A/N: All Credit to Georgette Heyer, whose superb research unearthed many of the Regency expressions used in this story, and whose delightful novels inspired this work. She had her works pillaged so often during her lifetime, I feel I must give credit where credit is due. If you enjoy this story even a little bit, I encourage you to seek out her novels; my favorites are Faro's Daughter, Venetia, and The Toll Gate.
Apologies to Cora Crawley; and Robert and Patrick Crawley, who, for dramatic purposes, I have turned into something of villains.
blue·stock·ing: (n) an educated woman who is interested in books and ideas
The term most often refers to a specific group of 18th-century intellectual women led by the hostess and critic Elizabeth Montagu; who may or may not have actually worn blue stockings.
Chapter: The First
The Dowager Countess Violet Crawley harrumphed satisfactorily. She folded the letter she had just been reading and brandished it resolutely at her granddaughter.
"Well, it is all set. At long last, your cousin Patrick will be coming to stay with us on Wednesday next."
Edith Crawley looked up from her needlework, only mildly interested. "Oh?" she commented.
"Don't pretend to be ignorant of what this means, my dear. I may not set any store by the Season, but I know my duty as your grandmother, and it is high time you were settled."
"You mean father has been scolding you again," Edith said archly.
"Your father is right, my dear. And with this disagreement between Mr. Crawley and Lord Grantham, it would be very tidy if he were to make an offer for you."
Edith pursed her lips and focused on her stitch. Her father, who had little time for his three daughters before his wife died, and none for them after she passed, had fixated all his time and affection on his first cousin Patrick. While the girls were sent to live with various relations, the Earl of Grantham had established a town residence with Patrick and his father, James, and had seen the boy through Oxford. Since that gentleman's graduation, Lord Grantham had been paying for his every whim—which of late had taken him to become a patron of several notorious gambling hells, where he had swiftly lost a fortune at hazard. This had given his adoptive father pause, and after a quarrel about it, that worthy gentleman had hastily made over his will, leaving his entire fortune to Edith, with a substantial amount coming to her as a dowry. It was clear to anyone that he believed this would force Patrick to marry his middle daughter, thus ridding him of the burden of her and confident that she would curb his spendthrift ways.
As soon as the news had reached her of Edith's new status as an heiress, the Dowager had begun making preparations for a ball at which she hoped Edith might gain enough eligible parti to make a fair choice. However, she had invited Patrick early, in hopes that he might gain the advantage.
Goodness knows she had been quite in despair about finding a match for Edith. At twenty, the middle Crawley daughter was what some might call on the shelf. This was not precisely true as she had never been on the market in a formal way. Her grandmother did not care for London society, and so, much to her dismay, Edith had never done the season, danced at Almack's, gone to the theater, driven in Hyde Park, or participated in all the other social conventions designed to show a marriageable young lady off to eligible gentlemen.
However, Edith doubted very much if she would have fared very well in London, where her sisters had been fortunate enough to be living with relatives who did not eschew society. Mary, the eldest, was what many gentlemen would call a diamond of the first water, and had several offers before she was properly out. She was now happily married and expecting, and yet still had several young tulips writing sonnets to her. Sybil, the youngest Crawley sister, was more outspoken than Mary, but still reckoned "a prime article." She too, was off the market, engaged to the younger son of a country squire, a lawyer named Mr. Branson. It was not at all the match that her father had wished for his youngest daughter, but it was a love match, and when Sybil had threatened to make for Gretna Green he had broken down and given his consent. Next to them, Edith was sure to be a disappointment, and though her heart longed to escape the drudgery of Yorkshire life, she had come to have a very low expectation of her future. That is, until her father had unexpectedly made her a considerable catch.
She viewed the coming ball with both excitement and apprehension, and after some consideration had decided she did not care to marry simply for convenience. She determined to accept no offer which came from a place of penury rather than affection. Unless of course, she reasoned, she was so unfortunate as to lose her heart.
