A/N: These were originally posted on the Downton Abbey Forums (see link on my profile), but I thought it would be nice to collect them together and share them here! I like some of these more than others, but they were great for getting me out of my writing comfort zone and writing about other characters. Hope you enjoy them, whether for a first or second time.
1. Mary/Matthew, Italy
2. Gwen, typewriter
3. Kemal Pamuk, an English hunt
4. Edith/Patrick, secrets
5. Crawley family, Greek gods/esses [the Olympians]
6. Molesley, O'Brien, "You need better friends"
7. Old Mr. Molesley, herb garden
8. Mary, pregnancy, Pamuk
9. William and Carson, learning the trade
Mary/Matthew, Italy
When Mary used to think about Italy she thought about literature and the romance of the past. She thought about Ovid, who wrote the wonderful Metamorphoses, tales of heroism and love and transformation. She thought about George Eliot, who sent two characters to Italy for whom the experience changed their lives: Deronda who left not knowing his parents or his race and returned with a family, and Dorothea who left a bride and returned in love with her husband's cousin.
Now she realises that romance does not just happen to other people. She turns away from the window and the view of Florence and smiles at the man behind her.
Now when she thinks about Italy she thinks about her husband.
Gwen, typewriter
When Gwen first got her typewriter, she did not think anything could be so beautiful or perfect. The keys shone, the ribbon fitted perfectly, and the sound of the keys clicking together as she typed filled her with feelings of awe, hope and pride. Sometimes in the servants' hall they played a game, saying what one possession they would rescue in the case of a fire. Gwen always said something silly, but privately she thought of the box hidden in her room
When her secret came out, the typewriter lost some of its power. She still loved it but she had new hopes and dreams now, bigger ones. Lady Sybil thought they could become reality. Maybe they could.
After this the typewriter ceased to be magic. It was a means to an end.
Kemal Pamuk, an English hunt
How strange the English fascination with blood sports when they are so sophisticated a country in other respects!
Kemal Pamuk wondered at this inconsistency and longed to experience it himself. He could understand the thrill of the chase easily enough, the complex relationship of pursuer and pursued, and the excitement of being in at the kill.
The pounding, the rush, the anticipation. Then, when the creature is finally caught and subdued, the heart-stopping moment of truth. The first gush of fresh blood as the beast sinks in. A moment later and the victim lies, quivering and limp, and the hunter finishes it off with a sharp, sharp stab. Then - a little death for both, perhaps.
The moment has come. Blood pounding in his veins, his eagerness rising, he pauses - just a second. Then, with a smile, he silently opens Lady Mary's door.
Edith/Patrick, secrets
It did not matter how hard she practised, Edith could not master the waltz. She knew perfectly well that it was simple, that her feet moved one after the other but somehow the feet themselves did not understand this and she was constantly getting muddled.
They were to depart for London in only a week with her presentation coming not long afterwards and after the presentation - her ball. Edith blinked back tears as she danced up and down the gallery hour after hour her arms open for a non-existent partner. What was the point of being a debutante if one could not dance?
Suddenly, her arms were no longer empty and she felt herself staring open-mouthed into the warm brown eyes of Cousin Patrick. His right hand lay flat and firm on her back and he grabbed her hand in his left. He pulled her round the room and somehow with him pushing her in the right directions, she found that she was dancing.
After they had gone all the way up the gallery and back down again, he slowed them to a stop and let go of her hands. She found that she felt dizzy from more than the spinning. She stared up at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He smiled gently back.
Then a horrible thought occurred to her.
"You'll tell Mary you found me here."
He smiled again. "No, I won't."
Edith was lost.
Crawley family, Greek gods/esses [the Olympians]
When Lady Rosamund decided that her 1914 themed party should be "The Olympians" everyone got excited. Cora went as Juno of course, nobody doubted that, but there were raised eyebrows when Robert refused the mantle of Jupiter and instead donned a discreet pair of winged shoes and a caduceus and came as the messenger god.
