Disclaimer: I own neither Dowton Abbey nor its characters. Italicized dialogue is borrowed from Season 1, Episode 5. The story of the scorpion and the frog is borrowed from…well, nobody really knows, including Mary and Matthew.
Spoilers: Through Season 1, Episode 5
A/N: The story of the scorpion and the frog (or turtle, fox, etc.) and its variations has been around for many years and its origins are unknown. It is often attributed to Aesop, although his version of the story is about a farmer and a viper. Foreign folk tales translated into English were fairly popular at the time, so it's possible that Edith came across this story in a book in Lord Grantham's extensive library.
Last Laugh
Mary's fake laughter annoyed Edith, but the way her sister handled that necklace angered Edith the most. Were she to accuse Mary of deliberately fiddling with her necklace, her sister would claim it was just a nervous habit, but Edith knew better.
She only does it so that whatever poor man she has entrapped will be drawn further in—and his eyes further down, she thought.
Her perfectly-coifed sister leaned in closer to Cousin Matthew with practiced ease, her experience with who-knew-how-many men serving to keep his attention focused squarely on herself—and away from anyone else who might want to engage him in conversation. Not that Mary would cease her appalling behavior if Edith attempted to converse with Matthew. To the contrary; she would lean in closer, would finger her necklace all the more provocatively.
As usual, nobody noticed Edith's silence. They were all too busy going on about that ridiculous flower show, making thinly-veiled references to Granny's surrendering the Grantham Cup to old Mr. Molesley.
"Oh, Granny," Sybil said, her eyes alight with naïve sympathy, "I'm sure losing the cup this year must have been a disappointment to you."
Edith missed Granny's witty reply (her grandmother had no other kind) as the words rang in her ears, echoing Mary's from last night.
"Poor Edith," Mary had said, sneering. "I'm sorry Cousin Matthew has been a disappointment to you."
"Who says he has?" Edith had replied, bluffing.
"Why, Matthew," Mary had said, innocence as fake as the rest of her shining in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry; wasn't I supposed to know?"
Edith ate a forkful of something; nothing had any taste tonight. Her senses were too full of Mary's gaiety, her memories too full of Mary's cruelty.
The final, unforgivable blow had come earlier today at the flower show. Mary had rushed up to Cousin Matthew, practically panting on him like one of Papa's hunting dogs over a cornered fox. In at the kill, Edith had thought, remembering her veiled warning to Cousin Matthew in one of the churches they had visited. Cousin Matthew, finally showing some good sense, had brushed Mary aside and had walked away from her lies and manipulations. Edith had known that she had Mary, would finally be able to get a bit of her own back. She had approached Mary, her nose and lips already curled in contempt.
"I wonder why Cousin Matthew was in such a hurry to get away," Edith had said.
"Don't be stupid," Mary had retorted with an uncharacteristically dull response.
"It seems that when he wanted you, you didn't want him, but now it's the other way around," Edith had said. "You have to admit, it's really quite funny."
"I'll admit that if I wanted to attract a man, I'd avoid those clothes and that hat," Mary had said.
"You think yourself so superior, don't you?" Edith had said, already anticipating Mary's next retort.
Mary, however, had merely sighed loudly and walked away. No rebuttal. No witty reply. No sarcastic rejoinder. As if I didn't even exist, Edith had fumed. She had glanced around in hopes that nobody had noticed the exchange, but Mama's odious lady's maid had seen the whole thing and had stared at Edith as if she were the sea monster from Mary's not-so-subtle tale.
Perhaps I can rescue Matthew from the real sea monster…
"Cousin Matthew," Edith said loudly, drawing Matthew's attention away from Mary for the first time all dinner.
"Yes, Cousin Edith?" he said politely.
"I read a story today, and I wonder if you've heard it," she said.
The whole table had grown quiet; even old Carson seemed interested in what Edith had to say for once. Mary glared at Edith, who returned the glare with a cool, contemptuous smile.
"Tell me the story, and I'll let you know," Cousin Matthew said.
"One day, a scorpion stood on the banks of a river she needed to cross," Edith began. "She schemed and plotted, but could not figure out a way to make it across the river without drowning. Just when she was about to give up in despair, a frog hopped into view. The scorpion disliked the frog individually and on principal, but she suddenly realized she could use the frog for her own means.
"Looking as pretty and innocent as she could, the scorpion greeted the frog cordially and told him her dilemma.
"'I would be ever so appreciative if you could ferry me across this raging river,' the scorpion said.
"'Why would I do that?' the frog asked. 'How do I know that you won't sting me and kill me if I try to help you?'
