AN/ This story is a joint venture with Chelsie Fan. I wrote and will be posting 'Part One' and she wrote and will be posting 'Part Two' just after. It is the result of a very long PM conversation about Violet's role as a mostly absent mother (which was all she was allowed to be by the strictures of the time, really) and the nature of her relationship with her Lord Grantham (whom we have named). We hope you enjoy it.

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The short version of our kernel of an idea…

Violet Crawley saw her children one hour a day; every day. On their birthdays she visited with them for two hours. On her birthday, she saw them not at all. To produce those children, she lay with her husband five minutes at night; most every night. On his birthday, they made love.


And now...The long version…

A lone man in his late twenties sat at a large table in the Downton Abbey dining room, his meager breakfast was before him. He never ate much at breakfast, usually sticking to toast and coffee. He was a tall man when he was standing. His perfectly parted hair and waxed mustache were chestnut brown and his eyes a rich hazel.

The date at the top of the paper looked familiar; Thursday, August 15th, 1861. Why was that significant? Did August have an Ides? He supposed it must; every month did after all. March just got all the publicity. Still, he could not shake the feeling that there was something peculiar about this day.

"Happy Birthday, Mister Marion."

"Thank you, Sumner." Oh, right. Now he remembered. It was his birthday. It didn't matter which one. He wasn't old, but he wasn't young. He'd been called by his middle name for as long as he could remember. He was still just Mister Marion, not yet Lord Grantham. He was an heir apparent, apparently. Ha, that joke never gets old. It always made Vi smile, at least, and that was good enough in his book.

The absence of anyone else at the table told him that his father was still feeling ill. This was the third day in a row. It was just a small cold, but such illnesses seemed to linger longer now as his father grew older and frailer.

"Lady Violet sent this for you," the placid butler held out a silver tray containing a letter and letter opener.

He set his paper aside and sighed as he opened the letter. He deposited the letter opener back on the tray without another word. The butler melted conveniently back into the furnishings.

Happy birthday, dearest husband,

This is our first year celebrating your birthday together and I want it to be special. I did so love the sapphire earrings you gave me for my 19th birthday and I've gotten something special for you. Would you please meet me in my rooms this afternoon for tea?

Vi

Why did he have to wait for the afternoon?

"Is Lady Violet awake?" Maybe he would pay her an unexpected visit.

"Yes, sir."

"And is she in her rooms?"

"No, sir. I believe she left the house an half hour ago. She said she might take luncheon in the village and we weren't to wait for her."

What the devil was that woman up to? The only things open this early were the post office and the train station. Oh, no, he thought, she's finally invited that awful sister of hers to visit.

"Did she walk or take the carriage?"

"She walked, sir. She said the carriage wasn't necessary."

He breathed with relief. She wasn't picking up anyone at the station then. Marion still didn't understand his young bride. She fascinated him with her mixture of demure propriety and almost devilish wit, but he didn't understand her.

Vi still wasn't back by luncheon. Marion ate a quiet meal with his mother and wondered what his enigmatic wife had in store for him come tea time. There was no mention of his birthday from his mother, but she did smile at him and pat his hand when she passed him, which did not happen every day. Their family did not observe birthdays. His father didn't believe in celebrating such sentimentality as birthdays. His father barely tolerated Christmas.

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He knocked on the door to her room. He always knocked; whether he was coming from the main hallway or from the more private door that led to his own rooms.

"Come." Her voice sounded far away.

He was surprised that she was not in her room when he entered.

"Vi?"

There was no answer. That was when he saw the cart with a tiny cake with a candle burning. He hadn't had a birthday cake since Nanny left when he was seven years old.

Marion approached the cart and saw the note. 'Make a wish.'

There was no signature, but none was needed. He recognized the flourishes as hers and no one else's. Feeling foolish, he closed his eyes, made a wish and blew. He wished that he could show her how very much he loved her and how much he desired her.

It was a hopeless wish; it wasn't proper to treat a dignified and honorable woman like Violet Crawley as an object of desire. She wasn't like the woman for hire his father had taken him to the Season after he turned fifteen. Vi was his wife. Hopefully, she would someday be the mother of his children. She would be a countess. She was due respect. She was not to be tainted by such base things as lust.

