Chapter One

Edith Crawley lay dead still in the bed. She felt an utterly peculiar combination of physical nausea and emotional vacancy.

It had all seemed so sensible the previous evening. She had informed Aunt Rosamund's new maid that she was attending a play with a friend and she would likely stay over. Then she had rushed through the front door before any questions could be asked. The maid was ignorant and embarrassed and Aunt Rosamund was at dinner.

There was no play. There was no friend, not really, not after tonight.

It had been nearly impossible to choose an outfit. It needed to be appropriate for the evening but not look out of place in the morning. She presumed she wouldn't have the attendance of a maid so she had to be able to dress, and undress, herself. After much thought she had chosen a fitted navy skirt with buttons running up the back and a loose peach silk top edged with purple darts. It was far more daytime than evening so she added two strands of sparkling pearls. She left her hair alone; she knew the set finger waves would last.

Instead of taking the car towards Covent Garden and the theatre lights of London Edith Crawley instructed the driver to take her to Southwark. She had never been south of the river. Columns and rigid, white facades soon transitioned into plain brick and uniform sash windows as the car sped Edith to her destination.

"Hello, darling" said Michael Gregson plainly as he opened the door. Edith was briefly shocked at his overt familiarity but she quickly corrected herself. She knew why she was here; on his doorstep, in his hall, divested of her coat and so quickly into his dining room. She knew why she had come, and so did he, it seemed.

Edith had been ready to draw a line under Michael Gregson when she found out about his wife. Insane or not, a wife remained a wife. Michael Gregson, however, was not ready to draw a line under Edith Crawley. He had sent numerous letters; he had begged her to keep writing for The Sketch extoling the virtues of her writing and offering an alternative editor. Edith felt valued for the first time in her life. She also felt, wanted. Chased, even. So she agreed to keep writing and she never asked for a new editor. They met in London to pour over her latest articles and they had lunches and dinners and idle flirtation. She hid it, of course. She never mentioned Gregson. He remained merely 'her editor'. She never acknowledged the time they spent together, not even to herself.

For the first time since that one blissful month in May, Edith began to feel like a whole person again.

Even after all of that, Gregson's declaration of love at Duneagle had been unexpected. Not because Edith didn't suspect where they had been leading but because she was so unaccustomed to such unequivocal declarations of feeling. It didn't solve the obvious problem, of course, but to be loved by a charming, handsome and intelligent man was a sensation she felt she hadn't known and a sensation she desperately wanted to hold on to.

The funny thing about Matthew's sad end was that it devastated everyone, but it saved Edith. Matthew was the only one who had known about Gregson's intentions. If he hadn't died Edith knew their friendship would have been ended. Once again her family would have stepped between her and her future. Edith didn't believe in fate or God or signs but she decided that she wouldn't stand by and watch life pass her by; Matthew's death had allowed her to maintain contact with Gregson. She decided to keep her promise to him that Duneagle had not played host to their last evening together.

The next few months were letters and abortive telephone calls and stolen moments amongst the shards of grief. Mary became more spiteful without Matthew's influence. Edith's parents became more withdrawn. Her father had balked and rowed when she continued to write for The Sketch in the wake of the tragedy. The focus was on the new baby, the heir. Edith was aware of her own nothingness like never before. In the midst of it all she clung to Gregson's praise and his kind words and his love as if it was all that was stopping her from falling into an abyss from which she would not return.

It had all carried her here, to this house, on this night. She took the glass of red wine Gregson offered and sipped from it nervously. "Your house is," she begun the thought but she could not finish it. It was warm and cosy and perfectly fine. The dining room was full of shades of red and deep mahogany furniture. It clearly doubled as an office of sorts, betrayed by the untidy piles of loose, white paper hurriedly hidden in the corners. But it was nothing compared to the places Edith had lived and stayed and, of course, he would know that. It felt so awfully redundant to offer platitudes.

"No one serving this evening?" she glanced at her wine glass.

"Oh, yes, well, no. That is, dinner will be set out but most of the staff have gone home and soon they will all be gone, until the morning." Gregson smiled as he made the statement and looked directly at Edith.

Her blushes were spared by the arrival of dinner. It was a stew, set out in a decorative porcelain bowl and placed at the centre of the table. Bread was left, unsliced, to accompany it. With that the last of the staff was out of the room and, presumably, out of the house, very quickly. Edith wondered if they knew what was to happen, she supposed they must; they left her and Gregson so very alone.

"Come, Edith." Gregson took her hand and squeezed it as he led her towards the table. He must have sensed her unease, he pulled out a chair at the end of the table and gently squeezed her shoulder as she sat down. To her surprise, he took the chair at the head of the table, at a right angle to her. Their knees touched.

"Look" he begun, whilst ladling the stew onto their plates, "I know this isn't ideal and we both wish it was different, conventional, I suppose. But between just the two of us, it can be conventional, here, in the house, and" he glanced upwards and placed his hand on hers, the thought was formed, of course, but not articulated, "but if you've changed your mind. I'll still love you and we can eat and you can go home. I hope you haven't." He sat back in his chair. Edith knew he'd planned the speech and had been waiting since her arrival to deliver it. She had planned enough speeches in her short life to know a prepared one.

