This story is really, really, loosely based on Cyrano de Bergerac: in fact 'inspired by' would be more accurate. There's going to be lots of angst, but no tragedy. The anonymous letters start in this chapter.
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Her head was too full of Sir Anthony Strallan. He was thoughtful, intense, and had the soul of a poet. He spoke so beautifully. And his eyes…
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She had been thinking about his eyes the next morning when Mary had brought up the incident with the Champagne glass.
"Trust Edith to make a scene to attract attention, only to succeed in attracting the attentions of old Anthony Strallan!"
"He's not old!" Edith had protested immediately.
"He's forty if he's a day, little sister, which makes him old – twice your age."
Edith thought it significant that she hadn't even noticed that Anthony was that much older than her until Mary had pointed it out. Even after she had, it didn't matter to Edith. In fact, it may well have added to Anthony's attractiveness. He was steady and dependable, not given to the sorts of silly games Mary goaded her into just so she could win those games and rub Edith's nose in her defeat. Anthony was above all that, and, ridiculous as it sounded – she'd only met him once – Edith loved him for it, and, oh, for so much more than that.
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My dearest, darling Edith,
You must never again believe you are unloved or, worse still, that you are unlovable, because this is patently untrue. My feelings for you disprove it. I may not be the handsome prince of your dreams; I know I am not the most eligible man in Yorkshire, but I will adore you for the rest of my life with all that I am. Since we met at the Callendar Becketts' Ball my heart has been full of love for you. My sanity has been taken hostage by your smiles and now I can think of nothing else. I dream of how delicious it felt to have you in my arms. I am blinded by the memory of your lovely eyes as one is when one has looked at the sun for too long.
I don't know when I might see you again and that is agony for me. But I must endure it as I would endure all the fires of hell for you, if I could bask in just one more of your bewitching smiles.
And if I, unworthy fool that I am, can love you as deliriously as this, then it is certain that other men, younger men, better men than me will do too. Never allow anyone to convince you otherwise.
I love you.
Your loving admirer
. . . .
The letter was rather short and not particularly well crafted, but it was the best he could do while bearing the burden of twenty years' frustration suddenly bursting out of him.
He had finally found her: his soul mate, his one true love, his Edith.
He hadn't slept that night after the ball but paced his library and then after dawn he'd marched the grounds restlessly trying to settle his feelings. But they would not be settled or controlled. He'd fallen in love, so hard, so far, and so fast that he felt he might run mad. He wanted to see her again so desperately. He wanted to tell her what she had done to him. He longed to kiss her.
And yet…
He was twice her age. If she felt anything for him at all, it would only be a young woman's crush for a father-figure, surely. It would be immoral of him to take advantage of her inexperience and trap her in a liaison she would surely regret; regret soon and bitterly. That was, of course, if she didn't just laugh at him. After all, he was making an ass of himself: the classic besotted old fool.
And yet…
She'd hugged him. The way she'd looked at him! His heart stopped each time he recalled it. If there was any hope that he might be able to make her happy, he would gladly dedicate his life to that. He wanted to have her in his arms for the rest of his days.
And yet…
She's a young girl, lovely but impetuous. Hugs mean less at that age. She probably meant it as a 'thank you' for the pep talk. Yes, the pep talk…she mustn't be allowed to think that she was unloved or unlovable. Because if he loved her, then it was logical to deduce that others would love her too, now and in the future.
So he had written that letter hoping…what? That she might be intrigued? That the exercise might purge his feelings of desperation and give him some peace? He didn't know, and didn't care to examine it too closely. But when he put the letter in the post tray, he also placed there a note to Lord Grantham requesting an interview to discuss the broken wall on the boundary between their estates.
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Robert opened Anthony's letter at breakfast and placed it on the pile of business communications to deal with today. Edith was reading her post unusually quietly.
"Something interesting?" asked Mary in her arch way.
"News from a friend; nothing to interest you" Edith lied and escaped to her bedroom to read the letter properly without interruption. She was weeping by the time she finished it the first time, and giggling with heady joy through the tears after the third reading.
The style of the letter was so similar to Sir Anthony's words about the Evening Star in the garden at the ball. Her heart was bursting with happiness. Could she really inspire love in someone as handsome, kind, and as wise and respectable as him?
Suddenly she was hit by a sudden cold thought: Archie had said that he would write to her. What if this letter was from Archie and not from Sir Anthony? She knew deep down that if that was the case she would be disappointed, but the letter was still beautiful. The man who wrote it had a lovely sweetness about him shining through his words. The letter was anonymous. That meant that the author would have to declare himself, write again, or let the whole thing drop. There was nothing she could do in the meantime, except hope and pray.
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The day after Anthony drove himself over to Downton. Grantham had asked him to come over around eleven o'clock for coffee and to discuss the broken wall. Anthony felt like a schoolboy on the first day at a new school. Dealing with Grantham wouldn't be a problem. The wall was undoubtedly Robert's, and so the cost of repairing it should be borne by him alone. But Anthony wanted to be in Robert's good books just in case Edith…he quickly stopped that thought in case he tempted Fate to curse him. In any case, Anthony was happy to foot half the bill if that would help get the wall fixed quickly before he lost more livestock through the gap. What he was nervous and excited about was seeing Edith…or even worse, not seeing Edith. She may not be at Downton at all. She might be visiting relatives or, god forbid, that Archibald Campbell. He needn't have worried, because Edith was in the library, reading, when Carson announced Anthony to Robert.
