January 1942

Sleet pellets slammed against the window pane. The icy needles prickled and the wind howled, making it impossible to enjoy being out of doors.

Not even snowdrifts, George grumbled, that one could get out the sled and toboggan down the hill that crested near the old ice house. His nose pressed against the glass, his mouth downturned sulkily at the thought about days and days of this. He had only two days before having to back to school.

The house seemed ever so empty this entire Christmas holiday. His father hunkered down at the Abbey, doing whatever dull job he had for the government. He even had to leave Christmas Day early, popping in for lunch and opening presents. Cecile never visited despite only being a secretary at Quartermaster General HQ. He might not think that strange, but his parents would give each other worried looks whenever Cee was mentioned, but then swiftly alter their appearance back to a kind of neutral expression if they sensed one of the boy's presence.

Something was wrong there, George just knew. But also knew better than to inquire. Look at what happened when he started to ask Uncle Charles about having to bail out over the Channel when his Lanc B I caught fire. George's mind raced in excitement at parachuting over the sea, but his mother gently nudged away all his attempts at engaging his uncle in a conversation.

Almost twelve-year-old boys were still children in his parent's eyes.

Maybe they were right. Later that same day he was walking past the sitting room when he heard the hushed voice of his mother, his sister crying as she said things he didn't fully understand. That although "Charles had forgiven her and they were making a new start, his burns were deep and more painful then he let on. He hates it and feel useless."

He wished he was older. He was happy he had gotten his father's approval to train as an ARP air raid messenger at his school, as long as it didn't take away from his studies.

But that would not start until he got back to Aysgarth in a week's time. In the meantime, he sat in the window seat watching his brother systematically open another of the trunks Papa's now retired valet, Mr. Molesley, had brought over from Downton when they first moved to Crawley House. They had found them in the closet of the room now vacated by Cecile. None had contained any secrets beyond some old uniforms and souvenirs from various trips his parents had taken during Papa's time with the Foreign Office so George had grown bored and wandered over to the window.

Robert, though, was determined.

"What's this?" Robert's voice piped, pulling a velvet covered metal box out of the trunk and holding it up in triumph as if he found pirate treasure.

George scrambled over as his brother opened it. It was a bit rusty at the hinges but the box was lined with satin when open, very small pearls inset along each edge. Snug in the center was a medal suspended by a ring to a crimson ribbon. Bronze in the shape of a cross flared in a curve, broader at the edge than the center. A crown in the middle, a lion standing on the crown and an inscription, "for valour."

George goggle-eyed in recognition. His voice hushed in awe, "That… that's a Victoria Cross. The highest decoration in all the armed forces. It's only given to people who've faced down the enemy."

Robert turned it over. Both boys read their father's name engraved on the ribbon bar. "Captain Matthew Crawley, the Duke of Manchester's Own" and below on the round center of the cross, "17 August 1916."

"What does it mean, George?" Robert turned the medal back to the front, giving the embossed metal a rub with his forefinger. "I like the lion…," his seven-year-old brain trying to make sense of the medal.

His brother wasn't sure what to make of it. As far as he knew, Papa had spent most of the war as an aide to various diplomatic officials due to an injury sustained when he fell into a pit hole behind the lines. But if that were really the case, why would he be awarded the highest medal for bravery under enemy fire?

XX

Mary walked down the hallway to check up on the boys. They had been inexplicably the opposite of their usual boisterous selves so she assumed they were up to some mischief.

The door to the guest room was ajar and could see them hovering over a trunk. She smiled, not minding they had hauled it out of the closet for a closer look. The days had been quite dull and they needed an activity.

George turned slightly and rubbed his fingers against his mouth in an exact imitation of his father when he was deep in thought. They were so very much alike, Mary knew. Both in their golden-haired locks and reserved temperament. Both she and Matthew prayed that George would be spared the terrors of war. Matthew had emerged from the last war a scarred man, body and mind. His will to survive had triumphed over the black dog of melancholy but it had been a close-run thing. They now worried about Cecile every minute of every day. Mary knew that their daughter had returned to harm's way simply by the expression on her husband's face. Reserved he may be, Matthew still wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was clearly unable to hide his concern. She didn't know where Cecile was or what she was doing, but it was most certainly on foreign soil under German control; probably occupied France given Cecile's skill in that language.

Mary nudged the door open. "What's this?"

