Author's Notes: So, before people begin freaking out screaming "Another story?! Another story!?" Let me explain. I wrote the first 11 chapters of this story WAY back in June, before I'd even returned to A Man of Iron. I was on a Downton kick, after reading some of Rap541's stories, and as is so often the case with my stories was looking for a particular type of story and when I couldn't find it decided 'Screw it, right it yourself!'. I actually got really far into this, chapter-wise, before my muse turned to A Man of Iron and this was set aside. That said, I really enjoyed this series and I'd like to continue it. I find that sometimes it helps me to write series when I have several different tales that I can bounce back and forth to; if I just write my Harry Potter: Pokemon Master series I struggle. But allow me to edit something like this and suddenly my muse kicks in for that series. Add in that with the holidays AND my birthday both occurring on the 25 As such I've decided to add this story to my rotation of publishing, in hopes it will help kick story some other stories like Justice League: Second Chance.
We'll get into what inspired this story at the end of this chapter. For now…
~A~O~O~O~F~
In a blink of an eye.
It was such a funny phrase and Matthew hated to use it, as it made him feel like he was a character in some pulp story from the Strand rather than a man of flesh and blood who lived in the real world and who dealt with the normal struggles of life. It was a phrase that should belong to daring detectives and epic heroes and cunning women hiding secrets while engaging in spectacular adventures. Not for a man who worried about bank books and the running of an estate. That string of words should have only been reserved for tales of heroes fording the Nile and treasure hunters stalking tigers in the wilds of the Asian continent. It wasn't a dignified phrase, a proper phrase as Robert would say, and Matthew felt a twinge at using it.
And yet it was the only thing that came to mind. The only way to describe the chaos that had been his day.
He was stepping off a train, holding his wife's hand-
In a blink of an eye.
She was screaming and crying and he'd never been so scared in all his life. Thoughts of Sybil drifted through his head and he'd prayed to God because he wasn't as strong as Tom and couldn't live if she were gone-
In a blink of an eye.
He was holding his son and he was the one crying now and all he could do is stare at that little scrunched up face. He didn't want to let go, he couldn't… Mary would understand if he spent the next week just holding little George-
In a blink of an eye.
Matthew had left them both but that is okay, he understood. He just needed to return to Downton, just for a few minutes to share the news and then he can return with the rest of the family. The day was so bright and lovely and it felt like the Holy Spirit has decided to create the perfect day to celebrate the birth of his child-
In a blink of an eye.
The car rumbled and a scream filled his ears and he dimly realized even as the glass broke against a branch and shards flew into his body, his form once more torn apart by shrapnel, that it is his own. The ground is rushing towards him and there is a hideous, horrible crack as his head strikes the ground-
In a blink of an eye.
He was in a bed.
A rather crummy one, now that he thought about it. It wasn't like the thin sleeping bag he'd been given during the war, which he had once torn open to find was filled with newspaper and what he prayed was merely parchment stained brown from leatherwork. And it wasn't as bad as the rock-like mattress he'd been forced to lie on during his weeks as an invalid, for even though he was staying in the estate that would one day be his he was still just an injured soldier and wouldn't be given a private bed. Though, he thought now with bitter humor, only half of him had truly felt just how stiff that bed had been.
This bed though was different. Maybe, before he'd come to Downton, he'd have found it acceptable but living in luxury as he had tended to spoil a person. He'd once joked with Mary when she'd complained about the finest hotel room bed, saying she wouldn't sleep well if 10 people hadn't had a hand in changing the sheets. She scowled at that but he'd merely egged her on, stating that she was the literal princess complaining about a pea. Now he realized he owed her an apology because he was being just as fussy as her. There was nothing terribly wrong with the bed, only that it wasn't something that cost as much as his old salary.
Him sleeping in such a bed did raise a curious question though; namely, how had he gotten there. He remembered the car crash but not how he had come to be on lying on the crummy bed with its sheets that were far too light for the cool fall weather. Of course it was possible that he had a fever before waking and whoever had put him to bed had wrapped him up in what little they could find. The excuse felt weak to him, especially since he didn't feel that bad at all.
