I'll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the lovelight gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
I'll Be Home For Christmas, Bing Crosby
...
The months after the wedding had been nothing but a blur for Edith.
First, they had left for the honeymoon – a long sea voyage to Rome, then Florence, then Venice, a whirlwind of Romanesque churches and Renaissance villas, drinking Chianti in Piazza Santa Croce, going to the Opera in the Gran Teatro La Fenice, walking up the quiet hills of Tuscany arm in arm. She and Anthony had gotten to know each other in more ways than one: not only physically – although that was one part of it, of course. They had had so little time alone with each other before the wedding: there was always somebody between them – Granny, or Papa, or Mary, or Carson or Stewart, the butler at Loxley – preventing them from talking seriously. But now, in the relative privacy of a foreign country where nobody knew them, they had all the time they could wish for to enjoy each other's company – it was almost intoxicating.
They had been alone, of course, during their first courtship - but that was before the war. Nothing had been the same after that. Anthony had come back a different man, a changed man, and Edith was not sure she knew this man all that well; oh, he was still the kind, unassuming, gentle soul who had warmed her heart in 1914, but now there was something else about him, a sense of sobriety and restraint that wasn't there before… Some kind of sadness, of remoteness, was now present in the back of his eyes. Sometimes, when people spoke to him, he smiled as politely as always, but Edith could see he looked through them, past them, to some place of pain they could not enter, to some private hell they could not share.
In Italy, she started to get to know this new Anthony; she had been fond of the lively, spirited gentleman who courted her in 1914, but she loved the quiet, withdrawn man he had become much more tenderly. She, too, was a different woman: she felt she was more mature, more compassionate. Sybil had said she was far nicer now than she was before the war; she didn't know whether or not her sister was right, but she knew she had changed; seeing all that wounded soldiers - maimed, disfigured, shell-shocked - tending to their needs, had given her a new perspective on life. Both of them had gone through their private war and they had risen from the ashes of their former selves, not unscathed of course, but maybe stronger; and sometimes, catching his smile, Edith knew their memories of the war united them, and they marched in unison.
By the time they were back in England, Sybil had given birth to a baby girl they had named Deirdre, much to the dismay of Papa and Granny, who had hoped for a more traditional "Victoria", "Alexandra" or "Elizabeth". They had gone to see the baby, of course, and then they had to make a compulsory round of visits to relatives and friends: it took much more time and effort than Edith thought it would. They had to smile and repeat all the funny stories from their honeymoon (how Anthony's luggage had been lost for several days and he had to go to dinner in a black tie, how they almost got run over by an omnibus in the mad traffic of Rome) over and over. They had gifts to hand out, tales to share. Edith had learnt a few words in Italian and she repeated them to her family's amusement.
The year 1920 was coming to an end when Edith finally started to settle down in Loxley.
She was now Lady Strallan, and she had a household of her own to manage: she intended to perform the duties her new role required as well as she could. She was hopeful and eager, filled with an intense desire to please.
"Don't do anything too fast." she remembered Isobel telling her, the night before the wedding. "It takes time to know how a house works"
She had agreed with her, but she did not know, back then, how much of a strain it was going to be for her to adjust to her new role. It was strange to be on her own – without Mama or Papa or her sisters at her side. In her life, there had always been somebody to tell her what she was supposed to do: how she was supposed to behave, what she was supposed to eat, whom she was supposed to talk to at dinner. It was Mama who arranged the tables when they entertained, Mama who decided what food to serve, which direction the conversation will start in and which topic were allowed at the table and which weren't.
But now, she was on her own, and it was scary. Exciting, of course, but scary. She had to plan the menus for the week, organize dinner parties. She had to choose carefully how to seat guests around the table when they entertained, taking into consideration both rank and mutual likes and dislikes; she had to pay and receive calls; she had to give directions to the cook, the gardener, the entire staff. She always thought having her own house to manage would have been lots of fun, but it was exhausting. There was always something that needed her attention: everyone referred to her to know what to do - which food to prepare, which curtains to hang, which room to accomodate guests in. Running a place like Loxley, she quickly learnt, was a full-time job.
"I don't know how you do it, Mama", she had told Cora over tea on a few occasions.
"Oh, my dear, you'll get the hang of it in no time at all." her mother would reassure her. But she was not so sure about that; in theory, she knew how to manage the mansion and the staff, how to entertain and how to be the perfect hostess, the perfect mistress of the house, but she lacked practice and she was afraid to prove a disappointment to her husband.
Anthony: dear, kind, understanding Anthony! He never criticized her, not even once, never found fault with her, no matter what she did, how many mistakes she made; he would look up at her and smile. "You mustn't let it worry you" he would say, whenever she made a wrong move "managing this house is something you will have to get used to."
