A/N: This is set in December 1944. I ship Anna and Bates' daughter with George Crawley really hard. Headcanon accepted?

This is one part of a '5 Gold Rings' Christmas fanfiction challenge that I set myself – 5 oneshots about festive proposals in different fandoms. This was my Downton one.

Trigger Warnings (probably being overcautious here but better safe than sorry, right?): Very slight mention of self-harm

Mentions of prison

References to war

5 Gold Rings

Part 4 – In The Arms Of The Girl I Love

Elsie Mary Bates stood there with the delicate flakes drifting gently down all around her – occasionally being captured by a slight gust of wind so that they swirled teasingly through her newly cropped hair (Aunty Mary approved), dancing uncontrollably, perfect and wild and reminding her with a bittersweet pang of the children who once knelt on the windowsill – hiding behind the big heavy drapes of the velvet curtains, bored by a party where no one played any games – with their noses pressed against the icy glass that had misted up with their hot breath, watching in awe as magical Christmas powder fell from the sky as though a giant with an especially sweet tooth were spooning sugar into their tea; and the littlest one, who was also the gutsiest (blessed with that fearless confidence in her own safety and indestructibility – born of a lovingly protective childhood…what happened to that? 21 year-old Elsie Mary wondered grimly) dragged the others outside – ignoring feeble, half-hearted protests about 'Mama being cross' (mummies didn't get cross – sad, sometimes, when they thought you didn't see, but not cross) – determined to explore this mystical phenomenon that she had never encountered at the seaside. The little girl whirled uncontrollably – giggling madly when Georgie tried to pick her up, but, dizzy from his own exertions and not as strong as he liked to believe, overbalanced and tumbled into the surprisingly cold, surprisingly wet magic powder that she had by now realised must be the mysterious 'snow' she had seen in her books (except the pictures hadn't done justice to the way it was like the tiniest stars had fallen from the sky and were making a silent, glittering blanket especially for you to lie in). She could still remember flopping in his arms (where she had fallen on top of him) while they laughed and him showing her that you could catch the snow on your tongue and eat it like tiny flecks of a special Christmas ice-cream; throwing snowballs at Sybbie who was going through her annoying 'grown –up lady' stage (Elsie Mary, to date, had never had one of these, and sometimes wondered if she ever would…perhaps secretly hoping that she wouldn't) until she relented and threw them back; how entranced Marigold had been that for once the world was for everyone else as it was for her – muffled –and so it was peaceful rather than lonely; their parents eventually finding them – out there in the velvet darkness – soaking wet and exhausted, the others almost asleep in the snow while Elsie Mary continued to dance to her own imagined tune – feeling nearly as free in the flurry as in the exhilarating wind from the sea that made spray hit your face – and Aunty Mary shouted a bit, but Elsie Mary boldly pointed out that it was entirely her fault and then no one shouted anymore because she was the littlest one and not Aunty Mary's daughter (so she wasn't allowed to scold her) and her daddy didn't shout (daddies didn't get cross either), just carried her back into the glow of the big house (which was much more interesting from her vantage point of his arms – she could see all sorts of people with faces and pretty clothes rather than the forest of legs she had previously been subjected to) and to Mummy who hugged her extra tight for a long time and didn't even tell Daddy off for carrying her like she usually did and when Elsie Mary told her all about her adventure was extremely impressed and interested but maybe next time Elsie Mary would let them come too?...

Elsie Mary throbbed with the thought of where those children were now. One inside, that was something at least, enjoying the party like she was supposed to be doing – except she just didn't feel up to it and had to slip away from the upbeat music (if she never heard another Vera Lyn song again it would be too soon) and the need to keep smiling even when it ached – in the muscles of her face and her heart. It wasn't that she wasn't glad to be here – she was: the promise of it was all that had kept her going these last few gruelling weeks – but that didn't mean it didn't hurt, to see how it had changed. Somehow in all her imaginings Downton was untouchable – unaltered by the war – even when everything else was different…but of course, in reality nothing had escaped the taint of the wretched war. Not even Christmas at Downton. It wasn't the same without the others here. It wasn't her first Christmas without them – in fact, they hadn't all been together since the war began – but it was the first Christmas that she had to face their absence at the Abbey (her there and them gone).

Marigold was busy doing complicated things [that Elsie Mary hadn't bothered to even attempt to understand] at Bletchley Park (handpicked from Cambridge, where she had just begun studying Philosophy and Physics before the war put paid to such irrelevant interests; her brain worked in brilliant, baffling ways - a fact that had become increasingly obvious over the years – even if she did struggle to communicate what went on inside her head) – they were apparently on the brink of a breakthrough and couldn't be spared, but she would try to come home for the New Year (although by then George would be long gone and Elsie Mary would have only one night of respite left). She missed her quiet, awkward, visionary friend, but it was at least comforting to know that she was safe away from the action and danger.