Matthew's brow furrowed at that. In fact, as he considered his own body in the darkness of the room, he felt wonderful. Better than he'd felt in years! It was so odd to think about it, how little aches and pains that at first were so annoying became mere background noise as the years passed on, but suddenly Matthew was acutely aware that he felt as if he was fresh out of college. The tightness in his back along the shrapnel scars was gone, allowing him to shift without feeling like he was going to tear his skin to ribbons. The ache in his left knee from when he'd fallen off a horse during one of Robert's hunts didn't bother him. The ringing in his ears, another gift of the war, was gone as well; he'd forgotten what true silence sounded like.
And it was silent. Oddly so. It was such a rarity, in such big houses that held so few people, that they never seemed to be quiet. There was always a servant up and about, or someone sneaking away to relieve themselves, or just the normal moan and groan of an old house settling. He'd once asked Robert about it and his father-in-law admitted he didn't know why the house made such noises; it was only later, when he talked to Tom that he got his answer. Something about heat and cold and expanding and contracting… he didn't understand all of it, to be honest, and at the moment he wondered why he was even thinking about such things when he was clearly not in Downton.
Someone from the village then must have found him. Why not bring him to Dr. Clarkson then? Or to his mother's home? He supposed there must be a reason… perhaps they had been afraid to move him? He remembered seeing several men strapped to their beds when Downton was a hospital, unable to move because the doctors feared that if they did they would hurt themselves even more than they already were. He had been in a car crash so that was possible. But he felt great! Even if he was on a crummy bed.
He reached out, fumbled a bit, heard something get knocked to the floor, but for the life of him he couldn't find the lights. He felt a candle though and he cursed himself for his stupidity; of course they wouldn't have electric lights. There were still houses in the village where such things were frowned upon. The old folks believed that lights could cause one's home to explode or the electricity would escape and chase you down like a boogieman. He'd always been glad that his mother had never been that foolish; the only reason they'd never had electric lights in their old home was that his mother never saw the need for such an expense. She'd assumed that one day he'd marry and move into his own home and that she would find a smaller place befitting a widow whose child had finally left the nest. Then she would get all the electrical lights she desired. Crawley House had been a blessing and he still smiled fondly as he thought of how she'd looked about, trying to hide her delight at all the modern advancements that could be found about them. He never seen her look so young and even at his most priggish over having to become heir he'd never faulted her for feeling such delight.
Finding the matches he quickly lit the candle and watched as the room was illuminated in a soft golden glow. While it did have a crummy mattress with too thin sheets it was still a rather nice looking bedroom. Lived in too, that was clear. That had always been a problem at Downton; even to this day he felt afraid to touch some of the furniture. He'd once had a nightmare that he'd scuffed some antique chair and Carson had come at him with a serving tray, screeching about how he had brought shame to Downton and he would finish him as he had finished Patrick. Downton felt like a museum where one simply couldn't relax but instead had to forever walk around on tiptoes. This room was different though. It was a bedroom he could live in, could feel free to be himself. He could flop on the bed like a child, throw a pillow at the wall if he were frustrated, or just sit and pick out a book from his bookshelf and read as the sun passed… through…
He paused.
His bookshelf.
He remembered it well. His father had been so proud when he'd gotten it, challenging Matthew to fill it up with books. The game had begun when he was 8 and every summer when he returned from Eton he would cram it full of new books he'd gotten either with his own pocket change or as gifts. It had taken nearly 10 years, long after his father had passed on, to finally fill it and it was a matter of pride to look upon it and see a visible sign of his learning. He remembered saying a silent prayer to his father, telling him he'd done it, when he'd slipped the final book into place. Robert had always bragged about his library but to Matthew nothing would ever be as impressive as his little bookshelf.
And there it was again, just to his right.
