I wrote this after coming across an open letter to Julian Fellowes on a blog ( 2012/02/20/an-open-letter-to-julian-fellows-regarding-matthew-crawleys-miraculous-recovery/) commenting on the fact that when, for once, it looked as if there would be a disabled main character in a TV series, he miraculously recovered. I decided that it would be interesting to explore how the lives of the Crawley family might have been different if Matthew had not regained the use of his legs. This first chapter is a bit depressing, but it won't all be like this. Enjoy!

Chapter One

Matthew lay flat on his back and stared at the familiar white ceiling of his tiny ground floor room in Downton Abbey. How many nights had he lain here, alone in the silence of the night, wishing he were dead? At the front, the men prayed to be spared and to return home safely to their families. They prayed for the war to end. They prayed their wives and girls would stay faithful to them in their long absence. But they also prayed to be killed cleanly with a bullet to the head or some vital organ.

They prayed not to end up like he was now; a pathetic, useless cripple, a disappointment and a burden to his family. Not even a man.

God, that hurt almost more than the loss of the use of his legs. He could never be a proper husband. Never marry. He couldn't do that to any woman, never mind one he loved so deeply, so completely…

And there he had to stop himself thinking. Because he wasn't thinking of Lavinia, who was still technically his fiancée. He was thinking of Mary.

Mary, with her sharp tongue and her soft, deep brown eyes, with her thick chocolate brown hair that made him want to run his fingers though it and her unfathomable heart. She was, beyond doubt, the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the world to him. And there had been a time when he had thought she would be his. But that had been years ago, before the war, before… this.

She was only up the stairs, probably fast asleep in her bed. But she may as well have been the other side of the world. The thought of her, beautiful and innocent in her sleep but far out of his reach, was torture to him. It came to him suddenly that he had never seen her asleep, and probably never would. This seemed somehow sad.

Lavinia was sleeping somewhere in the house too of course, but although he knew it should, this meant nothing to him. She was a sweet, kind, pretty girl, and clever too, although she would never match Mary's wit. But she was a girl where Mary was a woman. He had loved her when he had been away from Mary for those long months and years at war, he truly had, but he wondered if that had been more a result of his broken heart over what had happened with Mary and his broken mind from everything he had seen and done in France than anything else. She was so entirely different from Mary, so safe and sweet, a refuge in a world and a life that had been falling apart around him.

But what did any of that matter now? That life was over for him.

Except Lavinia had come back. She had known she was coming back to a useless cripple, yet still she had come. And she had come back changed too, no longer so timid and uncertain, no longer so easily pushed away, even when it was for her own good. He knew, of course, that Cousin Cora had had something to do with it. She didn't want him getting too close to Mary, didn't want her eldest daughter shackled to a helpless cripple who could never give her children or give her anything like the life she deserved. He understood and wholeheartedly agreed, but somehow it still hurt.

It had been easy to send Lavinia away the first time. He had known it would be hard for her in the first weeks and months, she really did seem to love him, even now, but it was kinder in the long run. This new confident and determined Lavinia was different though. How on earth could he make her see what her life would be if she married him: the life of a nursemaid, caring for him for the rest of their lives?

Well, his life. Dr Clarkson had informed him, with an awkward sympathy that was far worse than his usual matter-of–fact manner, that his life expectancy was much shorter now. The immobility and consequent weakening of his body would make him more susceptible to illness. His weakened chest and inadequate cough made pneumonia a constant danger. And there was the constant threat of infections. He would in all likelihood die before Lavinia. Most men with injuries like his died within a few months from some infection. A pathetic end, precisely what they prayed would not happen to them. But at least he would not have to bear this horrible half-life for long. Death no longer held any fear for him. How could it? The worst had already happened.

It wasn't just Lavinia though. Mary may be engaged to that bastard Carlisle, but he remembered the tenderness and truthfulness in her eyes when she had spoken of being with him 'on any terms'. He had been feeling too awful at the time to understand, but the one thing he had plenty of now was time, and his thoughts had returned again and again to that moment, and unfathomable as she was, he knew she had not been speaking of Lavinia. It was so, so tempting, too tempting, to forget everything and say yes, a thousand times yes. But he had resisted. He simply could not do that to Mary, however she felt about him now. And he doubted he would ever understand her thoughts or feelings.

