A/N STOP RIGHT THERE! If you haven't read Chelsie Dagger's "Happy Birthday, Baby: Part One," you'll need to do that before reading this. Otherwise, this won't make much sense, and you'll have missed out on a great piece of work. However, I'm guessing that most of you are coming here directly from there, any way, so it probably is not an issue.

This is my portion of our young Violet Crawley story, from Violet's point of view. It picks up a few years after the place where CD's last chapter left off, but I've tried to fill in the blanks. Hope you enjoy!

Oh. Also, the cover image of a young Maggie Smith is from .

Happy Birthday, Baby: Part Two

August 15, 1865

"Will there be anything else, my lady?" asked Jennings as she set the tray down.

"Fetch me my stationery and a pen, Jennings. I wish to write a note to Mister Marion," answered Violet.

"Very good, my lady." The lady's maid obtained the requested items from her mistress's desk, returned with them momentarily, and set them on the tray. "Will that be all, then?"

"For now. You may collect the tray and the note in twenty minutes."

Jennings nodded deferentially and left.

As Violet ate her breakfast on a tray in her bedroom, she pondered everything that had happened in the last five years. She faced the events with her characteristic strength and stoic acceptance. She seldom spoke of the affairs of the heart, but she knew all too well the pain when it was broken. In the space of five years, she'd fallen in love, married, borne a healthy daughter, and lost two sons. One son had stopped breathing an hour after he was born, and the other had never breathed at all, having died in her womb after developing just far enough in her womb to show evidence that he had indeed been a boy.

She felt keenly her responsibility to produce a living, healthy heir. She'd failed thus far to fulfill her purpose as a wife and future countess. But she was young still, and Violet Crawley was nothing if not determined. She would yet provide her husband with a strapping young son to inherit his father's title.

She loved her daughter dearly, and she showed her affection for her little girl as much as was seemly for a woman in her position. But the loss of her sons wounded her deeply. She mourned them not only as a noblewoman who had lost an heir, but as a mother who had lost her children. To lose an heir was regrettable; to lose a child was heart-rending. She never displayed her grief at all, outwardly. Oh, she wept in the privacy of her rooms over the loss of her boys, one buried, nameless, in the children's cemetery, and the other ... Well, she'd never asked after the disposition of his remains; she preferred not to know. But to all outward appearances, she was the picture of steadfast calm.

Even from her husband, she hid her emotions. She'd been in love with him before they married, and since then, she'd only fallen more hopelessly under his spell. But she'd never told him how she felt. She wondered if perhaps he might know, or if he cared. He'd never told her how he felt, either. He was a good husband, kind and devoted. She thought she might not have survived her pregnancies and the losses of their children without his tender care; she drew her strength from his constancy. He was true to her; of that, she was sure. He might not be in love with her as she was with him, but Violet Crawley would never tolerate her husband's taking a mistress. Fortunately, he'd never shown even the slightest interest in bedding another woman. Unfortunately, he'd shown only the slightest interest in bedding his own wife. This interest was shown exactly once a year, and it always occurred at Violet's prompting.

When she'd finished eating, she composed a short note to her husband. Jennings came to clear the tray, and Violet asked her to deliver the note to Marion. It was his birthday again, and her annual note inviting him to her rooms to celebrate had become a special tradition, even in the most difficult times. Sometimes Violet thought that it was this one day a year that sustained her through the other three hundred and sixty-four. This was the fifth such day since their marriage, and she intended to make it even more special than the others.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Later that evening…

Violet lay in bed, on her back, naked, with the sheet drawn up to her neck, waiting for Marion. After nearly five years of marriage, they still hadn't seen each other fully in the nude. (She'd caught a glimpse of his backside once; his nightshirt had been twisted around his hips as he'd climbed out of bed one night, and she'd been treated to a lovely view of his round, white bottom in the moonlight. But that was the most intimate sight of him she'd ever been fortunate enough to enjoy.) Other than those few nights out of every month when she was indisposed, every night was the same: he came to her, did his duty, under the covers and fully clothed, and then returned to his own rooms. She knew he was only doing what was expected of him, as a husband and as a lord. It was marital duty to have relations with his wife, and it was his patriotic duty to produce an heir.

When they were first married, his nightly visits took no more than five minutes: he arrived, slid into bed with her, did what was necessary, and left her to herself. But gradually, their nighttime ritual became more involved and began to take longer. The actual coupling still never took longer than five minutes, but after a time, the preliminaries and the postlude had become quite elaborate. Over the course of time, he must have learned that certain things might be uncomfortable or unpleasant for her, and he apparently sought to minimize or eliminate those things. She appreciated the efforts he undertook on her behalf. He never spoke these things; he just did them. She was well aware he was just being courteous, but his concern and thoughtfulness only made her love him more.

