Chapter Text
PART III
1927
There were many things Mary liked about Henry Talbot. The straight posture, black hair, deep dimples and who could forget the green eyes that promised wit with every glance.
She kept cool, played hard to get, and pretended that the man sitting in the adjacent chair didn’t make her heart flutter.
Mary prided herself on one thing. And that was an ability to act.
The only person who saw through her pretence was Tom. He sipped wine with a knowing look in his eyes and an inward smile. Golly, did he ever tire from being right all the time?
When dinner finished, and Evelyn Napier graciously paid for a wonderful night, the table of singles made their way out of the Criterion.
Mary had her gaze fixed on Henry until her attention was wrenched away by a touch.
She looked down, meeting the eyes of a blonde girl no older than Rose. But unlike Rose who took great pride in her humanitarian causes, the woman below seemed more interested in luxury brands.
‘You’re her, aren’t you? Lady Mary Crawley of Downton Abbey?’ The woman asked.
‘Yes.’
The woman’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it true?’
Henry and Tom flanked Mary with furrowed brows.
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow,’ Mary said.
‘Is it true you broke Matthew Crawley’s heart beyond repair that he left the Abbey and never returned?’
Mary shared a look with Tom. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘How cold-hearted you are,’ the woman said with a smile. She loved the drama. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘I don’t care enough to keep tabs on him.'
‘Does he still love you?’
Mary walked on with her boys on either side. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Darling, he’s still pining over me.’
Tom smirked.
The three of them stepped onto the streets of London. Tom desired an early night and made his way back to Belgrave Square, leaving Mary and Henry alone together. They meandered around the city and passed other couples on their evening strolls.
It wasn’t long before thunder rumbled in the distance and rain drizzled.
Mary and Henry ran under a tunnel, drenched and laughing like two teenagers on their first night out together. When the excitement faded, Henry leaned in and tucked a wet, black lock behind Mary’s ear.
‘I know it’s not true,’ Henry said. ‘I do not believe you are “cold-hearted.” But then again, I may be biased.’
‘And why is that, pray?’
‘You’re a woman I happen to be falling in love with.’
At that moment, Mary no longer wanted to maintain her facade.
Her soaring heart proved too persuasive, and she leaned towards Henry. Both were vulnerable in front of the other.
‘Convince me I’m not cold-hearted,’ Mary said.
Henry’s lips curved into that suave smile of his, and he closed the distance.
They kissed as the rain blurred the city behind a gushing veil.
The rain would continue to plummet as the season transitioned from Spring to Summer. But Mary knew a small town in Southwestern France resided under the sun’s cheer and moon’s elegance, saved from the torrent.
Mary grinned. How fortunate they were.
__
The afternoon sun warmed Matthew’s tanned face the moment he stepped out of the office and into town. The storybook stone village was situated on the outskirts of the Grande Champagne terroir. Fluffy trees full of foliage blanketed the horizon, making the commune seem like it floated atop emerald clouds.
Matthew was a partner at Lefebvre & Associes, a commercial firm specialising in wine law with clients ranging from small family wineries to the big cognac producers. Matthew did it all: contract processing, distribution and bottling arrangements. But what he liked most was family business succession planning.
Matthew’s first-hand experience in estate management and inheritance rendered him an expert if he did say so himself.
Pierre, the owner of La Maison, waited for Matthew in front of his cafe’s ivy walls. He held a white box containing Matthew’s usual Friday treats, four Pain Aux Raisins.
‘What would I do without you, Pierre?’ Matthew said in French.
Pierre slapped Matthew’s back and walked away to tend to new customers. ‘I want a bottle of cognac and a kiss on my birthday.’
‘Deal.’
Matthew added Pierre to his list. Antoine, Tom and Mr Bates expected a bottle of Mansell VSOP as well. It had become their brandy of choice.
Matthew shrugged off his suit and climbed into his Black Model T Ford. He cruised out of the village with the hood down, letting the first warm breeze of summer tousle his hair. The winding road cut through fields of green that climbed, dipped and spread to the horizon.
Ten minutes later, distant grey, gothic steeples rose into view.
Chateau Mansell was a cognac house that sat at the heart of a sprawling estate. It was surrounded by a fairy-tale forest and rows upon rows of vineyards sporting the roundest, juiciest Uni Blanc grapes.
Matthew rolled down the white driveway towards the manor that looked like King Arthur’s Camelot and parked the car beside the water feature.