He was invariably considerate and kindhearted, and the last thing Edith wanted was to let him down. She loved him so: she could not bear the thought he might regret his decision to marry her.
Edith couldn't help but think her husband was bound to make comparisons between her and his first wife; she knew he had been very fond of Maud; he spoke of her often and in affectionate terms. The staff, too, had been fond of the late Lady Strallan, she could tell. That made her nervous, insecure: she could picture them looking at her and saying to one another "What a dull girl. What does Sir Anthony see in her?" When they had guests over, she was often apprehensive; she was not used to entertain - not as the mistress of the house, anyway: Mama was the one who managed it all, back at Downton - and no matter how kind her guests were to her, how warmly they smiled at her, she thought she could read it in every eye: "She's so different from Maud." She thought she could see derision and contempt in her eyes, even when there was none.
The servant – Stewart, the butler, Mrs Havers, the housekeeper, Carter, the chauffeur, then Cook and the maids - were always impeccably respectful to her, but Edith knew, deep in their heart, they compared her – young, inexperienced, lackluster Edith, who spoke hesitantly and was so eager to impress – with Maud: elegant, accomplished, well-traveled Maud, who surely ruled the household with a firm hand and knew how to entertain properly.
Mrs Havers, in particular, seemed to have been particularly fond of her former mistress. One day, when Edith was writing invitations for a dinner party to be held later that week, Mrs Havers had come into the parlour.
"Lady Strallan" she started (Edith still wasn't used to her new name) "I'm sorry to disturb you. I've given Cook the menu of the day, and Cook says she is not sure what side dish you wish to serve with the roast pheasant."
"Oh?" Edith had put down the pen.
"Lady Strallan – the late Lady Strallan, I mean - was most particular about side dishes. She always chose seasonal vegetables, and she wished them to be arranged in a way that treated the eye. She was most peculiar about the way the finished dishes should look."
"Oh" Edith said, again. She was struggling to understand what was expected of her. For her, food was just that - food. "I… I hardly know; I think we'll have whatever you think the former Lady Strallan would have ordered."
"Of course. If that's what you wish" Mrs Havens had said, and Edith could swear she detected a note of pity, or contempt, in her voice. "You have no preference, M'lady?"
"Not really, no" Edith had answered, feeling disappointed in herself for her lack of confidence and personality. Mary would have known what to say, she thought. Mary had never been afraid to speak her mind; unlike her, she always had very strong opinions. Mary was born to be the mistress of a large house, but she, Edith, was not sure the same applied to her.
There had been other conversations like that, other times she had felt she was unfit for her role. One time, she had expressed the intention to take the car and drive to Ripon to run some errands, and Stewart, the butler, almost had a heart attack.
"Drive, M'lady?" he had stuttered, as if it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard in his life.
Edith frowned. She could not see what the problem was. Back at Downton, she had driven the car several times. "Yes. I rather like driving, and I'm perfectly capable of doing so. I've learnt during the war."
"But, M'lady…" the old man looked as if he was at a loss for words. "We… we have a chauffeur ready to drive you wherever you like. There is no need for you to drive yourself, no need at all."
"I know. But, you see, I am rather fond of driving, and I don't see why I… oh, goodness, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing the poor man's face turn an alarming shade of grey.
The butler looked extremely ill at ease. "M'lady… It's – it's not my place to say…"
She sighed. "Please, go on. I insist."
He looked at her with an upset expression on his face. "Lady Strallan – I mean, the former Lady Strallan, bless her soul…"
"Yes?" Edith was starting to grow sick of it: the constant reminder of what her predecessor did or didn't do.
"Well, you see, she would never… I mean, she would have never…" he could not go on. Servants were not supposed to offer any opinion to their employers, and Stewart was old school. No matter how badly he might have wanted to speak, his training prevented him from saying anything that could be seen as criticism to the mistress of the house.
Edith crossed her arms. "Oh, for goodness' sake, just say it: the late Lady Strallan would have never driven a car herself: it is improper for a woman and disgraceful for a lady, and by doing it I would bring ill repute on the whole house."
Stewart's eyes were pleading. "Oh, M'lady - please understand, I would never say - I would never think -"
Edith had sighed. "All right, all right. No need to go on. I'll have Carter drive me to Ripon, if that'll put your mind at rest."
Everything she did, she felt the shadow of Maud Strallan lingering over her. Maud would have never done this. Maud would have never chosen that. Maud here, Maud there. Whenever she tried to make changes at Loxley, the staff answered describing how Maud had ran it when she was alive. Edith hoped she could eventually make people accept her as the new Lady Strallan; but for the time being, she had to endure the seemingly neverending comparisons.
To make things even more challenging, Christmas was just around the corner, and that meant more dinner parties, more balls and luncheons, more entertaining, more decisions to take; all she could do was try her best and hope not to make too much of a mess out of it.