This is a one-shot I posted about one month ago on tumblr and neglected to post here. I hope you all enjoy it.
Of course, I don't own Downton Abbey. :)
She remembers the day he came home, shaking hands, nervous smiles, clean dresses and polished shoes, all for the man she had always known but never met, a man whose photograph made Mama smile wistfully, a man whose name she whispered in prayers each night at bedtime.
She wondered why Mama never closed her eyes when talking to God, wondered if God heard them pray for Papa's safe return, wondered if Papa somehow knew they prayed for him each night before she was tucked in soundly and kissed on the cheek. Mama said he saw the same stars as they did, and she imagined that their prayers bounced from star to star until they reached his ears, that he would know his little girl loved him, even though he had held her only once.
It wasn't fair that he had to leave them.
The Great War, grown-ups called it. But why something that kept her Papa away on a ship and made her Mama tense with worry should be called great, she did not understand.
Grandmama would sometimes visit with gifts, elegant dresses, elaborate treats, and presents from a man called Carson whose name always made Mama smile sadly. Grandmama always smelled like fresh flowers and would read story after story to her, calling her names like my little darling and my precious girl, sometimes crying into her hair for reasons she couldn't understand.
Grandmama always visited alone.
She and Mama would whisper when they thought she wasn't listening, and she caught words like Downton and scandal, phrases such as out-of-wedlock, words she knew must be frightening by the sound of Grandmama's voice. Then there were names such as Edith, Matthew and Lavinia, people her mother never spoke of save in corners and behind closed doors when Grandmama came to visit.
Thank God for your husband, she had heard Grandmama say once when she walked into the middle of their hushed conversation unexpectedly. Mama had gathered her close, stroking her hair and had said, "Yes. Thank God for him."
Her Papa must be very special indeed if everyone thanked God for him on a regular basis.
She did thank God the day of his return, not minding that Mama fussed over her hair even more than usual. Her curls were always bothersome, and she wished her black hair were straighter like Mama's, her brows thinner, and her tan skin a shade paler. Then they would match properly.
Mama said it didn't matter. And Mama was always right. But she wondered all the same. Did she match her papa, she wondered?
He arrived dashing and handsome, smiling at them as if he had never seen anything so wonderful or precious. Mama ran to meet him, hugging him close, and he swung her around before crying into her shoulder.
Her feet wouldn't move. She was frozen, staring at a man she should know but to her remained a stranger.
"Meg," he had whispered, kneeling down in front of her. He was made of dark eyes, brown hair, and skin that was tan, yet not as tan as hers. But it didn't matter to him either, it seemed, and he touched her face, weeping as she had never seen a man weep.
She hugged him then, loving the way he smelled, wondering if all papas smelled the same. He picked her up, kissing her cheeks repeatedly, and she knew then that her Papa had to be the most wonderful man in the world. She was proud to be his daughter, happy Mama was smiling so broadly she could actually see her teeth.
She found a stack of letters and photographs by his bedside one afternoon, letters she and Mama had sent him while he was away, bound in red ribbon, smelling of salt. They reminded me of what I was fighting for, heexplained as he placed her in his lap, allowing her to look at photographs of herself she had never seen. They reminded me of who was waiting for me at home.
She had drawn him a picture of her and Mama that very evening, presenting it to him after dinner, worried she might smudge the edges with buttery fingers. So you remember we're so happy you're home, she had told him, watching him cry yet again as Mama beamed back at her proudly.
That picture had been framed and set on the desk in his study.
She loved their trips to Ireland even though Mama would get slightly sea-sick along the way. Great uncle would always sneak her into the library and teach her to play chess and cards and to perform some clever magic tricks. Papa would laugh at their antics, Mama would simply roll her eyes, and each day would end with great uncle telling them stories of grand adventures and buried treasure while she sat at his feet by the fireplace, the smell of his pipe tickling her nose.
Your uncle forgets she's a girl, Mama would say after great uncle would give her a compass or an atlas, making her father chuckle yet again. That's because she's clever like her mother, Papa would smile, giving her a wink. Cleverer than most men I know.
Papa always knew just what to say.
You're my girl, he had stated when he found her hiding behind the bushes after her brother was born, wiping tears on the sleeve of her dress even though she knew Mama would not like it. He matches you and Mama, she had sobbed, wondering yet again why it was she looked somewhat different. He had then taken her hand and led her on a walk, pointing out that the rabbits they saw were still a family, regardless of the shade of their fur.
He had brought her a stuffed brown bunny from his next trip to London, one she had promptly named Bartholomew. It was still her most prized possession.
When she grew older, she began to hear rumors and ugly whispers, stares Papa told her to ignore, sneers Mama pretended did not exist. When the grandfather she had never known died, she visited the place called Downton, hating how nervous it made Mama to be there, but loving the man Carson who gave her a bouquet of pink roses and called her Lady Margaret. The man Matthew smiled at her, telling her how like her mother she was, staring at Mama much like her Papa always did. Grandmama had hugged her close as always even though she looked sad and wore black, and Papa had stood quietly, holding Mama's hand, smiling down at her and admiring her flowers.
You're my girl, he had told her when she overheard servants whispering about a man dying in Mama's bed nine years ago. You're my girl, he reminded her when the words Turkish and illegitimate were uttered under breaths and behind pointing fingers in the village. You're my girl, he reiterated after old secrets were uncovered and the truth was laid bare for her one night when she had blatantly asked.
Mama had sighed. Papa had held her hand. And then it had all made sense to her.
She was his girl. He had chosen her before she had even been born.
And that was all that mattered.