The Winds of Change
It was horrid night.
While Marigold was fascinated by the twirling dancers and the antics of her cousins, Edith couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the swirling snow gusting in the light streaming from the windows. It seemed to her that the gaiety of the servants ball was being mocked by the howls of the elements.
1925 had just begun, and already she was feeling swept away. Tom and Sybbie would be leaving within the week. Now that the decision had been made and plans devised, Tom seemed restless, as if he couldn't bear to stay much longer. Mary was girding her loins to do battle with Papa over the running of the estate with all the verve and daring she brought to every enterprise she attempted.
Even the downstairs seemed to tremble on the edge of something new. Surely, the Bates' wouldn't stay much longer, not after everything they had been through. Edith wasn't close enough to know of Anna's dreams and hopes, but she'd seen a look of determination renewed upon Bates' return.
And there was something…not exactly off with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes…but different. Yes, different. Mary might have noticed something, but Edith doubted Mamma and Papa had, or would, until it was made plain. She followed the heads of staff with her eyes as they circulated, dancing with the family when appropriate, ensuring that all went smoothly. They always seemed to just know where the other was, as if anchored together by invisible strings…
As she watched the servant's gamely celebrating with the family, it struck her that this was the last gasp of a dying tradition. As Marigold clapped her hands and bounced in her lap, she felt a pang of sadness that this celebration, this breaching of barrier between servants and family, would become moot if the finely honed barriers of class and privilege continued to seep away as they had done since the end of the war.
The wind that blew so fiercely outside the walls of Downton was held at bay by strong walls and windows. Edith didn't fool herself that the winds of change ripping through society were going to be held back with similar efficacy. And where would that leave her?
Where would that leave Marigold?
She dragged her eyes back to her daughter and smiled at her pleasure in the spectacle. Sometimes…sometimes she would wonder still how things might have been different if she'd had the courage to demand an explanation from Sir Anthony Strallen. Sometimes, especially when life knocked her off kilter and she felt detached from her family and the future on which they were concentrating, she would wonder if she would have even been happy, if there could have been a chance that they might have made a life together. But she never strayed too far down that path. Not anymore.
Not with Marigold in her life. As the child yawned and snuggled her head into Edith's shoulder, she held her close and knew that of all the things she had to regret in her life, her child would not be among them. Aunt Rosamund's and Granny's fears aside, Marigold will know that she is much loved by her mother. Not her guardian, but her mother. The painful and humiliating facade of her "ward" would need to continue for a while. But the day would come, and soon, when her claim to Marigold would be one of heart and blood without prevarication.
The opinion of her family and the society in which they swam seemed to mean less and less with each passing day. Losing her ally in Tom made her realize that she didn't really need him, no matter how much she was going to miss him. Let the winds of change blow…however nostalgic it made her, it still couldn't come soon enough for her.
"Are you sleepy, my Marigold?" she whispered in her daughter's ear.
Marigold blinked like a wee owl and put her thumb firmly into her mouth. Edith looked around for the nanny, although she was quite tempted to simply slip away and put her own child to bed, then put herself to bed. George and Sybbie were fussing about something near the dining room, and she suspected that was where Nanny was, trying to keep the peace.
With a sigh, she stood and would have begun to walk towards the sounds of sleepy children vehemently denying they were sleepy if her attention hadn't been arrested by the oddest thing.
Over near the doors that led to the front entrance to the house were gathered Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow, and her father. There were two other figures, well back in the gloom of the entryway. Apparently, there were party crashers at the servant's ball, and she stood where she was, patting Marigold's back softly, watching the scene unfold.
Whoever was at the door had caused no little consternation. She strolled slightly to the side, staying out of the path of the dancers, hoping to see around Carson's bulk. The figures remained shadowed, and their voices were hardly audible from where she was standing. But she didn't need a full view or a good listen to identify the piercing blue eyes that peered miserably into the ballroom, wandering aimlessly until they fell upon her.
Edith's gasp of surprise startled Marigold, who jerked up and let the thumb fall out of her mouth. She clutched the child to her as if the owner of those eyes had come to rip her from her arms. The brilliant blue dulled as he looked to the floor.