George concealed the box behind his back. Robert slammed the trunk shut. Both gave their mother the picture of innocence look, but each shared the same thought. Would Mama mind them looking through the trunks?

Mary instantly reassured them. She walked in and kneeled down beside them, putting her arm around each son. "Found anything of interest?"

Relieved, Robert's voice got very excited. "Mummy Mummy! We found an old medal of Papa's. George says it's for bravery."

"Really?" Mary turned to her eldest son.

George pulled his hand back around and handed her the box. "It's a Victoria Cross. I've seen it in Boy's Own Magazine. How could Papa have one? He's never told us he was in battle."

Mary took the box from her son's hand and opened it, memories flooding back. She remembered first seeing it when he arrived at the Hotel Royale, when they ended their affair. Afraid of being thrown out on his ear by the concierge in his threadbare suit, Matthew had worn his uniform that displayed the VC to show his bona fides and gain entrance to Mary's suite. They had made bittersweet love and parted, thinking they would never see each other again.

Then the fateful twist of Matthew being named heir that brought him back into her life.

After their marriage, she had bought the satin lined case in Paris as a gift. He was appreciative but she soon understood Matthew's conflicted history with his VC. He perpetually felt unworthy of possessing it. So many other, braver men than he had died, he would say, unawarded and unremembered. The last time he wore it was the Victory March of July 1919. She remembered General Winchester telling her father that Matthew was the sole regimental VC recipient who lived and so had been given the honour to lead them in the parade. Matthew had felt a fraud but marched for his comrades who could not, stirringly saluting King George V, his sword cutting an arc in the air as he gave the order "Eyes Right."

Then the medal had gone into the satin lined box and moved about as Matthew made his name as a diplomat and Member of Parliament only to be found quite unexpectedly by his sons on a dull January afternoon.

Mary didn't want to betray her husband's privacy. She was sure that if Matthew has told Cecile, she would have said something when they talked about his revelations.

She tapped the box, thinking about what to do. Knowing the boys wouldn't be able to keep quiet about it either, Mary came to a decision. She shut the case, turning to George. "Would you like to ask Papa? He will be home tomorrow to see you on the train to Asygarth."

George brightened immediately. "Thank you, Mama. May I keep the medal? I'll be careful with it."

Mary pursed her lips and gave her son a serious look. "Promise?" She couldn't help but let the side of her mouth uptick into a smile, though. She knew he would take good care of it.

George bobbed his head up and down in solemn trust.

Mary handed the box to her son.

Robert clapped his hands. "Hooray!"

George leapt up, already pondering the safest place. "I need to clear room in my night stand…. Or the desk…" Robert trailed behind him, as always trying to keep up with his brother's longer strides.

Mary stood and made her way back downstairs to the morning room, picked up the telephone linked to the exchange to put her through to Downton. Getting through to Matthew was always a bit of an ordeal given the secret nature of the work done at her old home, but she persevered the through tiers of military officialdom until she got a hold of Matthew's clerk, a very efficient sergeant named Felicity Dawes.

"Lady Grantham, hello. Yes, Major Crawley is here. He's currently in a meeting with the boss, but I'll have him ring you when he's finished."

Mary rang off after thanking Sgt. Dawes. About half hour later, the telephone rang.

"Hello."

"Mary, so sorry I wasn't here earlier. The Colonel can moan on…" Matthew laughed, relieved to be out of it.

"I know you'll be here tomorrow, darling but George is keen to talk with you about something he's found in a trunk Molesley packed from your Downton dressing room belongings. I wanted to prepare you for his verbal assault. He and Robert have found your Victoria Cross. I wasn't sure what to tell him, so I said you'd talk to him."

Matthew paused, taking in his wife's revelation. He remembered a conversation with Molesley about items that might need to go into storage. He suspected he told Molesley to put it in one of the trunks taken to Crawley House in case he needed it. And then promptly forgot which one it was in. As per protocol, he wore the VC ribbon on his battledress uniform tunic alongside the ribbons given to all those who served in the Great War. The medal itself would only be worn on formal occasions when in Service Dress. Occasions Matthew tend to avoid as they were usually full of puffed up, walrus mustachioed Colonel Blimp types, wearing their collection of shiny medals in a boastful display of jingoistic glory.