Claude Siriex, the co-owner and viticulturist of Chateau Mansell, spotted Matthew from the vineyard. His eyesight was sharp for a man in his late sixties.
‘Are they in the cellar?’ Matthew asked. After years of practice, his pronunciation of French words was better.
‘They’ve been inside for hours.’
‘Won’t you join us?’
‘In a moment. I’m checking the chalk soil.’ Claude kneeled, and his head disappeared behind the vineyard.
Matthew passed the paddock where the horses resided. Sometimes, Claude rode the grey stallion around the estate to save himself time. When Matthew wasn’t busy at the firm, he did too.
The cellar was a mammoth warehouse at the end of the estate. Matthew walked inside and was greeted by a wall of humid air and the strong smell of oak and Eaux-de-vie vapours. His footsteps echoed as he snaked through the long rows of barrels.
Matthew heard a quiet conversation when he neared the back of the cellar.
A large, wooden table stood in front of the foggy window. It bore such a resemblance to Reginald Crawley's workspace that it seemed the bench had teleported all the way to the French countryside. Measuring cylinders, Erlenmeyer phials with funnels, tulip glasses and stationery blanketed the surface.
Matthew leaned on the column and watched the two men work.
Thomas poured different golden liquids from their respective measuring cylinders into a single flask. Matthew smiled when Henri waved his hand like a conductor, encouraging Thomas to swell his rotations for better oxygenation.
Henri, the Chateau’s master blender, was the same age as Claude.
Despite the humidity, his combed grey hair and crisp suit still rendered him as grand as the self-portrait hanging in his office.
Thomas was a different story.
Thomas’ suspenders hung by his side, his sleeves were rolled up, and the top four buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the heirloom ring swinging around his neck. Thomas’ hair was gelled back from perspiration, but a few stubborn strands curved downwards into his eyes. Somehow, he was still a dream, albeit a sweaty one.
Thomas transferred the blend into two tulip glasses. He slid one over to Henri and hunched over the table.
‘Which vintages did you use?’ Henri asked as he swirled the glass.
Thomas checked his notes. ‘I used three. 1880, 1896 and 1912.’
A shiver rolled down Matthew’s back whenever he heard Thomas speak French.
Henri brought the glass to his nose, inhaling the vapours with a classiness and poise Matthew always found hypnotising.
Henri and Thomas sipped their drinks.
‘How is it?’ Thomas asked with a concerned frown.
Henri savoured the cognac in silence. He was deep in concentration as if pulling apart the subtle notes and hints of dried fruit.
Then, Henri lowered the glass, cupped Thomas’ head and planted a sweet, fatherly kiss on his temple.
‘Absolutely delicious, my boy.’
Henri downed the rest of his glass with an arm around Thomas’ shoulder.
‘We’ll make a fine master blender out of you.’
Thomas wiped the light sweat from his brows and never lost his wide grin. He poured the rest of the blend into a bottle and corked it.
Matthew’s hiding spot was soon discovered when a long brown snout appeared above the table and barked in his direction.
A sable rough collie ran towards Matthew with his thick mane swishing from side to side.
‘Hey, Cesar.’ Matthew bent over to greet his dog.
Thomas handed Matthew the tulip glass when he neared the table.
‘Henri’s been teaching me the tricks of the trade after work,' Thomas said in French.
‘He’s learning fast,’ Henri said with a proud shine in his eyes. ‘He won’t be a cellar hand any longer with a palette like that.’
Matthew took a sip, then another.
‘It’s rounder than last week’s, and it’s got that chocolatey tone,’ Thomas said.
‘And a nuttiness too. All perfectly balanced. Magnificent,’ Henri added.
Matthew looked between them and swallowed the mouthful with a blank expression.
‘You can’t taste it, can you?’ Thomas said with a growing smile.
‘I’m afraid all I taste is strong alcohol,' Matthew replied.
‘Thomas, your husband is a lost cause. Get him out of here.’ Henri swatted his hand in jest.
‘Be careful, Henri. Matthew keeps all our contracts in his office.’ Claude appeared by the column. He wiped his hands on a cloth and joined Henri’s side.
They all laughed and helped themselves to the treats Matthew brought from the village.
While Henri and Claude spoke in-depth about the art of French pastries and became lost in their refined, cultured worlds, Thomas turned towards Matthew.
‘Do you want steak for dinner or chicken confit?’ Thomas whispered.
Matthew leaned against Thomas’ shoulder. ‘Your choice.’
‘Steak? Maybe potatoes on the side.’
