"Shouldn't you be asking why I did it, rather than how could I, Mr. Napier?" Edith scoffs over the rim of the delicate china mug and takes an even more delicate sip. "I quite assure you, I've heard it all before."
Papa, Mama, cousin Matthew, Granny…they've all turned against her for the ruin of the family name, the ruin of their darling Mary, but what of the ruin of her? What of the ruin of that curly haired little girl with her delicate sensibilities who liked to dance and sing, but liked nothing better than a kiss from her Mama? The little girl whose spirit Mary crushed out of spite or simple boredom, because she liked nothing more than to tease her little sister with the ruthlessness of a cat playing with a terrified mouse. At least Mary had been married when her lies had come crashing down around her – her lies, and Edith often thinks Mary has forgotten her own part in her shame – at least she was loved by a man far too good for her. Edith had no one, has no one, and never will. It's the way it always has been, really.
Sybil is the only one who visits her now in the house in Scotland they've hidden her in. She'd hoped Sir Anthony would come, once upon a time, but Edith hasn't seen him since the garden party so long ago. The thought of him makes her sad even now, and reminds her she regrets nothing she's done, not one bit of it. But it's Mama that hurts the most. She stood by Mary of course, as she always has and always will, and Edith hadn't begrudged her that, even as her mother had stared her coldly in the face and sent her here and away from society; but to not visit her daughter, no matter what she's done…
Her hand shakes as she places the tea cup carefully in its saucer. She prays Mr. Napier hasn't noticed, but his eyes tell her he has. He softens slightly at her weakness, the weakness she's tried so hard not to let anybody see.
"Why did you do it, Lady Edith?" he asks.
His voice is so much kinder than before, kind and warm and willing to listen now; even Sybil isn't interested in Edith's side of the story, for all of her charm and good grace. But Mr. Napier has always been a terribly good listener, and a terribly good person, and if Edith had needed one more reason to ruin her sister than the multitude she had already had, tossing aside this man for a conceited, lascivious foreigner would have been it.
She shrugs and sits as straight as she can manage, regal and proud, like a Queen imprisoned. She's a prisoner of war, a battle Mary has won, and now she sits in this house and rots. Edith's read her history books and the similarities are striking, though she is Mary's sister and not her cousin. But she and Mary have always been at war, for as long as she can remember, and it was inevitable it would end in tears, or exile. Her exile.
At least Elizabeth Tudor had the good grace to put her relative out of her misery.
She smiles, without warmth, but there is a sadness in her eyes that belies the ice in her voice. "Perhaps I'm just a wicked person."
"I don't believe that to be true."
The words startle her and for a moment, just a moment, she is stripped bare of all of the bitterness, all of the pain, and vulnerable before his eyes. Edith has almost convinced herself of her wickedness, convinced all but God and now the man sitting opposite her. Her eyes burn with the tears she hasn't let fall, not once in the three years she's been here living in disgrace.
Mr. Napier smiles at her silence, but there's no derision in his smile, no doubt or ill-disguised dislike; there's even no pity – the one thing Edith hates more than the revulsion she's seen so many times before. He clasps his hands together and stands, even as Edith continues to sit in a half-dazed stupor.
"I'll come back in a fortnight. Good day, Lady Edith."
He comes back in exactly a fortnight, clutching a book of poems and a bag of sweets, and never mentions Mary again.