"I'm sure the boys want to hear all about it, yes." Matthew rubbed his brow, a headache coming on from sitting in the uncomfortable conference table chairs for so long. He had never told anyone in the family about the VC. Not even Cecile last fall when they had that cathartic conversation about the harsh reality of being under enemy fire. The boys, like everyone in the family except Mary, believed he had mostly a desk job in the previous war. He liked it that way. Better that than be a windy twit prattling on and boring everyone about their alleged glory days 'back in the war.'

"Thank you for telling me," Matthew said. "I've no idea when I'll be able to get away tomorrow. There's a bit of a flap on and I might be later than expected."

"No matter," Mary replied. "We just want to see you."

Matthew heard the wistful note in his wife's voice. His was a strange war existence, merely half a mile away from his family yet going months without seeing them. Locked in meetings and planning with the SOE linguist team, he went from deadly boredom in dealing with mounds of paper work to paralyzing dread as he sent agents out to areas in occupied territory hoping they he had adequately perfected their regional patois so that they would not get killed or taken prisoner.

"I'll be there. See you tomorrow, darling."

Matthew rang off. Mary checked the time on her Cartier wristwatch, a gift from Matthew on their tenth wedding anniversary. She had to get over to the farm offices to meet with the Women's Land Army supervisor Emily Hawkes about their progress on the Agricultural Survey as well as rat catching, one of the more essential yet squeamish tasks of the Land Girls as they were colloquially known. The rats would eat and destroy crops at an alarming rate if not kept in check and, especially in wartime, no food could go to waste. The girls would lay out poisonous bait laced with sugar to attract the rats, then they'd pick up the dead ones and deposit them later to be burned. Mary knew that many other estates treated the girls horribly, so she always laid out a special lunch for then at least once every month in appreciation of their incredibly hard work.

XX

Matthew arrived at Crawley House after 8pm. Mary greeted him with a kiss.

"Are the boys still awake?" Matthew returned his wife's kiss then took off his greatcoat and put it up on the rack.

"Yes. They're upstairs. I asked Mrs. Shaw to keep a meal warm for you. I'll bring it up to our bedroom when you're done." Coal was at a premium and the downstairs fires were out, but upstairs bedrooms were toasty warm on this cold January night.

"I'll go see them now." Matthew turned to walk up the stairs and gently knocked on the door to his son's room. Both boys were reading. George propped up in bed with The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm. Robert sprawled over his coverlets turning the pages of the latest edition of the comic The Beano.

George looked up, hearing his father's knock. "Papa!" He put the book down on his night stand.

Robert ran over and bear hugged his father. "Daddy! Daddy! We missed you."

Matthew picked up his seven-year-old son. "Hello! Missed you too." he said, giving Robert a big cuddle. He put him down and walked over to George's bed where he sat down beside his eldest son.

"What chapter are you on?"

"The clock has just struck fourteen…"

Matthew squinched his eyes and put on a silly face. George started to giggle, already knowing what his father was about to do.

Matthew put a hand to each side of his cheek and started to lament in a tweedy voice … "I've made the clocks so's they'll go on for ever and never need winding only I forgot to put a little wiggly thing in, and those clocks will go on striking until goodness knows how many. Oh dear…"

Both boys dissolved into laughter; the same as when Matthew played the dotty old professor when he read the books to his daughters when they were younger.

Matthew scooped up Robert into his lap and started to tickle him. George threw his arms around his father's shoulders.

These were the best moments in life, Matthew thought. They need to be cherished.

George scrambled back against the headboard of his bed. Robert stayed on Matthew's lap.

Matthew turned to his eldest. "I hear you found something in a trunk?"

George bobbed his head and reached over to the drawer of his night stand, pulling out the satin lined box.

He handed the box to his father.

Matthew opened it and took out the medal. He turned it over and read his own name engraved on the back, invoking, as always, a feeling of utter disconnect. The Victoria Cross was a medal given to people of enormous courage; facing down relentless enemies against odds far greater than a generous God would allow; doing the job they were trained to do to the ultimate best of their abilities.

Was that really him?

"You never said were in a battle…?" George leaned forward, anticipating his father's answer.

Matthew felt his younger son's head drop onto his shoulder. He shifted to make them both more comfortable, giving him a chance to think.

He decided on an edited version of the truth. Cecile had heard his raw, anguished confession. She identified with it because she had been through her own version of hell. That could not be told to the boys, but George in particular would feel short-shrifted if he told them nothing.