Matthew smiled when Thomas kissed his forehead. ‘And roasted pears with caramel sauce for dessert. I’ve been craving it the whole day.’
‘Did I make it too sweet last week? Thought I was too heavy-handed with the brown sugar.’
‘No. It was perfect, Thomas.’
Matthew glanced to the side when he realised the soft murmur across the table had ceased. Henri and Claude stared back, both with smirks on their faces. Henri crossed his arms, cinching his walking cane under his pits.
‘Don’t they remind you of us, Claude?’
‘Well, obviously, we were more handsome in our youth.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’ Thomas easily slipped back into French. ‘Look at the two of you. Fine wine.’
Henri pointed in Thomas’ direction. ‘This one can sweet-talk his way out of anything. You need to be careful, Matthew.’
Matthew cupped the back of Thomas’ head. ‘Don’t worry, I know all his little tricks.’
They laughed, poured more cognac and clinked glasses. Matthew and Thomas stayed at the Chateau, bantering for hours in the cellar.
It was sunset when the four of them meandered to Matthew’s car.
Matthew walked with Claude at a leisurely pace while hearty laughs and tipsy conversations resounded behind them.
Thomas and Henri still hadn’t sobered yet.
‘Henri and I grew up together. The day I discovered he felt the same way, I wept in the kitchen for hours. All jokes aside, we do see ourselves in you. Loving Henri was never easy. But I’m glad we persevered,’ Claude said.
'Me too, Claude. Me too.'
‘As you know, Henri’s father owned Chateau Mansell. He was a kind, kind man. Henri always wanted a child to love like his father loved him. The same applies to me. I apologise if we are too much sometimes.’
Matthew shook his head to emphasise the silliness of the apology. ‘I know Thomas cherishes every second with you and Henri. So do I.’
Claude squeezed Matthew’s shoulder.
Cesar sprinted ahead and jumped into the backseat of the car.
‘Chateau Mansell has been passed from father to son for seven generations. I think Henri means to make Thomas his heir. It would be an excellent choice. The boy was born to craft liquor.’
Matthew remembered the first drink he shared with Thomas in the library. Thomas seemed to be unaffected by the bitterness and burn. A trained professional that was either a testament to his hidden alcoholism or lack of taste buds.
But as it turned out, Matthew had been staring at the face of a born wine connoisseur who studied the flavour profile of every bottle he stole from Carson’s cellar.
Little did the Abbey know they had a young Henri Siriex in their midst.
Matthew glanced over his shoulder and smiled when Thomas met his gaze.
‘Thomas talks about Chateau Mansell until the cows come home. Henri should tell him. It’d make his whole year,’ Matthew said.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Claude replied.
Matthew climbed into his car and pushed the door open for Thomas.
‘Remember, dinner at the Chateau at eight pm on Monday,’ Henri said.
‘We wouldn’t miss it,’ Thomas replied.
‘Bring Cesar,’ Henri added and leaned over to pet the collie. ‘I don’t care for the two of you. Only the dog.’
Everyone laughed, and Cesar barked, adding to the joy.
Henri cupped Thomas’ face then patted Matthew’s hand. ‘Drive home safe.’
After goodbyes were said, Matthew turned away from Chateau Mansell and cruised on the meadow-flanked road. Thomas leaned back, sleepy and apple-cheeked from all that cognac. He watched the orange clouds whip overhead with a lingering smile Matthew found too adorable.
Matthew reached over to comb through black hair, and Thomas leaned into his touches. He always did without fail.
‘Matthew, can I ask you a question? I only thought of it now.’
‘Of course.’ Matthew kissed Thomas' knuckles then returned both hands to the wheel.
‘Do you remember our first night out together in Manchester?’
Matthew smiled. ‘Vividly.’
‘When we stood outside the jazz club. What did Antoine whisper in your ear?’
Cesar leaned over the front seat and rested his chin on Thomas' shoulder, refusing to be left out.
Matthew glanced at his small family and watched the grass hills, flowers, and pink sky whip behind their heads.
‘He said, the French countryside is beautiful this time of year.’
Antoine had always been astute.
Thomas kissed Matthew’s cheek and showered the dog with love all the way home. The sky turned dark when they arrived.
A sandy, Provence style house stood at the bottom of a forested mountain. Matthew parked the car in the garage and walked down the stone path, holding Thomas’ hand.
Cesar ran on the grass, sniffed the ground then jogged ahead. He sat on the front stoop and waited patiently for the door to be unlocked.