He'd brought sudden and unwelcome memories, and that was quite enough. Edith caught the attention of a young housemaid and asked her curtly to take Miss Marigold to the nanny. The housemaid, whose eyes were sparkling with the unaccustomed atmosphere and delight of dancing, didn't linger in spite of her curiosity about the order. She took the child, who was beginning to fuss, and beat a hasty path to the nanny, wondering what could have made Lady Edith sound so very upset.
Edith didn't move from her vantage point, keeping her eyes firmly fixed upon the slumping shape of Sir Anthony Strallan. She had no idea what had brought him to Downton on the night of the Servant's Ball after three years of complete absence from the county. But so long as the raging wind and snow had blown her past through the door, she could not allow this opportunity to pass to put aside and bury the parts that still haunted her on occasion.
As always, she had been captured by his eyes, the sadness in them. This time, though, she would set the boundaries of her captivity.
The bright lights of the ballroom made him squint painfully as his head pounded and his legs trembled under him. He'd felt unsteady from the moment young McEwan, driving the car, had yelled a warning, trying desperately to control the vehicle as it spun off of the road in the blinding snow. They hadn't been going fast, but fast enough for the impact with the fence to rap his head against the window and set his right shoulder on fire.
When his man had hauled him from the car into the frigid night, he told him to leave him and go for help. The chatty Scotsman, who'd only been in his employ for a few months, refused to do so, speaking so quickly in his burr that Anthony could barely understand two words out of every five. The ringing in his head hadn't helped, and his words were slurred as he tried to be more firm with his orders.
Undaunted, McEwan had held him as he bent over and vomited, the ground seeming to rush up at him. He'd wrapped his own coat around Anthony and half carried him back the way they'd come.
"There's lights and such just back around this corner…only a wee distance, Sir Anthony. We'll get there."
Anthony tried to articulate that they should go anywhere but to the estate that loomed in front of them when they'd rounded the corner. Back to the car to freeze would be a better alternative. But the young Scot, who never really seemed to stop talking, hushed him like a nanny and supported more of his weight on his shoulder.
Anthony made it about half way up the drive before losing his footing entirely, bringing his man down as well. McEwan popped back up like a jack-in-box, laughing at the hard tumble into the snowdrifts and reached down to haul Sir Anthony back onto his feet.
"I could carry ye like a babe, Sir Anthony, if ye'd allow it," he chuckled.
Anthony blinked painfully at him, tempted to throw his dignity completely away and allow it. But at McEwan's cheerful coaxing, he stumbled on.
With Sir Anthony staring at the ground, placing each step as carefully as if he was walking on marbles, McEwan allowed his cheerful mask to slip and watched with concern. He'd seen enough head injuries in the war to know they were dangerous and unpredictable. While he wasn't sure why Sir Anthony was so adamant that they not seek help at this estate, he knew it might well be a matter of life or death to do so. His employer needed a doctor and to get in out of the weather, and by God, he would see that he got both. The blood trickling down the side of his own head troubled him not at all.
It seemed an eternity to Anthony before they made their way to the large, familiar front doors of Downton Abbey. The lights streaming from the windows made his eyes dance and vision double, and he shut them, groaning.
"Nearly there, Sir Anthony! Very nearly there!" Staggering under Anthony's weight, McEwan pounded the on the door. "For the love of God, answer the bloody door!"
The tall, dark man who did throw the door open, looking quite annoyed, stared in amazement as a man he'd never seen before pushed him aside to drag the well remembered Sir Anthony into the foyer.
"Give us a hand, then!" the young man snapped before Thomas Barrow could recover from his surprise. Without thinking, he grasped Sir Anthony's right side, making him cry out in pain.
"What in the world is going on out here?" Mr. Carson rumbled angrily. His eyebrows rose alarmingly when he recognized Sir Anthony.
"I couldn't say, Mr. Carson," Thomas said through gritted teeth as he tried to help McEwan maneuver Sir Anthony to a chair.
"We've had an accident and Sir Anthony is badly hurt. Can one of you call for the doctor?" When both Thomas and Mr. Carson just stood and stared, he became a bit testy. "Are ye paid to stand and stare at a man needing a bit of aid? Don't try to tell me a place like this hasna telephone…"
Both Thomas and Mr. Carson bristled, and Thomas was about to respond in kind when Mr. Carson cleared his throat angrily.
"Go and fetch His Lordship," he ordered Thomas. "He needs to know who's arrived on his doorstep."