"I know you don't want to hear this George, but you are both still quite young and it's always been easier to avoid that part of my life."

"Because it makes you sad?" Robert asked, his little boy voice making it all the more gut wrenching for his father to hear.

"Yes, Robert," Matthew drew his son closer. "It does make me sad. I had many friends that I lost. Many comrades. Many of my men didn't make it back. But I want to tell you some things. George asked if I was in any battles. In 1915 I was in action at Ypres and Loos and in 1916 on the Somme."

George looked up. "That started in July. We learned about July 1, 1916 at school. It's the deadliest day in British military history Mr. Michaels said. Almost 20,000 soldiers were killed."

"I was there," Matthew said. "A very dark day indeed. The regimental sergeant major, a big brute of a man but marvelous at the same time, Sgt Major Simpson. He was killed that first morning. Uncle Charlie broke his leg and got out of it immediately." The boys knew their father's friends weren't really his brothers, but they were called 'uncle' just the same.

"What was it like?"

"Smelly." Matthew's nostrils flared at the sensory memory that invoked. "They don't tell you that in books. And loud, with the whining of the artillery and the booming of the guns and the shouts and screams of the men. You can't see all that well once the battle gets going, especially when it rains. It's not at all glorious. I was wet through, dirty, cuts and bruises, but very relieved to make it back to the dugout."

George bit his lip as his father recounted that day. "It certainly doesn't sound like the big adventure some of the boys back at school said their own fathers had in the war."

"They lied," Matthew caustically rejoined. But then thought better of it, and said more gently "Or they didn't want their children to know the truth. I chose not to say anything at all."

"Is that the day you won the VC?"

Matthew shook his head. "It was later, in August. I was sent out with some of the men over the lines to collect intelligence on German movements. On our return I injured my back and spent over a year in hospital and convalescence facilities. I was medically unfit to return so I joined the War Office and became ADC to Marshal Foch."

"And you won the Victoria Cross for breaching German lines?" George spoke in such an awed tone that it touched Matthew's heart.

"Weren't you scared?" Robert asked.

"I was very scared indeed Robert," Matthew answered. Even that word wasn't enough—petrified, paralyzed, frightened beyond anything he'd ever want to experience again.

"How can that be?" George knew heroes were like the cinema flicks he watched when in Downton Village. Errol Flynn single handedly taking on the enemy. Or on the newsreels of the RAF pilots downing German Messerschmitts across the Channel. You had to have nerves of steel, he imagined. "You were brave."

Matthew reached out and clasped his son's shoulder. "You can be brave and frightened at the same time."

"Being scared is cowardly…" George was confused.

"Admitting you're scared is nothing to be ashamed of. We all feel scared. But the trick is to not let it take over your action. You use it to help you get through and back to where you want to be. I saw plenty of so-called brave men throw themselves into action just to win a bit of glory. Sometimes they ended up getting good soldiers killed through their heedless heroics. They fought only thinking of themselves. No one wins like that. My men were as frightened as I was, but we worked together. They trusted me and I trusted them."

George knew his father was trying to teach him a valuable lesson. One that was clearly hard on him as his father's face was contorted in pain even as he tried to hide it. "Thank you for telling us. I think I understand better now. Did all the men get medals too?"

Matthew's eyes were downcast, his mind fighting with itself not to sink back into the darkness. He started to talk, but the words came out choked and hoarse. "Not all of them made it back. But yes, the regiment made sure all their families knew what very brave men they were indeed."

Both boys instinctively moved to embrace their father, hoping their love would overcome his sorrow.

Eventually Matthew let go. He wiped his eyes, and said "Now what are we going to do with this?" He held up the Victoria Cross. "Shall I put it back in the trunk in safe keeping?"

George and Robert both bobbed their heads in agreement. "That's the best place." George said. "Thank you for telling us."

Matthew tousled his son's hair. "You're very welcome. Time for bed, I think. We have to get up early to get you on the train back to Asygarth."

The boys scrambled under the covers and Matthew tucked in the corners of the blankets, kissing each son's brow.

He stood by the door, saying "Good night," before switching off the light.

He was such a lucky man, he thought to himself. So very lucky indeed.

XX

😊 Another chapter for a long covid quarantine day. Hope everyone is healthy and safe. Reviews are so very welcome