Mary dithered between Minerva and Venus, wondering which would appeal more to Matthew, but she took too long over her choice. Edith, in a rare display of public initiative, snatched Venus, and Sybil lay claim to Minerva. Mary was forced to go as Diana, virgin goddess of the hunt, and hope that nobody came as Acteon.
Matthew turned up late with a fake sword and a very fake pair of wings on his sandals, looked slyly at Mary and hoped nobody minded that he had come as a demi-god.
Molesley, O'Brien, "You need better friends"
O'Brien did not like Molesley especially, though she really had nothing in particular against him. She disliked Bates more, however. So it was that one day when she heard Molesley praising Bates' generosity, circumspection and saying how he was a very fine chap all in all, she snorted. "What's 'e ever done for you then?"
Molesley looked surprised at her even talking to him. "He warned me off Anna. Apparently someone else is interested. I'm grateful for that - I could have really liked her."
Could a man get any stupider? "Use yer eyes. The only person interested in 'er is Bates 'imself, and if you knew what I knew about 'im you wouldn't think he was such a bleedin' saint. You ask Vera – she'd tell you a thing or two if you wanted to listen."
Vera had little to recommend her on the surface. Molesley looked at O'Brien coldly. "Bates is a good chap for all that. You need better friends."
She shrugged. "Could say the same about you."
Old Mr. Molesley, herb garden
Mr. Moseley's beautiful garden meant to different things to different people from Downton as they walked past it.
To the proud, its success was a challenge to be beaten, every tall shoot or blossoming flower a sign of superiority needing to be crushed.
To the clever ones (the kind who knew their Voltaire), it was a symbol of life - of the hard work needed to achieve and the rewards which might come from acceptance of one's lot. The growth and the journey from seed to adult plant was what was most important, no matter how imperfect the result.
To the romantics, the flowers had meaning - lilacs for first love, lilies for purity, and all kinds of roses for all kinds of new feelings.
Old Mr. Molesley loved his plants and was very proud of everything he had achieved. But sometimes a garden was just a garden.
Mary, pregnancy, Pamuk
"Wait a moment."
Mary turned reluctantly back to her mother. She could not imagine she would like anything she would say and she desperately needed to return to her own room and cry some more. "What else?"
The countess had kept it very cool all through this most awkward of interviews. Only now did she display more concern. "Mary... there's one other thing. We must make certain that there has been no more lasting effect for you from this unfortunate encounter."
It took her a moment to understand and then she blanched and trembled. She had not once thought of it. "He said- he said I would be a virgin for my-"
She trailed off at her mother's exasperated expression, feeling tears prick once again. "He lied?" she whispered.
Cora sighed. "We can't be sure."
Mary sat back down on the bed, even more horrifying thoughts pouring over her. Ruin ruin ruin. The words repeated themselves over and over again in her mind. "How will I know?"
Her mother told her quite simply. Mary had had no idea.
A week later, she had never been so glad to be indisposed.
William and Carson, learning the trade
William stopped playing abruptly as he became aware of a presence behind him. He turned and saw Mr. Carson watching him with an expression that was not quite disapproval.
"Sorry!" he cried quickly. "I should be-"
Carson waved it away. "No, no, it's your evening off. Don't let me stop you."
"No, sir!"
But William could not quite continue to play, not with the butler still watching him. He turned back again and continued with a mixture of deference and curiosity, "I suppose - I suppose it must bring back memories!"
After all, it was not like they hadn't all wondered!
Carson was silent for just long enough for William to open his mouth to apologise again for having gone too far, when he said, "I suppose it does, some memories."
This was further than anyone else had got with him. William wondered what Daisy would say if he was able to tell her the secret of Carson's past life, discovered all by himself! He turned more fully towards him on the piano stool.
"Did you ever play, sir?"
"Oh, no. I never played."
Now William could identify the expression on his face. It was wistfulness and it made him burst out, "I could teach you, if you liked!"
Then the other recollected himself and coughed sharply. "No, William, I do not think that would be suitable!"
William looked down. "No, Mr. Carson. Of course not."
He watched the butler leave, saying something proudly about needing to see Mrs. Hughes, and then he shrugged, returning to his playing with a more confident air. It was a nice feeling, knowing more than Mr. Carson.