Now, when he arrived in her room at night, in order to preserve her modesty, he blew out his candle and turned down the oil lamp on her bedside table. In the dark, he drew back the covers just enough to slide up the hem of her nightgown and place an extra sheet under her bottom, folded in quarters, so that her bedclothes wouldn't become soiled from their lovemaking. He arranged an extra pillow under her head and back to make her more comfortable. Then he pulled the sheet and blankets back up to her shoulders. Finally, he took off his dressing gown, climbed under the covers with her, pulled up the tails of his nightshirt, and carried out his responsibility efficiently.

Afterward, he pulled his nightshirt back down, donned his dressing gown, turned up the wick in the lamp just enough to see, and rose from the bed. He went over to her dresser, poured some water from her pitcher over a soft cloth, let the excess drain into the wash basin, and sprinkled a bit of fragrance from her dressing table on the wet cloth. Next, he returned to the bed, turned down the lamp again, sat down next to her, slipped his hands under the covers, and washed her, gently but thoroughly, cleaning away the residue from their lovemaking. Then he removed the soiled extra sheet from underneath her and set it aside with the wet cloth. Finally, he drew her nightgown back down over her legs, settled her back on her pillows, covered her back up, kissed her sweetly on the cheek, and left her to herself. On many of those nights, she cried herself to sleep, in her large, cold bed, on a pillow wet from lonely tears.

But once a year on his birthday, he came to her bedroom to stay the night. And on those nights, more than ever, she wished he would stay every night, and she wished he were doing more than just his duty.

After the first time they made love in the nude, on his birthday four years ago, shortly after they were married, she made it her practice to encourage him to undress her on his birthdays, as a special treat. But it was always under cover of darkness, and it was always underneath the sheets and blankets. He would arrive in her room, place his candle on her nightstand, blow it out, and turn down the oil lamp, too. Then he would place an extra sheet at the bottom of the bed, doff his gown, and crawl under the covers next to her. He would reach down to grasp the hem of her nightgown and slip it slowly up over her legs. When he got to her thighs, she would arch her back and lift her buttocks so he could slide it over her midsection. Finally, she would sit up slightly, and he would draw the garment over her upper body and head. Then he would place the extra sheet under her bottom and remove his nightshirt. After that, he would begin his seduction in earnest. This seduction was unintentional, of course. She was certain he had no idea how much she enjoyed the things he did to her with his fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth. It was her intent to seduce him, and she hoped she succeeded. She imagined he must be doing those things because he enjoyed them, but his actions greatly pleased her as well. After what seemed like hours of his driving her mad, teasing her – touching, tickling, kissing, licking, nipping, and suckling every part of her body except for those that most ached for his attention – he finally positioned himself above her and joined himself to her. At that point, it didn't take very long for either of them to achieve fulfillment.

It was only on these annual occasions, when they indulged in more than just the mechanical aspects of the marital act, that she was fully satisfied. A few times before, on typical nights, she'd tried to prepare herself for him before he'd arrived. She'd thought of him and what he'd done to her on his previous birthdays; she'd run her hands timidly over her own body, pretending they were his. But her attempts had never had the desired effect. No matter how ready she'd thought she'd been, he'd always arrived, gone about his business as usual, and just as she'd thought she might be nearing that elusive, ephemeral bliss, he'd finished and withdrawn, leaving her sorely disappointed. Once a year, however, on these special occasions, when he spent so much time and effort worshipping her body, she was more than ready for him and attained that ecstasy practically as soon as their union occurred.

But tonight … Tonight would be especially special. She intended for him to see all of her, and she intended to see him in all his glory. She was already naked, and she had plans to divest him of his night clothes in short order, too. She couldn't bear the thought of his climbing into bed next to her and struggling awkwardly to remove her nightgown and his own nightshirt, in the dark, under the bed covers, while both of them pretended they didn't want to look. Violet Crawley approached this act of seduction with her trademark practicality.

A soft knock at her door alerted her to her husband's arrival.

"Darling? Are you decent?" came his voice through the door.

"You shall have to come in and see for yourself," she invited him playfully.

The door opened slowly, and Marion peered around it cautiously.

"Vi?" he called out, confusion evident in his voice and his face. His bewilderment turned to apparent panic when he saw her nightgown already pooled on the floor at the side of her bed. He croaked out a weak, "Violet!"

"Yes, dear? What is it?"

"You … Are you … naked?"

"So it would seem."

On hearing her daring words, he dropped the sheet he was holding and barely held onto his candle. When he bent to retrieve the sheet with one hand, Violet noticed that the candle in his other hand trembled violently. It thrilled her to know that she could have such an effect on her husband by doing so little. Marion set his candle on the nightstand and blew it out. When he started to turn down the wick in the lamp, she protested: "No. Leave it, please." He obeyed, wordlessly, and set the sheet at the foot of the bed. Then he walked to the other side of the bed, discarded his robe, drew back the sheet, and slid underneath. For a long moment, he just lay on his side, staring at her with a look that seemed both eager and frightened. Violet supposed she would always have to take the lead with Marion in these intimate matters, and so she did just that.

TBC... tomorrow! Thank you for reading this first chapter. Please stick with me for the rest. And if you'd be so kind as to leave a review, you'd make me very happy.