The same couldn't be said for daredevil Sybbie, whose contribution to the war effort still sent shudders of terror through Elsie Mary. She, like her cousin, had been selected, rather than volunteering, for lethally dangerous, top secret, absolutely -classified-even-after-the-war-is-over work with the Secret Service. Sketchy on the detail of what her friend's job actually entailed, for obvious reasons, but acutely aware of the risks, Elsie Mary knew only that she was periodically dropped behind enemy lines with complex missions. Mercifully, she could sleep more easily tonight, knowing that, just for once, Sybbie was in no more danger than an ordinary civilian – she was spending her precious few hours of Christmas leave in the London hospital where her fiancée, Charlie Parks, was being treated for apparently horrific injuries sustained at The Front.

Elsie Mary missed both of her friends so badly it physically hurt. The Christmas Party wasn't the same without them giggling at the antics of George and herself; but it was comforting to know that they were at least safe for Christmas night and she was so very impressed by what they were doing – proud to know such valuable, wonderful people.

Not as proud however, as she was of her agonisingly absent little brother. He had not been one of the echoes she had recalled just now – he'd arrived after that first snow – the next Christmas (the best present in the world); but his absence was felt by far the most keenly. She had been to see him, earlier that day (at the cost of either of their parents seeing him – and she fully comprehended the sacrifice that had been made to allow the siblings that treasured, precious, insufficient hour together) and hoped she had conveyed her deep pride and admiration, as well as unconditional love, in that hopelessly inadequate period of observed, restricted time. She had been desperate to hold him (as she had done through so many bleak childhood nights when mum screamed them all awake and parental comfort (which usually came in the form of them both, gentle reassurances and apologies abounding) was delayed by the pressing urgency of calming her) to alleviate some of the raw pain and longing of them both - though she didn't presume to imagine she knew what he was enduring - and furious to discover that she wasn't even permitted to touch him. But for the fact that any infractions would most likely be taken out on him, after she was gone, she would have told them where to shove their regulations and clung to him anyway until they were forcibly separated…but she was well aware that the temporary relief her reckless impulses would enable wasn't worth the price her beloved William might pay. Instead she could only pour her heart out to her baby brother – helplessly young and vulnerable looking in that hellish place (looking like the lost little boy that he was) – irrespective of the total lack of privacy, and hope that he understood all that she didn't have time to say.

Her hand was still pulsing with pain (intensified by the raw wind) from where she had punched the wall [she had shocked herself with her explosive outburst but she didn't know why it surprised her really – Bateses' love was always intense and absolute and furiously defensive of its subjects] when she got back to Downton – imagining that the innocent bricks were every person who dared suggest her brother was a coward when she knew that he was the bravest person imaginable. To be prepared to subject yourself to the stuff of nightmares you were all too familiar with, when you had lived all your childhood with the subtle spectre of the shadows prison cast over lives, for the sake of your principles,that was true courage – not blindly following orders to shoot other teenagers who differed from yourself only in language and birthplace. She had vowed that, once this war was over, she would make it her mission to fight with everything in her the system that tortured 18 year olds for their compassion and morality – a system she could not believe hadn't changed from the same blind corruption that had wrecked her parents' lives decades ago. Repeatedly. She had pledged it silently – to herself and the snow which had just begun to fall – as her dad held her in his arms and let her scream at the sky as she clung on for dear life, not even batting an eyelid at the state of her mangled knuckles and helping her clean up before they went in, to prevent her ridiculously brave, beautiful (but, at the moment, undeniably distraught) mother's determined efforts to make Christmas with her daughter special, regardless of the horrors – past and present – that seemed determined to stalk their family, crumbling in the face of her older child's distress over her younger child's suffering.

Her feet tingled in the cold – she didn't have any shoes suitable for a party, or even a civilian dwelling really, so she had elected to go without…the excursion into the snow had been unplanned; she had slipped off, needing air and solitude. The exposure and liberation of standing barefoot in the snow wearing an uncharacteristically glamorous dress that had once belonged to Aunty Mary (and was upwards of 20 years out of fashion) made her feel wild and free. Staring at the pale pink sky as the tiny crystallised cobwebs spiralled downwards in what was rapidly becoming a blizzard – smelling the ice on the air and feeling wind whip her numb face – she struggled to comprehend that somewhere an in the war-ravaged world an inferno of bombs was burning, as the death toll mounted higher and human suffering increased because vicious Machiavellian governments were blind to what her brother, barely 2 years out of school, could see so plainly…it seemed so peaceful…removed from the reality of war, if not protected from its impacts.