Impossible.
Even the books were the same. He might have believed that someone happened to have the same set of shelves but the same books? Ordered in the way he liked that no one could understand but him? It didn't make any sense! He stood quickly and hurried over, yanking out one book and flipping through it. It was a collection of short stories from an American chap, a very interesting collection to be sure, and he remembered the tales well. Just as much as he remembered this book. It was his, he could tell. There was the rip on the corner of page 153, the one so minor no one would notice it but had gotten Robert all huffy and stating that Matthew really should buy a replacement. The folded page from when he'd been young and silly and couldn't find a book mark and wanted to keep his place. The wear on the spine from his fingers holding it for hours, pouring over the tales.
But not the stain.
He flipped through the book again and again but couldn't find it. But it should be there. Mary had startled him a few months ago as he'd been reading and he'd splashed his coffee on the pages. Nothing horrific, despite what Mary said, but enough that it left a recognizable stain right in the middle of the collection. Mary had sworn to replace it for him but he'd waved her off, telling her that the stain would remind him of her every time he read it. Matthew became almost frantic as he began to flip through the pages rapidly, searching for the stain, needing to find it, only to have clean paper meet his eyes.
The book slipped from his fingers and he began to look about wildly, finding that much of the room did look familiar. It wasn't just the books and shelf… he recognized the dresser with its scratched surface and the mirror in the corner that always liked to get a bit crooked and even the pajamas he was wearing… he recognized them all and he found himself wondering how this could all be because he hadn't seen any of this in nearly 9 years-
"Matthew?"
Matthew blinked as the intrusion of new candlelight before finally being able to focus on his mother's concerned face as she stood in the doorway. A sense of relief filled him for just as she had done when he was a young boy Matthew knew that she'd be able to chase away the confusion and befuddlement that came from being in a strange situation and give him the answers he sought.
"Matthew, my dear, are you alright? I heard you thumping about... oh, you look dreadfully pale! Sit, sit!"
Matthew laughed even as he sat down on the bed, his mother clucking and murmuring to herself as she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "I should say so, mother. I was in a terrible accident."
"You were?" his mother asked, concerned.
"Now is not the time to be coy," Matthew said with an annoyed smile. "I imagine Mary will be quite cross with me, being so foolish."
"Mary?" his mother asked. Her face was creased with confusion but Matthew didn't have the time or energy to wonder why. He had more important questions.
"Yes, I imagine she will enjoy needling me; she's been warning me for months on end that I drive too fast and that I treat the car like a child treats a toy." He rolled his shoulders a bit. "And I suppose like every naughty child I have broken my toy and must face the consequences. Tom warned me that I'd lost my respect for it and I know see he was right."
"Car? Matthew, when did you drive a car? Is that how you got in an accident?"
He frowned at that. "No one told you?"
"Why would anyone tell me?" And who is this 'anyone' you speak of?" Isobel Crawley made a face, one he knew all too well from his childhood. It was the same face she'd make when he told her some outlandish thing and she was wondering why he thought he was clever enough to fool her.
"No one told you?" Matthew asked, looking down at his pajamas. Whoever had placed him in this bizarre recreation of his old room had also dressed him in rather shabby clothing. At least they fit, unlike the garments he'd worn in the military hospital. "I must have been thrown from the car..."
"Matthew, you aren't making sense. I doubt very much you drove in a car let alone got in an accident. From what I've heard of those things people are lucky to survive just a normal drive!"
Matthew huffed. "I'm fine, mother. Now, where are we? Why wasn't I brought back home?"
Now his mother was staring at him with a frightful look upon her face. She moved to stand in front of him, tenderly placing her hands on his cheeks. "Matthew... tell me where do you think you are right now?"
