Of course Downton Abbey could never be mine. Enjoy.

At the end of futile aim

For all her dreaming, she had never once imagined it would end such. An overflowing cup raised a dense fog, had left her too happy – for the once in her life – too unguarded, too expectant.

It wasn't her fault, not really, that he would change her mind. She'd always been slightly obtuse, maybe a tad blunt and insensitive, but she'd tried so hard to be the good daughter and could never - Mama – Papa - well Mary and Sybil were sensations and she'd just been plain Edith, Edith of the cursed nose and pasty complexion, mean and meek, Edith with the nasty underhanded streak. Mary was the flame and Sybil the spark, and Edith just the ashes after all the company had cleared out and the maids were left to scrubbing up.

So when Anthony Strallen had come around and chosen her, and thought she was lovely and captivating too, and sweet and exciting and wonderful – all those words men usually sent up after her sisters – it was like finally being allowed a whiff of the world that was her birthright, and what an enchanting aroma it had been. Someone who loved her, the most of anyone, someone who would take her away, someone who would give her a life – Sir Anthony Strallen. The gardens they would grow, the drives they would take, the wedding they would have. And her sisters still both unwed, invited for Easter, envying her children.

Too late now – too late for wishing – too late for revenge – too late for everything.

Edith raised her arm high, a small brass automobile enclosed in a glass paperweight glittering in her hand, then dashed it to the ground with one sweep. That – his last gift to her. And then – tumbling down into her desk chair, arm swept up again, swept up for wailing, and the tears. This – her last gift to him.

Then with a jolt, Edith sat up straight, crying suddenly cut short. He hadn't left because of he had second thoughts – no, it all came back to Mary! Mary was involved somehow, that raised glass, the all too familiar coldness of her mouth...to pay her back for the Turkish diplomat story. Of course!

Well, this was not the end – this could not be the end. Mary's attempt to spoil her life would, in the end, turn out to be a mere attempt. After all, she didn't have a real secret, a dishonorable, unchaste, wanton secret like her tart of a sister. If had been within her rights to – and hadn't O'Brien told her, specifically? At any rate, the solution was the simplest there could be.

With paper and a pen (the same pen, she thought vindictively, she had used to write to the Turkish embassy), she could turn this to rights again. It need not be long – just long enough, that she might see him again, explain, or anything. She would do anything.

My good Sir Strallen – or dear Anthony, as I might,

My most fervent apologies for the conversation you must have had with my sister Lady Mary Crawley today. I can only imagine what she must have told you – that I no longer hold you in the greatest esteem could only have been the beginning of it.

I want you to know it is with my most sincere assurances that anything she might have said to you is slander and libel at best. I can only say here, knowing nothing, that I am the same as you knew me yesterday, that I admire – nay, love, if I may be so bold – you earnestly still, in every way.

I confess to one thing: I have never revealed to you the nature of my relationship with Mary. It is not a pleasant story; we are two sisters always at ends, and this was but the latest in a long line of spiteful acts. If you'd only consent to see me again, that I may explain.

I can only write you now, and beg audience, but I remain urgently and respectfully

Yours,

Lady Edith Crawley