Slowly, as though in a half-forgotten dream, Elsie Mary began to spin on the spot – her bare arms outstretched and her borrowed silken skirts swirling unfamiliarly around her legs. Letting go, temporarily, of all the fear and grinding hardships, the little deprivations which corroded at your soul until it was worn – and could not be repaired because everything – even bloody hope, was rationed, dismal, repetitive food, ugly rubble, days of drudgery to follow sleepless, disturbed nights, frustration borne from a sense of inadequacy and uselessness, girls who never came back – their empty spaces at the mess table and the way the eye was inevitably drawn to them, and the incomprehensible, pointless cruelty that had ripped a hole in the little haven of love and security that her family had so painstakingly crafted, she spun until she was giddy and gasping for breath. She would have fallen into the drifted snow, as the carefree little girl had all those years ago, except that a pair of strong arms caught her. She staggered and collapsed against a familiar chest.

She loved him for not asking why she was twirling like a lunatic, outside in a blizzard wearing his mother's dress and nothing on her feet. It was so George. He understood her seemingly implicitly. Their relationship had been like that ever since they were small, and he and Aunty Mary had come to stay at the hotel for a while, questions answered before they were asked. She loved him for his vain efforts to console her earlier. They had been badly received, given her distraught state ("he's not 'safe from the war', he's fighting his own bloody war – he will be at least as damaged as the returning soldiers-"), but she had appreciated the attempt more than she could say. She loved him for lifting her petite frame, which she realised only now was shivering, off the ground, and spinning her around until she truly did forget the war: her mind a blur of a wintry assault on the senses and the sensation of his arms around her and her face finally level with his.

She had no inkling – no forewarning – that she was going to say it. She realised only as the mad words mingled with the melting snow on her frozen tongue.

"Let's get married."

George dropped her in the snow. It was a soft landing but, because of the speed at which they had been 'dancing', it knocked the breath out of her anyway. She lay there for a second, disorientated, as her brain struggled to register what the depths of her heart had just voiced.

He was gaping at her – utterly dumbstruck. Realisation sinking in like the snow soaking her clothes, she opened her mouth, mortified, but he beat her to it.

"God, yes."

"I- wh-what?!"

"Yes. Elsie Mary Bates, of course I will marry you."

Seeing that she was too taken aback to move…or speak… he gallantly offered her a hand and helped her stumble to her feet.

Stupidly she said, "We don't have a ring." It was the first coherent though that had popped into her head.

To her confusion, George blushed. "Actually-"

"What?"

"I do."

"What do you mean?" she asked, totally bewildered.

"I do have a ring. It was my parents'…mama's kept it for years…she gave it to me recently in case I found someone I wanted to have it. I knew straight away that I had already found that person; had found her years ago, in fact. I came out here with the intention of proposing, but you beat me to it. I should have expected it really. Of course you, Elsie Mary Bates, would be the one to propose."

She had found her voice again. Mock-offended she demanded "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Only that you're a braver woman than I Gunga –Din!" She recognised the saying as one his grandfather was fond of – tactfully misquoted.

After a momentary pause Elsie Mary asked, "Is this really happening? Or have I been killed by a doodlebug and gone to heaven? Oh bother – I bet I have! Fate hates me-"

"I thought you didn't believe in heaven?"

"I don't. That's why I'm cross – you should know by now, George Crawley, that I hate being wrong."

"Well then, it's a good thing you're not…wrong, that is. This is real."

He pinched her, rather unromantically, to prove it.

She stuck her tongue out at him – terribly maturely – before a mischievous look crossed her face. "Give me that ring, quick!"

"Charming." He retorted, but, delving into his pocket, produced a beautiful velvet box. He made to open it but she snatched it swiftly out of his hands.

"If I'm going to propose, I'm going to do it properly." And she got down on one knee in the snow.

However, before she could do more than say "George Crawley-" he had swept her up into his arms. She shrieked her objection to the rather inelegant position but he merely laughed.

"You must allow me to preserve some shred of my easily wounded male pride," he reprimanded "Although," he added swiftly, "just to reiterate: the answer is yes. A thousand times: yes!"

"George Crawley, you pompous, overdramatic madman, put me down – we're not married yet!" for he was indeed carrying her bridal style through the snow , her sodden dress clinging to her in a most revealing way that would surely have scandalised the older generation.

"My dear," he informed her severely "It is you who was lying in the snow in December– I have a duty to prevent my fiancée catching hypothermia."

"I was lying in the snow because you dropped me in it!"

He waved a dismissive hand – and almost dropped her again in the process. She grabbed his hair and clutched it for dear life – possibly rather harder than was strictly necessary (to punish him for his troubles).

"Pfft! Details…Our mothers are going to be unimpressed by the state you're in regardless…They shall think we've been up to no good in the snow!"

At that, a sudden realisation hit her and she burst out laughing. "Georgie, we're going to have to tell Aunty Mary that her maid's daughter is to become the future 'Countess of Grantham'."

He began to laugh too, then tried the name out for size. "Lady Elsie Mary Crawley: Countess of Grantham…Yes! I think that will do very nicely indeed."