"Good morning, Strallan."
"Good morning, Lord Grantham, Lady Edith. I trust I find you both well?"
"Very well, thank you, Sir Anthony. Did I see that you had driven yourself over?" she enquired politely.
"Yes. Motoring is my new hobby."
"What kind of car is it?"
"It's an open Rolls-Royce. Would you care to see it before I leave?"
"I'm sure Sir Anthony has better things to do than show you his car, Edith" said Robert, anxious to get this wall affair settled and over with, and half expecting Edith to embarrass herself, and therefore him, in some awkward way.
"No trouble at all. I'll ask for you when your father and I have finished."
"Thank you, Sir Anthony." She gave him that breathless, shy little smile again, and he felt his heart somersault. Then she took her book and left.
"Right then, about this wall…" Robert lost no time in getting down to business.
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"It's beautiful! What's the top speed?"
It was such an unusual question from a lady that Anthony couldn't think for a moment.
"Um…76 mph, but of course I haven't driven her that fast."
"Why ever not?"
"It wouldn't be safe on a public road, Lady Edith."
"But jolly exciting, I imagine."
Anthony laughed. She really was the most amazing woman. He smiled at her in admiration as she continued to look the car over.
"Would you like to go out for a spin in her?"
"Really? Would you really take me out for a drive?"
"It would be my pleasure. But do ask your father's permission, and wrap up warm!" he called after her as she scampered in to get her coat.
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My dearest, darling Edith,
If I thought I loved you before, I was wrong. There was so much further for me to fall! Your beauty is like an ocean of deepest blue, and deeper still are the reefs of your loveliness towards which my heart has been drawn on a tide of longing. Your heart harbours treasures and secrets undreamed of. You are a gorgeous undiscovered cove full of pearls and strange, sweet mysteries where I would happily live and die. You are a mermaid's song luring my unwary heart to my doom. And yet my doom is also my greatest joy: to love and serve you forever.
You are divine: Venus, the queen of love, who rose from the waves, never stepped from her shell as gracefully as you, beloved Edith, step into a car and glide through prosaic Yorkshire.
But I am under no illusion. Sometimes, bemused by the wonder of a golden evening, the hedgerows full of lilac and rose, and under the silver moon, I dream of you happy to be on my arm. I smile at the happiness that is so improbable, so impossible. My heart lifts. Then I remember my age and my dreams blow away on the wind to the sea.
I love you.
Your loving admirer
. . . .
Dear Lady Edith
At Lady Calendar Becket's Ball, you wer kind enough to offer me tea at Downton, and I woud like to except you're offer. Let me kno when it might be good for me to call.
Yours
Archibald Campbell
. . . .
Edith received two very different letters in the post the next day. She didn't open either until she was safely in her own room away from Mary and her prying eyes. The first was in the hand that she had come to know well and love more from reading the first letter over and over again. The second was in a completely different hand, and an utterly different style which was businesslike almost to the point of being brutish. Campbell couldn't even spell!
The other letter…she couldn't read it without becoming breathless. Oh, he was marvellous! And he made her feel so loved, so worthy of being loved. His words made her feel like a woman, not some silly, clumsy girl dropping china and embarrassing her parents in society by saying the wrong thing. She longed to hear him whisper words like that to her in his own voice. More than anything, she wanted him to embrace her again, as he had in the Callendar Becketts' garden. Edith was even surer now that her mystery letter-writer must be Sir Anthony Strallan and that gave her such a powerful tingling sensation all over her body that she was sure it was obvious, that people could see it when they looked at her.
Nevertheless, to be polite, she had to invite Archie Campbell to tea, so she chose a day later in the week, hoping that he wouldn't be able to make it at such short notice, and replied to his note.
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Anthony sat in his library staring into his tea, idly watching the milk mix with the brown liquid. The drive in the Rolls had been…beyond wonderful. He'd felt favoured and excited, young and strong. Edith had made him feel he was interesting and witty. He had made her laugh with his jokes, and squeal with joy at rushing down Locksley Hill at a rather daring forty miles per hour (even though he'd made sure it was quite safe). She trusted him and made him feel as though she relied on him to protect her, which was quite absurd since all he was doing was driving. She had asked him about himself: his reading habits, what poets he liked, the music he preferred, where he went to school. She was actually interested in him. She'd even asked about Maud, for heaven's sake.
He'd crossed the Rubicon now. He couldn't hide behind the façade that he was just trying to boost Edith's failing confidence. He had gone beyond that when he'd written and posted the second love letter. Anyway, it was a façade he'd worn only to mask his own desires from himself. Now, as plainly ridiculous as it was, he had to acknowledge that he was actually trying to woo Lady Edith Crawley. His audacity took his breath away. He'd stumbled into it against his better judgment and now there was nothing he could reasonably do except to see it through and make a damned idiot of himself. It would be unfair to stop writing to her now that he had raised her hopes. Sooner or later he would have to declare himself, and watch while she tried to hide her disgust and disappointment. If he was going to do it, he should do it soon before she became too attached to the letter-writing ghost of an ideal man that she was imagining: the man he sorely wished he could be. He thought that the Gervas' Garden Party later that week would be a good time to do it.
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Thank you all so much for all your kind reviews. I hope this story lives up to your expectations. I'm afraid that it is going to be about ten chapters of unashamed, romantic fluff like these last two chapters. Sorry.