With a glare towards McEwan and Sir Anthony, Thomas sauntered off to do as he was bid. Passing Mrs. Hughes, who was trying to see what was going on, he smirked and jerked his head towards the front door.
"Unexpected and unwelcome company," he mumbled before she could ask.
She cast a concerned look towards Mr. Carson before bringing her attention back to the ball. Thomas sidled over to Lord Grantham and whispered into his ear. Lord Grantham gave Thomas a skeptical look, then set down his drink and excused himself.
"You must be joking," he said as he strode angrily towards the door.
Thomas rolled his eyes and kept in step behind him, looking forward to watching His Lordship's reaction to the battered and bleeding man, who was blinking and staring around the ballroom as if he'd never seen it before.
"What's the meaning of this, Strallan…?" he demanded as he arrived. But when he got a decent look at Sir Anthony, his eyes widened in shock and he glared at Thomas. "You didn't mention the state of the man when you told me he was here."
Thomas stood impassively, hiding his smirk with the skill of long practice.
"Shall I call for the doctor, M'Lord?" Carson asked. "I don't know if he'll be able to make it through the weather…."
"Yes…yes. Do that, Carson…"
"Finally," McEwan muttered, "a man of decision and charity." Carson glared at him before going straight to the telephone.
"What happened, Strallan?" Lord Grantham demanded.
"I'm so sorry for disturbing you, Lord Grantham," Anthony replied. "I tried to tell my man that we should look elsewhere—"
"T'was the car, M'Lord," McEwan interrupted. "We spun on the blasted ice and hit a fence broadside. Sir Anthony was injured badly. If we'd been going a wee bit faster, we might neither of us made it up here."
Anthony waved his hand at McEwan in a vain attempt to shut him up. McEwan continued on, his brogue getting thicker as he glared towards Thomas.
"And the laddie that answered t'door stood like a bloody wooden soldier until I snapped at him sharpish. I canna ken why anyone wouldn't jump to help a fellow man in need…"
"Enough, McEwan, please," Anthony pleaded. "There's good reason for the surprise. I never thought to darken the door of Downton Abbey again, and I'm sure they never thought they need welcome me again."
"Some welcome," McEwan muttered, busying himself with checking Sir Anthony's head wound and wondering why in heaven's name they were still sat in the foyer.
As his man fussed around him and Lord Grantham stood in quiet consultation with the returned Carson, Anthony peered towards the ballroom watching the gaiety and feeling even more embarrassed at disrupting a party. His eyes traveled over faces familiar and not until they lighted upon a very familiar and haunting face looking towards the group with curiosity.
At Edith's visible shock, he dropped his eyes to the floor and tried to collect himself. He'd had no expectation of seeing her here, assuming that she must have a home and family of her own, regardless of what the rumors and gossip flying as far afield as Europe had said. That assumption was the only thing that had made him allow McEwan to bring him here at all. Had he known…had he thought…he'd have refused to move a step. He'd have let what little will he had to live lie in snow covered heap before appearing before her again.
For all his efforts to fight it, he began to shiver as shock from the accident and the shock of seeing Edith's face overwhelmed him. And the child. She had a child…
McEwan looked fiercely at the Lord Grantham and Carson. "He needs to be settled w' some cold rags for his head," he demanded. "He's going into shock, he is."
"Barrow, Carson, let's get him through to the library," Lord Grantham ordered, fuming inwardly. He couldn't very well cast the man back into the storm….but damned if he knew what they were going to do to get him out as soon as possible. "The doctor will be on the way, and he can rest in there where it's warmer. And darker."
Anthony found that his legs wouldn't hold him at all and had to be more or less carried into the small library. Carson and Thomas had a few words, then Thomas disappeared. Mr. Carson stood at near attention as Lord Grantham stood by awkwardly and watched McEwan get Anthony settled on a sofa.
"Go and see to your own head, McEwan," Anthony ordered as Thomas reappeared with a pan of water and some flannels.
"There's nowt wrong w' my head," McEwan chuckled, as he wrung water from the flannel and placed it gently on the side of Sir Anthony's head. "A wee little bang like that can only improve it." He looked over and nodded his thanks to Thomas for the supplies.
"Well…." Lord Grantham said, clearing his throat, "is there anything else you need right away, Sir Anthony?"
"No thank you, Lord Grantham. I'm sure I won't be troubling your family for very much longer."