"I haven't changed my mind. It's not conventional, I know. But it's what I want." She smiled softly, hoping she had convinced him. She had not convinced herself. He lifted her hand from where it had lay underneath his and kissed it. "Good."

They'd both said and heard what they needed to and conversation flowed with ease as they made their way through the simple meal. Edith liked Gregson's steady confidence. He said what he meant and in plain language. She liked the ripples of warmth that surrounded his mouth when he laughed at her jokes and the twinkle in his eye when he flirted.

He encouraged her to talk about Matthew. He took her hand as she described her own sense of uselessness in the face of the black dog that stalked Downton. He ran his hand along her cheek as she told him that the whole episode had made her think of Sybil and wish even more for the return of her sister's calming presence. It astonished Edith how good it felt to talk about it all. He never told her to buck up or maintain a stiff upper lip. When she was finished Gregson moved the conversation deftly away from death. They talked about Lloyd George and how Edith might cast her first vote.

Quicker than Edith would have liked dinner was eaten and the wine was drunk. Gregson had taken her hand again and they were in the front room. The red hues gave way to creams and yellows that appeared grey in the dim light. Edith knew she had not come to his house for dinner or wine; those were necessary precursors to her real purpose, to their real purpose.

She hated herself for the nerves she felt and for the uncertainty. She hated that he was married. She hated that she was not. She hated this place. She hated him for driving her here. Most of all, she hated the decision she had already made that, despite all the hate she felt, she would carry on regardless of it. As Gregson sat down next to her she placed a decisive kiss onto his lips. Her nose clattered harshly into his cheek and he drew back.

"Goodness, I'm, I'm sorry" stammered Edith. "I, I just"

Gregson laughed gently at her, "don't be sorry, you caught me off guard is all." He kissed her on the corner of the mouth. "You know, I don't think I've actually said: you look absolutely lovely."

Edith glanced behind him and fixed her gaze on the bookshelf in the corner. She could see a worn copy of Persuasion. Quietly she said, "please, don't call me that."

"All right then, how about; beautiful, spectacular, ravishing" he almost shouted the last word believing his previous compliment had not been fervent enough.

Edith looked into his eyes again, "better" she said.

"Edith, I wanted to say before," she could see him trying to choose the words and failing. "Before we begin, that I've thought about this and about you and the danger of this arrangement for you. I intend to take precautions, that is, as far as I can and I don't want you to be alarmed when I do. It's, er, a little difficult to explain but there will come a moment, and I will.."

"Michael?" she interrupted, "I know the dangers. I know what I'm doing. That is, the risk of it all. And, I trust you Michael. But I don't want to talk about it or analyse it. Let's not think, please? Let's just feel for a bit?"

Gregson stared plainly at her for a moment, smiled, leant in and gently kissed her with rather more grace and poise than Edith had managed moments earlier. He teased open her lips and his tongue met hers. His hands wrapped around her back and his finger traced her neck. Edith stared at Persuasion again. Her hands fixed in her lap. Michael pulled away and without words, led her into the hall, up the stairs and to his bedroom.

There, in the dark and in the quiet, with a nudge and a sting, Edith Crawley had her wedding night. Without the wedding that should have preceded it.

As she lay still in bed Edith willed her stomach to stop turning. Her eyes traced the shadows of the coving cast by the sliver of light breaking through the gap between the curtains. She examined the ceiling rose and furrowed her brow at the cracks near its centre. Never before had she been so aware of her breathing, was she always so loud? She hadn't had anyone to ask before, now, she supposed, she could ask Gregson.

It was meant to feel different to this, to be different. Edith had wanted this; she had chosen Gregson, she had chosen this path. It wasn't perfect but at least it was begun. The warnings she'd heard passing reference to hadn't borne out - he had been kind and attentive. "What is wrong with you?" she asked out loud to herself. Edith could give herself no answer, except to say, "something".

A steady sigh escaped from her lips and reluctantly she rolled to the other side of the bed. Gregson had gone to work. He had kissed her goodbye. His pillow was cool. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of black script on crisp paper. She righted herself in bed and sat up, grasping the note as she did so.

"Dearest Edith –

I couldn't wake you, so peaceful you looked.

I've arranged a car for 9am. Lunch at our place, CG, 12.

- Yours ever,

Michael."

Edith's eyes travelled to the carriage clock on the mantle at the end of the bed, 8.32am. With a clench of her teeth she swung her legs to the side and stood up, the paper lay crumpled on the sheets. Edith padded quietly around the bed in her silk slip to retrieve her clothes. Gregson had placed them quite carefully over the back of an armchair. Getting herself together and fixing, as best she could, the back of her hair took the better part of half an hour. The distraction was welcome; by the time she had slipped down the stairs and opened the front door she had all but forgotten the aches she felt.

The sunshine was dazzling on Gregson's street. The green paint of the car seemed to sparkle. Edith placed her hand over her eyes and looked up. The sky was a vibrant shade of deep blue. Involuntarily, she shuddered. It reminded her of him. The way she felt when she was near him. The way she felt when they touched. The way she felt in that dress. The precision of thought she had at that moment was liberating and petrifying.

Anthony. For God's Sake, it's Anthony.