His brow furrowed. "The Village, I suppose. Though I don't know why you didn't take me back to the house." He looked around, or did the best he could with his mother still holding his face. "And how is it that whoever owns this house got hold of my things from Manchester?" It suddenly dawned on him what the answer was and he gave his mother an exasperated sigh. "Did you donate them? You did, didn't you? I don't mind the furniture but why my books? You know I love them, despite Robert claiming his collect is more pristine and thus befitting a proper gentleman."
"Matthew, I think you need to lie back down. You're rather muddled."
"I'm fine, mother," Matthew said, all too used to his mother becoming overly dramatic when it came to his health. He half expected to wake up one day to find that she'd chained him to the bed 'for his own protection' while she tried to remove a splinter, convinced it would be his death. "I don't know if it was you or Dr. Clarkson that patched me up but I feel utterly fine. Now, I'd like to dress and make my thanks to whoever found me so I can get back to Mary."
Isobel however did not let him sit up and instead pushed him firmly back down onto the bed. "Matthew, you're befuddled. I think you were dreaming and it's made you all confused."
"I wasn't dreaming, mother. Now where is Mary?"
"Matthew," his mother said sternly, her warm and concerned tones replaced with steel. "You are talking of things I don't understand. If Mary is a woman you've set your eyes on-"
Matthew just began to laugh. "Set my eyes... did you two have a fight?" When his mother didn't respond Matthew began to talk slower, making sure to clearly say each word. "Mary. My wife. The mother of my child. Your grandchild, George."
"Oh... oh Matthew."
"What?" Matthew said, licking his lips. "Did something happen to her? The baby?"
"Sweetheart," his mother began again. "I swear on your father's grave... I have never heard of a Mary before. And certainly not one you married and had a child with." Matthew stared at her, shaking his head slightly and she gently reached over to brush a few stray locks of hair from his forehead. "I think... I think you had a dreadfully realistic dream and it's got you all mixed up-"
"No... no..." he quickly stood up, nearly sending her toppling to the ground. "Is this a game? Did Tom put you up to it? Hazing of the new father? Because it is a rather sad attempt. Tom? Tom, are you there?"
"Matthew," his mother said, tears in her eyes. "Please."
"I don't have time for this," Matthew said, grabbing a robe and tugging it on. He searched for some slippers but when he didn't find any he padded across the floor barefoot. "I want to see Mary. You and Tom and whoever else is in on this can stop now." He threw open the door and stormed down the hall, his mother calling after him. "I need to... to..." he looked upon the other rooms, recognizing each one of them even in the dark of the night. He hurried down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, twisting around the hall tree his father had bought back when he was 5, before racing through the sitting room, eyes wide with shock and fear. He could hear his mother behind him, calling for him, but he couldn't stop, not until he escaped this madness. He rushed to the door, throwing it open and stared out not upon the sleepy village of Downton but his old neighborhood home in Manchester. It was as it had always been, everything the same even after nearly a decade. His jaw trembled and he felt tears in his eyes as he looked about the quiet street, the moonlight and gas lamps giving everything a soft glow. He felt his heart raising and could hear the blood rushing through his head even as his mother pulled him inside.
"Matthew... Matthew sweetheart..."
"No," he whispered, hand reaching out for something he couldn't see, only to close his fingers feebly. "This... this isn't right. This isn't..."
"It's a dream, sweetheart. You're sleepwalking. Shhh."
"No... no," he whimpered, tears trailing down his cheek. He'd just left his wife, he'd held his son. He had a family. It was real. "It was real," he said out loud.
"It's a dream, Matthew. A dream. Please..."
He let her guide him back up the stairs, putting up no protest as she laid him back in bed and sang to him as she had when he'd had a horrible nightmare as a child. But he hadn't had a nightmare... he'd had a life and now awoken to a terror.
A terror that everything... was gone. Had never been.
Matthew wept even as he fell back asleep.
~A~O~O~O~F~
He awoke once more with the rising of the sun immanent. And while all he wanted to do was leap to his feet and flee the world he found himself in, to search for Mary and prove that he wasn't going mad, he did not. With rest had come insight and he now saw that such actions would not work out well.