So Wednesday came, and the day stretched on, Edith waiting patiently to welcome Mr. Crawley, dutifully wearing her best frilled morning dress. Morning turned to afternoon and there was still no sign of the wayward gentleman. Then, just as Edith had begun to change for dinner, a carriage arrived bearing her prodigal cousin. Edith dressed quickly, but carefully, wearing her newest gown of blue-green satin and with a blond lace overdress, which the local tailor had cleverly cut to disguise her unfashionably thin figure. She allowed her maid, Anna, to pile her braids high upon her head and fix them with pearled combs, and place matching pearl earrings in her ears and a stunning string of pearls around her neck. When Anna stepped back to admire her work, Edith couldn't help feeling proud of her glamorous reflection.
She descended the steps slowly, feeling quite nervous in spite of herself. Her grandmother had invited another gentleman for dinner, their neighbor, Sir Anthony Strallan, whose estate, Loxley, was separated by only a mere ha-ha from Downton Abbey, and who had only days before returned from India. Since his wife's death he was seldom in England, and then spent most of his time in London, so that Edith had never met him. Yet it was rumored that this time he was back for good.
When she reached the drawing room door, Edith could hear the gentlemen's voices from within.
"Thanks for coming with me, Napier. I was apt to jump in the lake out of boredom otherwise. I ain't cut out for country life."
"Your servant, dear fellow," replied The Honorable Evelyn Napier. "Who's the fellow in the corner?"
Patrick Crawley raised his eyeglass and surveyed the older gentleman, whose dress was, he had to admit, in excellent taste, made all the more striking by the limp right arm that lay in a sling at his front. A member of the dandy set himself, Mr. Crawley wrinkled his nose at the gentleman's tanned complexion.
"Sir Anthony Strallan," he informed his companion. "Just returned from India, I'm told. Full of juice, lives on the other side of the hedge, so the old lady invited him."
"I gather our hostess has planned quite a reception for tomorrow evening," said Mr. Napier.
"Fishing for suitors for my dear little cousin, no doubt," Patrick Crawley drawled. "Though I imagine it will be overstuffed with bracket-faced country girls with next to no breeding and grasping pushy mamas."
"I doubt it will be as bad as all that. But perhaps we can get up a hand in one of the other rooms. Anyone coming?"
"Well, Grey said he might, and Sampson. One foot in the River Tick last time I saw him, so he's sure to make a try for Cousin Edith."
"Unless you beat him to it?" Mr. Napier suggested.
Mr. Crawley kicked at the grate irritably. "Perhaps."
Patrick Crawley had not intended to marry, until Lord Grantham had forced his hand. He had been greatly indulged for most of this life, and he disliked being managed. Yet it was undeniably true that unless he married Edith he would be no better off than Mr. Sampson.
"What's she like, this cousin of yours?" Mr. Napier asked.
"Ain't seen her since we were brats. I hear she's not much to look at. Never was, really. I'd lay odds she's grown up to be an insufferable bluestocking, sickly to boot I daresay, and an honorary member of the Clapham Sect," he sneered.
"You can't know that. Perhaps she has turned out well," Mr. Napier said diplomatically. "Either way, you're in too deep to throw away that inheritance,"
"I ain't so purse-pinched I have to make up to some damned chit" Mr. Crawley said, snatching up his glass and taking a generous gulp.
Mr. Napier raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
On the other side of the door, Edith coloured. Mr. Crawley's rude comments stung, but more than hurt, she was filled with the desire to seek revenge on her vain relation. Her better judgment was no match for the mischievous scheme brewing beneath her curls.
In a swish of skirts she turned and hurried up the stairs to her room, stripping off her gloves and plunging into her wardrobe. She selected her dowdiest gown which was unfashionable enough to sport not a single flounce, and besides possessed a frilled high neckline. Any tulip of fashion would have choked to death at the sight of it. At her dressing table she changed her jewelry for a simple cross, and pulled her piled braids into a chaste knot. She wrapped a simple walking shawl around her shoulders and clutched a handkerchief. For a finishing touch, she scurried down the hallway to her grandmother's room and slipped a hanging vinaigrette around her neck. Upon examining herself in her grandmother's mirror she could only giggle, so much did she resemble the bore of Mr. Crawley's horrid imaginings. She only wished she had a pair of spectacles and a copy of Wilberforce's Proclamation to carry with her.
When she finally entered the drawing room, she came haltingly, hunching forward with one hand clutching the vinaigrette. She scrunched her eyes to squinting as if the light of the fire were too much for her.