The foyer led to a rustic interior with large windows, exposed stone and charming furniture.
Matthew and Thomas walked to the kitchen. It overlooked a courtyard with cobblestone steps leading to a lush, green lawn that was every dog’s heaven and every gardener’s dream. A tall fence separated the backyard from a sunflower meadow, and the latter was very familiar with moans of pleasure atop a picnic blanket.
Matthew washed his hands in the sink while Thomas played a record on the gramophone. The house was filled with swing jazz, similar to a band’s repertoire at a Manchester nightclub.
Matthew prepared the potatoes and vegetables, tossing them with rosemary, salt and olive oil. He slid the bottle over to Thomas and watched him season and sear their scotch fillets on a hot pan.
The steaks were flipped, revealing delicious, caramelised crusts on their surface.
‘I think you can give Mrs Patmore a run for her money,’ Matthew said, embracing Thomas from behind.
‘Should I start ordering you around the kitchen, Matthew?’
‘It’s only fair since I order you around in the bedroom.’
They brought dinner and dessert to the dining room. Cesar carried his bowl to eat with them.
Matthew and Thomas dined to jazz and flickering candles. They helped themselves to their favourite bottle of red wine, sat with their elbows on the table and talked about anything they desired. They never ran out of things to say.
When dinner and dessert finished, Matthew and Thomas danced in the living room. The walls heard nothing but vibrant music and Cesar’s cheerful barks when he jumped on his two hind legs to mimic their fun.
Thomas patted his chest and caught Cesar when he leapt into his arms. Thomas spun around the living room and laughed when Cesar attacked his face with licks. The dog had gotten so big; he hid Thomas behind a thick wall of brown and white fur. Matthew remembered when Cesar used to be the size of his forearm.
After the excitement faded, Matthew and Thomas slow-danced in front of the bookshelf while Cesar sat on the sofa and watched them like a young boy at a science gala.
Matthew interlocked his fingers with Thomas and wrapped an arm around his waist.
The record transitioned to the next song: a slow, stripped-back French jazz with a woman’s gentle voice. Thomas sighed in content and leaned in until their cheekbones touched.
Matthew smiled when Thomas whispered the lyrics in his ear in French. He pulled Thomas closer, kissed his neck, his jaw, and ended affections on pillowy lips. Their kisses deepened, so did caresses.
Thomas unbuttoned Matthew’s suit with the flair of an ex-valet and massaged his chest and abs.
Matthew glanced to the side.
‘Thomas…’
Thomas tilted his head to suck on Matthew’s neck and hummed in reply.
‘The dog’s watching,’ Matthew said.
They turned to look at Cesar, who stared back with wide, innocent brown eyes and a wagging tail.
‘Sorry, Cesar, we’ve got very urgent business to take care of,’ Matthew said and reached down to grab Thomas’ hand.
Matthew and Thomas laughed when they hung off each other on their way to their bedroom.
They made love to candlelight.
Perspiration poured off Thomas in pools and dripped down Matthew’s face, turning his blonde fringe brunette.
Matthew groaned against the backdrop of a large window that offered a portal to the sunflower meadow and constellation-filled sky. A blessed night breeze filtered in and brushed against his moving back.
He placed his forearms on either side of Thomas’ head, gazing into heavy-lidded eyes that continued to regard him - an average, no-name, middle-class lawyer - with reverence, with awe.
Matthew always found it hard to breathe when Thomas writhed on the bed like this, naked and amorous, devout to Matthew as Matthew worshipped him in return.
The man continued to take his breath away.
Thomas raised a hand to Matthew’s face, a gentle caress and an encouragement to thrust faster. Matthew kissed his palm and quickened his pace to match the rhythm of Thomas’ arching hips.
They kissed when they arrived and never stopped kissing. Matthew could spend eternity like this, locked in Thomas’ tight embrace, embedded between his thighs and with the distant sound of slow jazz in the background.
‘I’m going to sleep well tonight,’ Thomas said. ‘You outdid yourself, Captain.’
Matthew caressed Thomas’ face and chest, smearing sweat and oil together like a painting.
‘I like to take care of my men, Sergeant.’
Thomas flipped them around. The heirloom ring dangled from his neck and bumped against Matthew’s chin.
‘How did I get so lucky?’ Thomas asked.
‘I’m the lucky one, Thomas.’
Matthew lifted his head to reach Thomas’ lips. Their kisses were sluggish, lazier, and drunken at this time of night, but Matthew wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thomas climbed off and cleaned Matthew with a flannel before himself.