"Aye, M'Lord," McEwan agreed cheerfully. "We'll be grand. Yon butler needn't stand over us if he's got better things to be about."
Carson responded to McEwan's grin with a withering glare. "Yon butler," indeed…
"Well then, Carson. I suppose we should return to the party," Lord Grantham said with ill disguised relief. "If you're quite certain…?"
Anthony was quite, quite certain. The less he disrupted the evening, the better he would feel about it. McEwan watched them go as he prepared another flannel and opened his mouth to comment.
"Don't, McEwan!" Anthony ordered sharply, wincing as his head pounded. "Just…don't." At McEwan's surprised expression, he continued more gently: "I've no right to expect a welcome in this house. Lord Grantham has behaved admirably, under the circumstances."
"As you say, Sir Anthony," he replied in a doubtful tone. "They've not cast us out, I'll give them that."
"Gracious of you," Anthony mumbled, making McEwan chuckle again.
They both looked over at the door as it opened again. McEwan, remembering his manners, scrambled to attention and inclined his head.
"M'lady?" he asked. "May I be of assistance?"
Anthony forgot to breathe for a moment as Edith moved gracefully into the room, eyes fixed on his. He shut his eyes, wondering for a moment if he was dreaming all of this…if Edith was haunting his fitful sleep yet again.
"Perhaps you may," she said, smiling at McEwan when he moved protectively closer to Anthony. "Sir Anthony and I are old acquaintances. I'd like to know how the storm blew him back to Downton Abbey."
Anthony opened his eyes at the sound of her voice and they stared at each other. McEwan, for once, was silent, watching the pain and misery tighten Sir Anthony's face. He began to have an inkling of why Sir Anthony had dreaded the welcome he'd receive at Downton Abbey.
"Would you wait in the foyer for the doctor, McEwan?" Anthony gently ordered.
Carson and Mrs. Hughes had made a game attempt to stop her from heading towards the front of the house. While Carson had sputtered and assured her that all was being taken care of and there was nothing going on to trouble herself about, Mrs. Hughes, who knew exactly who had been helped into the small library, gazed at her with a sympathetic and concerned expression, which made far more of an impression on Edith than Carson's attempts to dissuade her.
"It's not right that he be left all alone," Edith informed them firmly as she walked past them towards the foyer.
The heads of staff watched her disappear into the small library, then had an urgent, low voiced chat that resulted in Mrs. Hughes squeezing Mr. Carson's arm through his coat hard enough to make him wince.
Edith walked through the door to the small library with confidence that she didn't truly feel. Resenting that the thought of being in the same room with Anthony Strallan could make her nervous, she determined that being cooly polite would be the best approach to take.
But once Anthony had met her eyes and dismissed his man, she found herself needing to sit down. He was still very much Anthony Strallan - a bit more grey showing in his blond hair and more lines on his face. This was the man who had left her at the altar and disappeared. But it wasn't the same man, really, who gazed at her face as if it were a holy shrine for a moment before his head bowed.
Or perhaps, she wasn't the same woman.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until it was broken by an involuntary moan from Anthony as he tried to adjust himself on the sofa. Edith made as if to rise and help him, but sat back down when his eyes showed a momentary flash of panic.
"I'm so very sorry," he finally said, staring at the carpet.
"For what, exactly?"
He slowly raised his head to look at her in astonishment. She tipped her head to one side and waited as if she was looking forward to an amusing drawing room bon mot.
"For…for…turning up like this, out of the blue," he finally replied. "Dreadfully impolite of me, when I wasn't invited. Car crashes can be rather inconvenient for all concerned."
"Yes. They can," she replied, a flicker of sadness crossing her face.
Anthony looked mortified as he recalled hearing third hand while he was in Italy about the tragic death of the heir. As he tried to marshall his thoughts in order to avoid stepping into any more conversational minefields, Edith let out a long sigh.
"It was a mistake to hope for a conversation with you, Sir Anthony," she said, slowly rising from her chair. "You've been badly injured and you need rest and quiet."
"I'm so very sorry," he blurted again.
"So you've said," she replied with a little smile. "And I don't doubt you."
"You've every right and reason to doubt me."
"I don't doubt that you're sorry…for any number of things. But I rather think that now is not the best time to speak of them."
"Do you want to speak of them?" he asked as she turned to go. She stopped, her back to him.