Matthew glanced over at his mother, who'd fallen asleep in the chair. For anyone else he'd have been concerned but his mother was made of stern stuff and she prided herself in being able to sleep anywhere and wake up just as refreshed as if she'd dozed on the Sultan's feather bed. He smiled despite his morose mood. 'If I do anything other than pretend it was all just a dream she'll try to help me.' That on its own wouldn't have been bad but he was the son of a doctor and knew that no matter how kind-hearted one was there were systems in place within the medical world that could consume a patient and never let them go. His mother would seek help, some doctor would rule that there was something wrong with Matthew's head, and he'd spend the rest of his life in an asylum, treated little better than a fly caught by a vicious bully who wanted to see what happened when you plucked its wings and legs off.
No. He couldn't act rashly and he certainly couldn't go to her for help. His mother was wonderful but he knew that even she had her limits and believing that her son was from nearly 10 years in the future would never be believed.
'Assuming that is the case,' he thought to himself. He hated to admit it but as he laid in bed he had to consider the option, no matter how painful, that his mother was right and it had all been a dream. And as much as he hated to admit it there were pros to that. 'Or one large pro,' Matthew thought. 'The War.' He silently laughed to himself. 'Just a day before if someone had told me that with a wave of their hand the war could be nothing more than a dream and all the pains that came from that senseless crusade would be undone I'd have said yes. And a more noble man would still say yes. But... my family against the world?' He shook his head. 'Damn the world.'
Of course if it wasn't a dream that meant the other option. The one that, had he heard it from anyone else, would have made him laugh and declare it fit for one of Mr. Doyle's tales. That somehow his soul had traveled a decade into the past. It was insane and ludicrous but he found it not only the option he longed to be true but also the one he felt the most likely. He simply remembered too much, had too many memories of the life he led for it to have been a dream. He had had vivid dreams before but those felt as if they lasted only hours at most; not the many years that he could now call upon.
'Not that they aren't any better than dreams I've had,' he thought. 'I was the heir of an earl. I spent years dancing around with Mary when she wasn't sleeping with Turkish diplomats or being blackmailed by newspaper owners. There was a war where I was in a coma, then crippled, then not when I caught a serving tray that must have been magical and able cure back injuries. My father in law's valet was falsely charged with murder, the butler was secretly a performer who sang on stage, the maid worked with the lord's daughter to become a secretary and then the same daughter married the driver and ran off to Ireland. We were rich, we were bankrupt, we were rich again because my fiancé died and her father died and he turned out to be richer than the Emperor of China. Patrick Crawley died then came back but not really because he was most likely a fake but oh Edith thought for sure he was.' He mentally scoffed. 'All that was missing was Robert saving the Prince of Wales and Edith having a child out of wedlock. Then my life would have truly been a page turner from a pulp paper.'
And that was the biggest problem facing Matthew: he had no way to prove, even to himself, that his memories were truly that: memories. 'I can't check to see if Robert is the Earl or that he has three daughters because it is entirely possible I read about him somewhere. I could walk through Downton I suppose but how would I explain being there? "Hello Robert, don't mind me, just making sure I'm not mad. By the way, please don't invest in a Canadian railway as I'd rather not try and convince Reggie Swire to give me his money again." I'd be tossed out before I got to the word 'don't'.'
For a moment he considered all he had learned in the war. He'd never been a crack shot (the hunting parties had proved that; nothing was more embarrassing than being the heir and being the worst shot of them all) until the war, when the difference between life and death meant learning how to kill a German. And he could remember the strategies used during those years in the trenches. But knowing something didn't make it true. 'Mosley claimed to know all there was to know about Cricket and couldn't play the bloody game if scoring meant he would become the Earl of Grantham.' He had no way of knowing if his memories of battle were truly memories or just the fanciful ideas of a madman.