He'd given into lust on their wedding night. He'd forgotten himself and had kissed her as they lay together. It had felt wonderful, but then she had cried out in pain and there had been blood; not much, but enough to make him wary of getting carried away ever again.

Why was he having these thoughts? Just because they were in her bedroom in the middle of the afternoon didn't mean…

"You can open your eyes, dear."

If she'd given him a hundred wishes, he would never have dared to wish for what stood before him. His beautiful young wife was in the doorway of her bathroom wearing absolutely nothing but her nightgown and a robe. The night gown was of virginal white. The high collar was made of intricate lace that was practically see through. The robe was sheer and sleeveless but the long sleeves of the gown were shiny like satin, inviting him to touch her. Her perfect toes poked teasingly from beneath the hem of the night gown. The belt of the robe was tied high up on her waist, immediately below her bosom, accentuating those assets.

He had never seen her in such a state of undress. For God's sake, he could see her toes! He was not surprised to see that they were perfect toes.

It was indecent, he knew, but he stared openly at her. Oh, how amazing she looked. In their dutiful pursuit of producing an heir, Marion visited her bed briefly every night, except for five or six days each month when nature informed them that they had failed once again. Sometimes he could hear her crying through the door to his rooms. In those moments he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to hold her and tell her the failure was his, but he had not been invited and a gentleman never visited a lady's room uninvited. Even if that lady was his wife.

Seeing her now, he felt a surge of lust followed by shame. It was not right to think of her like that.

"Do you like it?" She looked unsure and frightened by his silence.

"It's lovely, Vi." He stammered. "You're lovely."

This seemed to give her confidence and make her bold.

"I thought a man should feel like a man on his birthday."

Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

"Now?"

"You can stay the whole afternoon if you like, or longer. They aren't expecting us for dinner. We can do whatever you like for as long as you like."

"Would you like some tea?" Was his answer. He could have kicked himself, but this was all very new to him. He sat down in one of the chairs beside the cart and began to pour.

She huffed in apparent exasperation, but joined him. "Would you like some cake?" She asked.

"That would be lovely," he answered. God, man! Stop saying lovely! He chastised himself. "There doesn't seem to be any plates or forks."

"We don't need them." Like something from a dream, his wife dipped two fingers into the cake and picked up a small bite. She pressed the sweet morsel against his lips briefly before he had the presence of mind to open his mouth. Her fingers slipped over his lips and into his mouth. Instinctively, he sucked the cake from her fingers and swallowed. Her fingers lingered until she drew them out slowly, tickling his lips wetly as she did so.

"Would you like some more?" Her tone was low and smoky. He was so transfixed by her that he couldn't move. She smiled that devilish smile of hers and reached for more cake. This time he opened his mouth at once and leaned in, but she changed her mind and ate that bite herself. The way she savored the cake and licked her fingers caused him to emit a small mewling noise. His mouth was slack and open.

Taking pity on him, she fed him again. She was looking fervently into his eyes but the sensations were so delicious, he closed his eyes to focus on her touch.

"What did you wish for?"

"I can't tell you," he answered hoarsely. Her fingers were still on his lips. "Or it won't come true."

"If you don't tell me, I can't make it come true," she teased. Her fingers were on his neck now, resting on his high collar. "I want to make you feel wonderful, my dear."

"Is this my birthday present?"

She nodded. "Don't you want to unwrap me?"

"You mean…" They had never been absolutely naked in each other's company. They'd only exposed the parts they needed in order to copulate and only under the cover of her bed sheets. Anything more was excessive and improper.

He couldn't believe this was happening. In his mind, his wife was a chaste and delicate flower. This woman was a wanton and voluptuous animal. Could his Vi be both?

The prostitute his father had hired to teach him the basics of sex had let Marion see her fully, had shown him how to touch her, but he hadn't wanted to. That woman had been unclean. Now, all the things that had seemed disgusting when that dirty whore had offered sprang to his mind. Suddenly, he wanted to try something new. They wouldn't be disgusting with his wife, they couldn't be; Vi was clean and pure. It was a conundrum. He wanted to explore the world of licentious carnal behavior with his angel of a wife but his acts of depravity would corrupt her. What was a man to do?

"Don't you want…?" She looked hurt and confused.

"Would you excuse me?" Marion all but ran to his dressing room.

TBC…


AN/ Intrigued, confused, bored? Let me know...

Cover Image props to slippingandsliding tumblr