The gentlemen turned when she entered, and Patrick Crawley, surveying her through his quizzing glass, only just managed to keep his countenance. The Dowager Countess was not so fortunate. Her hospitable smile vanished and in its place was a formidable scowl. She shot her granddaughter a most speaking look before saying, in a voice of feigned lightness, "Gentlemen, may I present my granddaughter, Miss Edith Crawley. Edith, this is Sir Anthony Strallan, our new neighbor, Mr. Evelyn Napier, and of course you will remember cousin Crawley."
Mr. Crawley continued to suppress his disgust and gave an obsequious bow, perhaps more to show off the cut of his exquisite coat than to do deference to his newly reintroduced cousin. Mr. Napier gave a discreet bow and a kind "Your servant, M'am." Sir Anthony gave a simple nod, one eyebrow cocked as he studied her critically.
Edith felt herself blush under the scrutiny. For a moment her nerves failed her, but when she caught sight of the superior glint in Mr. Crawley's eye, she put her chin up (or down, as the case was) and said, in a shrill voice.
"How very pleased I am to meet you. You will forgive me, I am not feeling at all well this evening."
With that she sank meekly onto the sofa and brought her handkerchief to her mouth. She had to try hard not to catch her aunt's eye or she would be sure to burst into giggles and then the game would be up. So she resolutely kept her eyes down.
"I am greatly distressed to hear that, m'am," Mr. Napier commented.
She gave him a weak smile. "So very kind, Mr. Napier."
The room fell silent again, Mr. Crawley totally absorbed in laying out snuff on his wrist. The Dowager's voice echoed loud in the silence.
"And how are you gentlemen liking Yorkshire? It is lovely this time of year. You should be able to get some hunting in. Or riding, as you choose."
Mr. Crawley sneezed and then said, in a voice lacking any curiosity, "Do you ride, Miss Crawley?"
"Oh, I fear that the climate this time of year may be too damp for me to ride."
"I see. Do you play cards?"
"I play whist, though I fear I am not very good."
Lady Painswick stifled a frown. Edith frequently gave everyone in the household a thorough beating in whist. She also played loo, macao, and, unbeknownst to her grandmother, the occasional game of piquet with one of the neighbors.
"To own the truth, dear cousin," Edith said wailingly, "I much prefer a book to most amusements of society."
Mr. Crawley's polite smile could not hide the smirk attempting to break through it. Edith felt a surge of triumph, knowing that her cousin was at that moment thinking how dull his stay at Downton was to be.
The Dowager Countess was looking as though she would very much like to place Edith over her knee and give her a sound spanking when Carson ducked in to announce that dinner was being served.
At dinner, Edith was, of course, placed next to Mr. Crawley, yet across from Sir Anthony. He was still quietly surveying her.
Edith ate little at dinner, sipping disdainfully at her wine.
"I do begin to believe you are quite unwell, dear cuz," Mr. Crawley drawled.
"Indeed, I fear my constitution is not particularly strong. Most nights I take a broth on a tray in my room. Such rich food and drink do not agree with me."
"You have barely touched your wine," he noted.
"I believe in a temperate lifestyle. Have you read Mr. Rush's Inquiry? He has many good arguments to make on the matter."
This time Mr. Crawley did nothing to hide his smirk. "I shall have to put it on my list," he mumbled, taking a generous gulp from his wine glass and turning to converse with Lady Painswick. Their side partners engaged elsewhere, Sir Anthony spoke to Edith for the first time that evening.
"Have you read Rush's Inquiry?" he asked gently.
"Of course I have," she sputtered.
He nodded.
"And have you read any works by Mr. Macaulay?"
"N-no," Edith faltered. "But I mean to as soon as I have finished my current title."
"Ah," he shook his head understandingly, "and what might that be?"
"It's—I—I'm reading a treatise on –on—steam mechanisms. I forget the author."
"I see. And have you an interest in mechanics?"
"Why of course!" she asserted too eagerly. He noted how her cheeks were beginning to flush and thought that the colour leant radiance to her eye. This coupled with the sincerity borne of her discomfiture were wholly alluring.
"And what, Miss Crawley, would you say to those who argue that these new harvesting machines, were they ever to go beyond mere experimentation, might steal the livelihood of the common laborer?"