Thus he found himself stuck. Until he could prove to himself that what he remembered had truly happened he was little more than a ghost stuck in limbo, going through life waiting until he was sure he knew if he could trust his own thoughts. It was a bitter pill to swallow but it would do no could to plot and plan until he had all his facts straight.
He heard his mother murmur and saw that the clock read nearly 6. It was time to get up and start the day. 'I still have a job, after all,' he thought as he made a show of snorting loudly before shutting his eyes.
"Mmm... Matthew?" his mother murmured as she returned from Morpheus' embrace.
"Mother?" Matthew asked sleepily, hoping he wasn't laying it on too thick. "What… what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"
He watched, biting back a smile as his mother began to stammer just a touch. She had nerves of steel but when caught by total surprise she had a terrible habit of floundering. He'd seen the Dowager pull this trick many times and while he didn't enjoy doing the same to his mother he knew it had to be done, to buy himself out of this situation.
"No, nothing wrong. At least not now. You were sleep walking last night and gave me a terrible fright and I stayed her to make sure you wouldn't awaken again."
"Sleep walking?" Matthew asked, raising any eyebrow. 'Careful now… she loves you but she isn't a fool. Careful.' Rather than deny what she said he decided to embrace it. "I have the vaguest memory of throwing open the front door and… calling for a 'Tom'." His jaw worked nervously. "I hope no one saw me. Wouldn't do well if I were called Mad Matthew the Raving Lawyer, now would it?"
"No one saw, don't worry. You were calling out for several people; you seemed quite upset… but no matter." Matthew bit back a chuckle. He knew his mother wouldn't want to embarrass him and would write this off as something silly, letting it pass. "Most likely just brought on by something you ate. You didn't try that new restaurant near your office, did you? Mrs. Plank got a terrible case of indigestion from that place and you know that upset stomachs can cause odd dreams. I remember your father…"
Matthew allowed his mother to continue on for several minutes before begging her off so he might dress. Isobel finally relented, kissing him on the cheek before hurrying off to dress herself so they might have breakfast before he left. Matthew, for his part, got up and began his daily stretches only to realize he really didn't need to do them. He'd stretched because of the wear and tear on his body, thanks to not just the war but old age as well. Yes, 36 wasn't THAT old and he was sure Cousin Violet would rap him on the leg for saying so, but it still was old enough that he awoke with pains and twinges. 'Warrior's Decay', as Robert had once called it, trying to make it sound heroic and noble that one's knees cracked and lower back hurt. But now he was young again, in the prime of life, and though he was in the past and unsure what to do he would take the small miracles.
'At least I can dress myself without issues,' he thought to himself as he finished buttoning his shirt. While he would have preferred Mosley ('Oh I won't make the same mistake this time, old chap. I promise this time I won't be an utter prig when we meet again… if you're actually real that is') to help he wasn't like some lords that couldn't even wipe themselves without the aid of three valets and a footman to dispose of the mess. It would take some mild getting used to but he could easily slip back into being a simple lawyer without much trouble. 'Or, at the very least, without a large amount of trouble' he thought as he walked over to where he kept his calendar. It occurred to him that he had no ideas what cases he was currently working on and that might cause some trouble. 'Hopefully nothing where I need to present.'
Matthew flipped open the book, casually glancing over what he had recorded the previous week. There was nothing major, just a few notes about different meetings he had scheduled and Matthew suddenly found it quite sad that there was nothing in the book about friends. Oh, he was on good enough terms with his partners but there were almost never any after work drinks at the pub or journeys to hear some new band play at a club. Just wake up, work, return home, read, sleep. Repeat. He sat down once more on his bed and found himself terribly missing Downton. Not just Mary, though that did make his heart ache, but everyone. He missed talking with Tom, who had become like a brother to him. He wondered if Robert knew how many times they had stuck away from their duties to get a pint. He missed Robert and their walks and, when he wasn't being totally pig headed, their talks about Downton. He missed Edith's wit and how, when she wasn't feeling sorry for herself, she could be a delight. He missed Mosley as well, the good chap who was happy to help. He missed Barrow, one of the only people he could discuss the war with; nearly a dozen times he'd awoken in the night and met Barrow in the drawing room, the two of them quietly stealing Robert's liquor and talking of the nightmares and fears. He missed Sybil-
'I can save her,' he suddenly thought, eyes widening. 'If this is real… if I am truly in the past and all that had happened could come again… I can change it!' A massive smile broke out on his face. 'I can save Sybil! Tom won't be a widower! Sybie will know her mother! And William… I can save William, convince him not to sign up! And Lavinia! I can save them all!' He felt like laughing, like rushing through the hall and whooping with joy. He could do it! He could save them!