The bathroom was a trek. Matthew and Thomas were too spent to bathe and brush their teeth. Instead, they sprawled on the sheets smelling of sex, caramel, and cabernet sauvignon.
Matthew ran his hand through black hair when Thomas rolled into his arms.
‘Did you ever think you’d be in bed with Downton’s footman?’ Thomas asked. He traced the beads of sweat on Matthew's torso as if joining the dots.
Matthew grinned. ‘Did you ever think you’d be in bed with Lord Grantham’s third cousin?’
Thomas’ soft laugh vibrated against Matthew’s pecs.
‘All those times we passed each other in the Abbey...little did we know,’ Matthew said.
‘Like you said many years ago, love’s a funny thing. So unpredictable…’
‘Yet simultaneously a constant,’ Matthew finished Thomas’ sentence. He swiped a thumb across faint freckles and watched Thomas’ eyes flutter shut from the gentle touches.
They kissed one more time before bed.
Matthew pulled the blankets to cover their lower halves and spooned Thomas from behind.
‘I love you, Thomas.’
Matthew slept with Thomas’ reply ringing in his ears, at peace with the world.
__
In the early hours of the morning, a sudden thought infiltrated Thomas’ dreams, and his eyes flickered open.
He couldn’t believe he had forgotten about it until now. It was too pressing to ignore.
Thomas peeled the blankets away from his body and climbed out of bed. He re-covered Matthew’s exposed chest and planted a kiss on his forehead before walking out of the room.
On his way to the study, Thomas turned off the gramophone and gently slipped the vinyl sleeve into the cabinet. He caught Cesar's attention who leapt off the couch with an excited swish of his tail to join his side.
Thomas switched on the lamp and illuminated the trinkets decorating the desk: an empty trench lighter, a button and a metal cap in a new floating frame. He opened the drawer for a card and uncapped a pen.
Cesar placed his head on Thomas’ thigh while he wrote a letter.
A letter that should have been penned ages ago.
Thomas addressed it to the recipient in neat cursive and leaned the envelope against a glass display of an inoculating loop. He would post it tomorrow afternoon.
Thomas petted Cesar’s head and scratched him behind the ears. He watched adorable beady eyes close, then glanced at the shelf on the far wall. It held photographs of Thomas and Matthew, Henri and Claude, Antoine, Isobel when she visited last month, and lastly, a picture of the Crawley clan.
Standing in the middle of the latter was Lord Grantham holding the tiny hands of Avery Crawley: the six-year-old heir of Downton Abbey. The toddler bore an uncanny similarity to Lady Sybil, with his dark brown hair and blue eyes. The Earl sent the photo last year. The first steppingstone in making amends.
The skeleton key and Vivian's letter laid in front of the photo frames. Thomas remembered the first time he and Matthew stepped foot inside the cottage in the dead of night. It felt like centuries ago. They were both so young. So afraid. So uncertain.
If only Thomas knew what awaited around the corner.
‘Come on, Cesar, let’s go back to bed.’
Short nails clacked on the hardwood floor behind him.
He climbed under the covers and leaned into Matthew's immediate embrace. Thomas threaded their fingers together and held them under his chin, feeling Matthew's lips press into the nape of his neck. A lingering kiss that would last until the sun rose.
Just before Thomas closed his eyes, the ajar door swung open, and Cesar sat under the doorframe, waiting for permission.
‘Come here, then,’ Thomas whispered.
Cesar jumped on top of the covers and cosied beside Thomas, probably dreaming of running through vineyards and endless belly rubs.
Matthew squeezed Thomas' hand.
Thomas looked down, squeezed back, and smiled for the millionth time today.
No longer a rarity but a habit.
__
On Tuesday morning, the postman arrived with a stack of letters.
Fearne greeted him outside her small house in Liverpool and flipped through the mail on her way to the kitchen.
Her heart jumped at the fourth letter in the pile.
Fearne tore it open as fast as her shaky fingers allowed, letting pieces of ripped envelope fall like snow. She held her breath and read the card, hanging onto every word.
My darling Fearne,
I hope this letter finds you in your best spirits and health. We may be separated by seas, but my love for you will always hold firm.
You stood by me during my darkest days, and I want you to know that such darkness is a distant past. I am no longer bound.
I have found everlasting happiness.
With love,
Thomas
Fearne kissed the letter then pressed it against her chest with a smile on her face.
That was all she ever wanted to hear.
- The End -