The whole situation was impossible, and more lives than his own were being dragged into his miserable existence.

William had saved his life, but this life was not worth saving.

He knew he could never have forgiven himself if William had died, and he nearly had. If William had died saving him so he could live this pathetic half-life… But William hadn't died. Everyone had thought he would, and he had married Daisy on what had seemed to be his deathbed. But somehow he'd pulled through and was apparently recovering well. This did cheer Matthew up a little. He and William had become much more than master and servant in their months at the front; they had become great friends. But even this couldn't truly break through the cloud of despair and depression that surrounded him now.

And now there was this Major Gordon who may or may not be Patrick. Matthew had never thought he would want to be the heir; he remembered his desperate wish when he first arrived that this would not change him. He had not welcomed the news that he was the heir at all.

And yet, now it was under threat, he realised how much he felt like part of the family now, how much his life had become centred on this great house and the estate. What would he have if it turned out that the Major was Patrick Crawley? Robert would let him and his mother keep Crawley house. But could he bear to live here, on the charity of others? He would never need to support a family, but without the estate, he would need some source of income. Could he work now? He couldn't see anyone wanting to hire a crippled lawyer. What on earth would he do?

But for the family, it was a blessing for Patrick to have reappeared, regardless of what Mary and Robert had said in his defence. At least this stranger would be able to father an heir to follow him as Earl, something Matthew thought painfully he would never be able to do.

Matthew started to roll onto his side to get into the curled up foetal position he normally slept in, then remembered he couldn't turn on his own anymore and that it was up to the nurses to decide what position he slept in. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his back from his feeble attempt to turn. Mother had always told him to think of happy things when he couldn't sleep as a child, but he simply was not capable of thinking anything happy now. His life was like a nightmare that he would never wake up from. He resigned himself to yet another sleepless night.

Mary woke with a start, her heart hammering at an impossible speed. It was a familiar sensation. She had been waking like this from nightmares about Matthew being killed since he had left for France in 1914. At first, her dreams had been reliving the day Patrick had died, the same events replaying themselves night after night except that it was Matthew who was dead instead, and she had awoken relieved it wasn't real, and then guilty that she felt more grief in these dreams than she had ever felt following Patrick's very real death. Now, after that awful night the telegram had come, it was this that she relived in her nightmares. Except instead of the news that he was injured and coming home, the telegram always carried news of his death. And tonight, she seemed to remember the paper being inexplicably covered in blood. She shuddered, and choked back a sob.

It took her a minute to remind herself that it wasn't real. Matthew was home, safe from the horrors he had faced for so long, asleep just down the stairs in the little room in which she had spent so much time since he had been moved from the hospital. Wounded, but alive. She had a sudden longing to run down there in her nightgown, fling his door open and take him in her arms, feel his reassuring presence and know for certain that he was safe.

She didn't of course. She was Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham. She was engaged. Matthew was engaged. She thought painfully that if only she hadn't listened to Aunt Rosamund's advice, she would be married to him now, and she would be able to hold him every night and know that he was safe.

But she had learned long ago that there was no point thinking like that. She couldn't even be sure that she would have married him anyway. She would have had to tell him about Kemal, and was not sure she could have done it. She simply couldn't bear the thought of him knowing what she had done, what she was. A slut. He would despise her, him and his precious honour, and he would be right to. And Richard Carlisle was all that stopped the whole world from discovering her shame.

She turned over and buried her face in the pillow, trying to shut out the world and the thoughts of her future married to a man she could barely say truthfully that she liked, never mind loved like she loved Matthew. Emotion welled up inside her and it was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out loud. A few tears dampened the pillow, but she controlled herself quickly. She had cried enough recently. She had sealed her fate when she had taken a lover all those years ago. It was her fault, and she should be glad that Richard was willing both to protect her from scandal and to marry her even though he knew the truth.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She had to sleep. She would have to rise early the next morning to help with the running of the convalescent home. She had never expected to actually want to help, but now Lavinia was back, her days were no longer filled by Matthew and her need to take care of him had been displaced into helping with the other officers. She did not enjoy it, but it filled her days and kept her mind from drifting to things she would rather not think about.

It was not long before she drifted back into a restless and unhappy sleep.

Yes, William is alive. I just love him too much to write a story that starts just after his death.