Assuming they were real.
That brought his mood down again.
'It does no good to hope or plan,' he thought once more, returning this attention to the book. 'Not until I know if it was real. Not until I have some…way…'
His fingers stopped flipping pages and his eyes focused on a particular date, namely what day this day was.
April 16, 1912
And suddenly he had a way to be sure.
~A~O~O~O~F~
Author's Notes: So this story came about because I wanted to read a Downton Abbey story that dealt with time travel. There are plenty of stories about Matthew escaping death, be it thanks to the Doctor or he didn't really die or he becomes an angel only Mary can see… but never anything with time travel. And because I couldn't find that I decided to write it myself.
I actually had two different ideas for how to handle this: one with Matthew, as you have just read, and one with Mary. I'll share the Mary one in hopes that someone will pick that idea up and run with it:
The story would begin in 1991. Mary would be 100 years old and have led an eventful but not always happy life. Her and Henry's child died in infancy and a year later Henry died in a train accident. World War II saw George die (as he stubbornly wanted to prove himself a hero like his father) and with no heir to be found Robert would eventually be forced to sell Downton. Mary would have happy moments, as she'd basically become a second mother to her niece Sybie, the two growing very close after Tom died of a heart attack in his 50s, and Mary would weather the changing world better than many would expect. Sadly, in the 1980s Sybie would pass away, leaving Mary the last person to have lived in Downton to be alive (Edith having passed away a decade earlier and Marigold dying a year before Sybie).
On the anniversary of Matthew's death an elderly Mary would get her grandniece (Sybie's daughter), to take her to visit Downton Abbey, now an estate that hosted tours and could be rented out. Mary would quietly slip away from the tour group and sneak away to her old bedroom, lying down on the bed and taking her last breath…
…only to wake up on the morning of Matthew's arrival to Downton.
The story would then became a ton of fun as Marry, now with a century of experience, would utterly delight in being young again. She would run about hugging everyone, dance with a bewildered Anna, hurry down to the servants' hall to see a startled Carson and thank all of them. And when confronted she would, unlike Matthew here, be utterly open with what happened: "Oh, I've traveled back in time and now I get to ensure everything goes right!" She'd be excited to try all sorts of foods (because she'd had dentures for 30 years and had to be careful with what she ate) and utterly refuse to wear corsets ("Wait till you see them burning bras, Sybil! It is amazing!") and when she finally went down to Crawley House she would grab Matthew by the lapels and tell him "I love you, you love me, just accept it!" and snog him so hard he'd be blabbering for hours.
The fun of that story would be seeing how Mary that went through the feminist revolution, two World Wars, and the music of Queen would turn the events of Downton upside down. A Mary that would look at Bates and tell him "Get Murray to get you a divorce and hurry up marrying Anna, you young twit" because everyone would be young to her. A Mary who would happily sit with Violet and Isobel and talk about the pains of old age while the two women stared on in shock. A Mary who would happily lock Sybil and Tom in a room and tell them to just admit they love each other and stop wasting her time. And a Mary who wouldn't play games with Matthew and use everything in her power to get the two of them together so they could turn all of English society on its head.
The reason I went with this story instead of that one is a practical one: I am a 33 year old American male, so I can more easily slip into the mindset of Matthew than I can Mary. But if someone wants to run with the idea, please do.