"'Don't be stupid,' the scorpion replied. 'If I were to sting you mid-crossing, we would both die, and if I were to sting you post-crossing, well, that would be very ungrateful of me indeed.'
"The scorpion considered her argument and made his decision, deciding that he could not decline an opportunity to assist someone in need.
"'I will carry you across the river on my back, but remember, if you sting me, we will both die,' he reminded the scorpion.
"The scorpion climbed on the frog's back, and they set out across the river," Edith said. "Midway across, the frog felt a sharp pain in his back. He immediately began to go numb, his consciousness fading by the second. As he was about to sink beneath the icy waters for the final time, he asked of the scorpion simply, 'Why?'
"To which the scorpion replied, 'Because I am a scorpion; it's in my nature.'"
Silence reigned as Edith concluded her story.
"No, Cousin Edith, I had not heard that story," Matthew finally said. "Thank you for telling it; I found it…intriguing."
"Oh, yes," Mary said. "It was ever so intriguing."
"Although I can't imagine why you would tell such a ghastly story, especially at dinner," the Dowager Countess said.
"I found it all rather sad," Sybil said. "How cruel of the scorpion to take advantage of the frog's kindness, and how cruel of the narrator to draw the conclusion that some people cannot change themselves for the better."
"But some people are like that, surely," Edith said. "Some people are always going to behave badly, even when they bat their eyelashes and promise not to make the same mistakes over and over again."
"And some people are snakes in the grass, spying on the frogs and scorpions out of jealousy," Mary said.
Edith flinched and readied her scathing reply, but dear Cousin Matthew beat her to it.
"Now, Mary, I'm sure Cousin Edith meant nothing amiss by her story," he said. "She was just entertaining us, that's all."
"She's put me right off my appetite for dessert," the Dowager Countess complained.
"I'm sure you will have no difficulty managing your apple tart," Isobel Crawley said. "How else will you be able to criticize Mrs. Patmore's cooking?"
Granny and Cousin Isobel continued their argument, but Edith's eyes were drawn back to Mary and Cousin Matthew. They were conversing once again, Matthew staring raptly at Mary. Edith strained her ears, trying to hear their conversation over the several smaller ones that had broken out around the table.
"I'm sorry Edith told that horrid story," Mary said, grasping her necklace.
"Not to worry, dear cousin," Matthew said mischievously. "I've come to expect intriguing stories at dinnertime from my amiable cousins."
Mary blushed at Matthew's reminder of her story of Perseus and the sea monster, but Edith figured she'd only done so because she knew it would add appealing color to her cheeks.
"Maybe Edith didn't tell you the full story," she said, grinning. "Maybe the whole story was a lie conjured up by a snake in the grass to discredit scorpions."
"Yet no snake is mentioned in the story," Matthew said. "You're the one who brought in the snake."
"Gracious me, I suppose I did," Mary replied. "How curious."
"Perhaps you wanted to shift the focus off the scorpion and her dastardly deeds," Matthew said.
"Or perhaps I wanted to point out a truth that went beyond Edith's story," Mary said.
"Maybe the narrator is not a snake," Matthew said. "Maybe a hawk or an eagle was flying over the river at the time."
"How would he have seen and heard the intimate details of the story?" Mary asked.
"Maybe a sea monster witnessed the scene right before he swallowed both the scorpion and the turtle," Matthew said.
"Or, perhaps…" Mary said, trailing off.
"Yes?" Matthew said.
"Perhaps the snake did not tell the story right at all," Mary said seriously. "Perhaps the snake lay coiled on a rock, jealous of the way the scorpion and the frog were getting on so well together. Perhaps the scorpion really did climb onto the frog's back, but perhaps the pair made it safely across the river. Perhaps…perhaps the scorpion and the frog were good friends from that day forward because the frog had learned that the scorpion could fight her nature, could make better decisions."
"Perhaps the frog knew there were risks involved, but felt that the risks were worth the potential reward," Matthew said.
"Which would be what?" Mary asked breathlessly.
"Perhaps that would depend on the scorpion and frog in question," Matthew replied, his blue eyes gazing intensely into Mary's brown ones. Edith saw something flare in Mary's eyes, something that looked a lot like…
Don't let yourself be sucked in by her lies, Edith thought, berating herself. Remember what that kitchen maid told you, what you know to be true. She probably looked at that Turk the same way, and many more men besides.
Carson and the footmen brought in dessert, mercifully interrupting the conversation. Matthew made a joke about salty pudding, and Mary's fake laugh rang out once again. Edith stewed in her anger, a plan she had toyed with for weeks coalescing in her mind.
She who laughs last…