of.
"You were really going to let me go on like that?" She asked Matthew once they were out of the drawing room, balancing a teasing and scolding tone.
"Well he is your staff, I thought you knew," Matthew answered, perfectly logical. Mary hated that.
"Really, if we're going to be husband and wife, we ought to tell each other these things." Mary knew it was a weak argument, and didn't know what point exactly she was trying to make, but felt compelled to be combative regardless.
Matthew only scoffed, playful smile still on his face. "I hardly think the love lives of your footmen make suitable conversation for our marital bed."
Mary rolled her eyes, not at anything in particular, but to keep the show up.
(Quietly, she remembered "If you really like an argument, we should see more of each other.")
"Come on, I thought we were going to luncheon, not hover in the hall." Mary saw Sybil and Tom making their way out of the drawing room themselves.
Matthew hesitated, and Mary loathed to see a mischievous spread further across his face. "You really didn't know?"
"Obviously not. Must you rub it in?"
★
Marseille twinkled in the dusk, just as Mary's governess had described to her as a child. The German woman had a fondness for France, which she spared no breath fawning over, despite the old bat having only toured once. But now, older and more forgiving (she liked to think), Mary understood why Fräulein Kelder was so annoying about this majestic city. She told Matthew as much, her head resting heavily upon his chest.
"I never thought I'd find France beautiful. In the trenches, I remember everyone groaning about what an awful country this was. And it was awful, really, at least as we knew it. I didn't think I'd ever even live to see this side of it."
Mary didn't turn her head to look at Matthew. She knew the face he bore whenever he mentioned the war, even in passing. If she dared to face him, Matthew would hastily look away and change the subject, as he always did when he noticed others watching him in this state. Mary knew if she let him speak in peace, with no pitying eyes boring into him, he'd continue. She held her breath.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I stumbled into Barrow in the trenches?"
It was harder to keep still at that. He'd never mentioned this, nor any other war story for that matter, aside from an anecdote involving William that he had recounted at his funeral. It was clear Matthew had rehearsed that story in anticipation, though he still had struggled enormously through it. Mary didn't answer Matthew's question. He carried on.
"Well, I actually saw him twice. First time was only a moment—we had to keep moving, you know how it was." Mary didn't know how it was, but again she said nothing. She didn't even dare to breathe. "The second time, though, we had a cup of tea. We spoke of nothing but Downton. It was odd, realizing that Downton meant as much to him as it did to me. Downton is just as big a part of his life as it is mine, if not more, and I don't even know the man—or any of the staff, for that matter." Matthew paused. "I told him that the war broke down the distinctions of class and society, showed us that they didn't matter, and yet..."
As Matthew trailed off, Mary continued to stare out the window. She'd never shared Matthew's middle-class sentimentality—that was much more Sybil's field—but the shame that filled his voice brought her closer to his sympathies. As a child, it did confuse her that there were people living in the same house as her who seemed to have no purpose but fluffing her pillows and setting the table. Everyone—Mama, Papa, Carson, Fräulein Kelder—assured her of the normalcy of it all, and by the time of her presentation she hadn't given it a thought in years. Though Matthew's arrival to Downton had been a jolt to her awareness of class, he seemed to have made the comfortable transition into her lifestyle—until now, of course, as he reflected on those hollow words he'd once spoken to Thomas.
Mary hoped that Matthew might continue talking freely, so long as she remained still and quiet, but that strategy ceased to work. They lay there in silence as the minutes ticked by. Hearing the clock, Mary ventured back to the now-dead subject.
"His father was a clockmaker."
In the mirror that hung next to the window, Mary caught Matthew's confused eyes.
"Barrow. That's about all I know about him. If you want to know him and the others, you could always... talk to them, I suppose. Or try to, at least. After all, they will be your employees one day."
They held eye contact in the mirror, and Matthew began to smile. Then he giggled—giggled—a little.
"Well, that's not all you know about Barrow."
Mary wanted to smack that terribly tickled grin off his face. "Oh, must you remind me of how I was somehow the only person in the house ignorant to that?" She may never shake the embarrassment of having the affairs of her house known better by Sybil, Tom, and Matthew, of whom only one had even really lived there.
"I just can't believe you never knew. He may not be a dandy, but he isn't subtle."
"Well, maybe I've had my eye on men that aren't serving my dinner."
"Oh, men. Should I be jealous?"
"Yes, you should," Mary teased. She was still bothered by what Matthew had just said, though. After a pause, she added, "What do you mean, he isn't subtle? Need I be worried he'll bring scandal down on our heads?" Mary laughed a little as she asked, but she was worried; had a handsy footman been upsetting her guests? Or God forbid, her suitors?
"Oh, relax. No, I just meant... Well, for one, I distinctly recall his undue attention toward one Turkish diplomat, long ago."
Matthew's gaze met hers in the mirror again, this time Mary frozen by the mention of Pamuk. That ghastly business continued to haunt her, and Matthew clearly recognized that—but he only gave her arm a rub in acknowledgement, not mentioning it in words. Mary smiled in gratitude.
“Now, as much as I’d love to discuss Oscar Wilde with you, I’m afraid we have an early start tomorrow. Good night, my darling,” Matthew mumbled into her hairline as he laid a kiss upon it. As he turned to shut off the bedside lamp, Mary resolved to thank Barrow once they returned home.