It was easier when she didn't have to see the pain in his eyes. Any thought she might have had about demanding answers from him fled into the night when he asked his question in the tone of a man wondering when his hanging would be held. She rather thought he might prefer a hanging.
"I thought I did. But now I'm not sure."
She could hear him shift uncomfortably around on the sofa and had to clamp her lips shut to refrain from scolding him, telling him to lie still. She had no right to show him the concern that she was feeling. Her feet seemed to be nailed to the floor.
"Please, can you tell me one thing?" he pleaded in a low voice when she didn't leave. "I have no right to ask…."
"Then perhaps you shouldn't."
"I'm finding that my selfish nature is winning out over my cowardice," he replied.
She glanced over he shoulder and saw something in his eyes that looked like a momentary glimpse of the moon through a cloudy night. Seeing something other than self pity and despair in his expression made her heart twist painfully in her chest.
"What is it?"
"Are you happy?"
She stared at him, unable to respond. He watched her, searching her face, as she took a great shuddering breath, willing himself not to look away in shame, to face the answer.
"I'm…I'm not unhappy," she whispered, realizing as she said it that it was true.
"You have a child, a family—"
"If you were to ask," she interrupted, "I have a ward."
"A ward?"
"Marigold is a child we have taken in and I have assumed responsibility for," she began to explain. But it was clear from the expression on Anthony's face that her words and tone did not carry the conviction of truth. He nodded though, as if he accepted her explanation, the polite fiction that most people pretended to believe.
"I'm not married," she went on, as if further explanations could fill in the hole left by the lie she'd given. "I'm...I am the owner of The Sketch, and I divide my time between Downton and London."
He listened politely, but she could see the thoughts tumbling in his head, sifting through the gossip he must have heard, making connections. Edith was suddenly weary of pretending and dodging judgment. She looked challengingly at him with her head up.
"She's a lovely child," Anthony said thoughtfully.
"She is," Edith replied softly, proudly. "I've loved her from the moment she was first put into my arms."
Anthony shut his eyes tightly, fighting sudden tears. Voices were raised in the foyer with two Scottish burrs competing with Carson's distinctive bass.
"That will be the doctor," Edith said as she glanced at the door.
Anthony nodded and, fearing it might be the last time he would have the opportunity, opened his eyes to look at Edith as if he was memorizing her. She stood silently, withstanding his scrutiny without her usual flush of discomfort. The voices in the foyer grew louder.
"Can you tell me one thing?" she suddenly asked. "I have every right to ask it." To her surprise, he smiled that lopsided, crooked grin that had always infatuated her.
"If I can."
"Did you ever love me? At all?"
The door to the library opened before he could reply. McEwan, followed by Dr. Clarkson, entered chatting amiably. Lord Grantham followed with Carson, to be brought up short when he saw his daughter alone in the library with Anthony Strallan.
"Edith? What in God's name are you doing in here?"
Edith ignored him, and everyone else, as she continued to stare at Anthony. For a moment, she wondered if he would answer at all.
"Yes," he finally replied in a horse voice. "I do."
"Excuse me, Lady Edith," Dr. Clarkson said somewhat impatiently.
She stepped aside and felt her father's hand at her elbow as he tried to lead her away.
"In a moment, Papa," she said, twitching away.
"Welcome back to Yorkshire, Sir Anthony," Dr. Clarkson's voice rang out as he began to asses his patient.
"Welcome back, indeed," young McEwan muttered, casting a curious look at Edith. His efforts to listen at the door hadn't garnered him any information at all. But he could see that Sir Anthony was a great deal calmer.
Lord Grantham finally succeeded in ushering Edith towards the door. She looked back at Anthony, who was resigned to the examination and trying to answer the doctor's questions. He met her eyes for just a second before the door shut between them.
"I'm very sorry, my dear. We tried to keep things quiet, so as not to disturb you. How did you wind up in there?"
"I thought he'd been alone long enough," she murmured. At her father's look of displeasure, she sighed and patted his arm. "Things have changed, Papa."
"Have they?"
"Of course they have."
But as she remembered the last look that Anthony had given her as she left, she wondered what sort of change the winds had blown in that night.
Perhaps it was time for words left unsaid to finally be heard.
A/N - This wasn't quite what I wanted when I started writing and I'm not sure where it came from. But it was good to flex my Andith muscles again with my 40th story. I hope you found it intriguing, if nothing else.