Edith contradicted her own words as she took a rather generous sip of her wine, trying to think of an answer. Thankfully, at that moment the dowager rose, announcing that it was time for the ladies to depart to the drawing room.
Once there, Edith was subjected to a thorough scolding from her grandmother and aunt. She tried to explain her reasoning, but could not win them to her cause.
"Tomorrow morning," Lady Grantham said firmly, "you will come to me before you go in to breakfast so that I may approve your attire. Is that clear?"
"Yes, grandmamma," Edith said dutifully.
"Now, when the gentlemen come through, I expect you to play for us."
So Edith did as she was told. During the performance, Mr. Patrick Crawley seemed more interested in the fall of his cuffs than in Edith, and Mr. Napier watched politely but seemed to take only moderate enjoyment from it. Sir Anthony, on the other hand, never once took his eyes from Edith. All trace of the invalid disappeared as she lost herself in the music, an intensity showing on her face as she expelled her cares and woes, echoing from the tips of her fingers through the instrument. Anthony noticed all of this, and his heart began to ache for the slings this remarkable young woman had undoubtedly suffered in her life.
When Edith rose from the pianoforte, the party gave praise as was proper. Only Sir Anthony genuinely complimented her playing, making Edith forget her pretense for a few moments as she raised her head and blushed, eager to continue discussing music with a kindred spirit. But she felt Mr. Crawley's eyes upon her and in an instant fell back into character, bowing her head and murmuring a meek, "Thank you, sir."
Next, Sir Anthony, Mr. Crawley, Lady Painswick and Edith sat down to a game of whist, while the dowager and Mr. Napier faced off in a game of chess.
As they played, Edith chattered away about Homer and Montesquieu, having read The Iliad by stages, and a pamphlet outlining the ideals of the great French Philisophe. She had gained much of her education this way, a subscription to Clarke's Compendium on matters Scientific, Philosophical, Political and Literary taking the place of a governess. There were subjects which even Clarke could not make entirely clear to her, and she also held a subscription to La Belle Assemblée and the town's lending library from which she borrowed many a marble-covered romance, but she strove to challenge her mind beyond the simple subjects of music, watercolours, and French which were afforded an accomplished lady in the eyes of society.
Edith retired earlier than usual, stating that it was quite late for her fragile constitution. She avoided a murderous look from her grandmother as she said her good nights and slipped from the room. In her bedroom she grinned to herself at the success of her scheme, reviewing every barely hidden grimace that had passed over her cousin's face. It had taken some will to allow him to trounce her so soundly at whist, but she told herself he would get his just deserts in due course. She changed into her bedclothes and curled up with a novel, but as she read her mind kept straying to Sir Anthony Strallan. He had joined genially in her conversation of the classics, but all the while his clear blue eyes kept a penetrating watch on her, and once or twice she thought she had caught an amused glint when she had protested her incompetence at cards or her disinclination to ride. Well, it didn't signify, even if he suspected her to be ingenuine, Mr. Crawley seemed completely taken in.
She was confirmed in this supposition when, a little while later, the men could be heard retiring to their chambers. Upon tip-toeing to her door she was able to hear her cousin complaining to his companion,
"Lord, Evelyn, I am going to go barking mad if I am forced to become leg-shackled to such a dead bore! My cousin Grantham must be made to change his will again, or there is nothing for it but to throw myself in the Thames."
Regency Expressions Used in this Chapter and their Meanings:
Hazard: a gambling game played with two dice, the precursor of craps, which was often played for very high stakes
eligible parti: a suitable marriage partner
on the shelf: unmarried beyond the usual age of marrying
a diamond of the first water: a remarkably beautiful woman
a prime article: a handsome woman
Gretna Green: the first easily reachable village over the Scottish border, where British laws requiring parental approval for marriages in which the parties were under the age of 21 did not apply, thus it became the place for elopements
Full of juice: wealthy
bracket-faced: ugly, hard-featured
the River Tick: standing debts
purse-pinched: short of money
signify: to be important, to matter, "it don't signify" = "it doesn't matter"
leg-shackled: married
blond lace: is a continuous bobbin lace from France that is made of silk. The term blond refers to the natural color of the silk thread.
