A/N: Couldn't NOT write this drabble after seeing that adorable picture of little Marigold!
In this universe, Sybil (and Matthew, if I choose to write more!) are both still alive. Tom and Sybil's daughter is four and named Saoirse. Sir Anthony and Edith were still engaged to be married when he died unexpectedly, leaving her pregnant. Pretty much everything else follows canon (except, obviously, that Marigold's father is Sir Anthony).
"Hush, darling," Edith told the squirming child in her lap. "You mustn't alarm Sybil and Mr. Branson before they even get here."
The fourteen-month-old girl made no reply but to bang her small, chubby fist harder against the side of her plate. Edith sighed to see that her face was sticky with the remains of breakfast, as well, and that the small mop of dusty gold hair—which Edith herself had laboriously combed, taking pleasure in being able to do so herself—was mussed. She had to admit there was a portion of pride in presenting her daughter—perhaps the only daughter I shall ever have—to her sister and brother-in-law. But the girl saw no such inclinations toward making herself presentable for their company.
Marigold. Now and again she still felt strange to Edith, as if this were not the child of her body but some stranger's; perhaps it was the time she had spent with Drewes that had made it so? Certainly the name Margie Drewe had given her, so determinedly un-aristocratic, was part of that. But even now, having reclaimed her daughter once and for good not six hours ago, Edith found she could not bear to change the girl's name. Marigold appeared to suit her.
But such a peculiar girl! Edith's only other experience with small children was Sybil and Tom's little daughter, Saoirse; and even then, she did not see the girl so frequently, so she could not know if all children this age were like Marigold: stubborn, messy, and loud, shrieking with glee all the time at whatever caught her fancy—most often, a mud puddle or erstwhile object that would get her sufficiently dirty. Edith couldn't know for certain, of course, but felt quite sure that she, as a child, had never been so messy and willful.
Her niece Saoirse, now four, was a spirited child as well. Her father said so often: "She has spirit, she has, just like her ma!", proudly watching as Saoirse chased doggedly after Aunt Mary, dressed for supper and refusing her a lap to sit on. Edith couldn't remember much of Sybil as a baby, but she could see how she might have been quite like Saoirse indeed. At least, the adult she'd grown into was indication.
She allowed herself to wonder, just for a moment, what Anthony had been like as a baby. It amused her to think of a man she'd always thought of as old and distinguished—though not truly old, she reflected; he had never been an old man to her—toddling about in short pants like her nephew George. He'd had a playful streak, she remembered, and perhaps—were such things possible?—perhaps their daughter had, in some way, absorbed it before birth.
She shook her head to clear the thoughts away. She didn't believe in such nonsense, and anyway did not want to think of Anthony. Not today.
"We both must be our best, mustn't we, darling?" she asked, kissing the top of her daughter's head. The childish heat Marigold's small, compact body radiated still startled her. Marigold squirmed impatiently, though not, much to her relief, so far as to evade her mother's touch. She had heard the babes of this age were naturally fearful of strangers, and for days had gone in terror that her only daughter—Anthony's only daughter—wouldn't know her.
But she had had nothing to fear. Though Margie Drewe had wept at their parting, and Edith's conscience had clawed at her like a cat in a bag, Marigold appeard to trust her. It was hard to know what a fourteen-month-old's thoughts were—if they could even think on so complex a level at all—but Edith was reasonably satisfied that she had been accepted as mother.
Now all I need is Tom and Sybil's acceptance…but really, would they deny me this? Tom, who has been such a great friend to me, and Sybil, my little sister?
She clutched the child all the more tightly.
A sound of hoofs and a great rattling of harnesses interrupted her reverie. Still with Marigold in her arms, she went to the window, noting with dismay that it was smeared. She'd expected the Grantham Arms to be somewhat more well-tended than this. But then, she hadn't had a lot of choices, either. She couldn't well return to Downton Abbey with the child in arms. Not yet, anyway, she thought.
"It's just that I can't help thinking something terrible's happened," Sybil fretted, lifting her skirts to climb the narrow stairs in the Grantham Arms lobby. "It's so strange of her to want to meet us like this!"
"Meet us like how we were met some years ago now?" Her husband turned around on the stairwell so she could see him smiling playfully. She attempted to look stern, but the look wouldn't hold, and, after a moment, smiled in return.
"You mean do I worry that my sister's looking to elope with the chauffer?" she teased. "I suppose that is a worry."
"No fear there, milady," Tom replied gravely. "It would seem I'm spoken for."
Sybil sobered. "She could be trying to elope, I suppose. But with whom? That Gregson fellow—"
"Edith's smarter than that," Tom interrupted. "She wouldn't go running off with one of the servants even if she wanted to." They had reached the top of the stairwell; he took his wife's hand and gracefully helped her up the top step. "One scandal in the family is quite enough, I think."
Sybil smiled at his teasing, but it did not quite reach her eyes, which were looking past Tom down the hall. "She said she'd be there," she said, pointing to the door at the end of the hall. "Room Eleven."
And, without waiting for Tom to follow, she marched up to the door and rapped on it sharply.
In an instant—as if her sister had been waiting on the other side for their arrival—the door flew open, and Edith, looking haggard but no worse for the wear, stood before them.
"Edith!" Sybil flew to embrace her sister, who accepted the hug a bit awkwardly.
"Come in, please," she said softly.
Now Tom was at the doorway, peering in curiously. "Sister," he greeted, and Edith smiled warmly, though the look of a frightened, distracted rabbit did not leave her eyes. "What seems to be the trouble here? Sybil's been worried sick—"
Edith cut him off. "Not here," she said, urgent, "come in, please, and quick. I don't want anyone to see that I'm here."
Trading a look of concern, Sybil and Tom followed her in through the door. At once, they saw what had so jumpy, and both their mouths fell open in abject shock: a tiny, perfect replica of Edith with pale gray eyes, sitting attentively propped up on the bed.
"This is Marigold," Edith said. "I want your help. I'm going to tell Mama and Papa I mean to keep her."
Let me know what you think! Should I keep going?