Part II. A Ride by the Shed

Mary's wedding is a grand affair, a fitting conclusion to a perfect spring that turns to joyous summer when Sybil's daughter is born. The baby is a healthy, squealing delight for everyone at Downton, and even Edith is entranced. But the idyll is short-lived and soon, Branson and Sybil return to Dublin, taking their bundle of happiness with them.

The house grows quiet. With Mary living at Crawley House and Sybil gone, Edith gets the full force of her parents' attention, but for once, she's uncertain if she really wants it. She's torn between wanting to hew to them, to keep everything familiar and comforting around her always, and the need to sprout wings of her own and fly away.

Around them, the world is moving at breakneck pace, growing and changing. But Downton Abbey is untouched by it all, and every day dawns and melts into the next. They keep track of time by the arrival of the paper, the ringing of the dressing gong and little else. There are no grand romances and no whispered scandal to keep them occupied, and even the season in London turns out to be a pallid reflection of its old self.

By Christmas, the afterglow from Mary's wedding is gone. Even when her sister visits, which is often, the light of her happiness does not reflect on Edith. Indeed, Mary's joy is like the pale sun in winter for her sister. It's there to be seen, a real thing, but its rays don't quite touch her.

Snow, earlier than usual, blankets Downton, and Edith decides to take a walk. She sticks a hand out, watching as snowflakes flit onto her glove before melting. She's become a snowflake herself, singular, ephemeral, invisible. She's fading, a shadow of herself. If things don't change, she thinks, she'll disappear altogether. I have to get out of here.

-00-

Spring 1922

Papa buys her a horse for Christmas. It is an extravagant gift, but he recognizes her need to keep busy, and Edith treasures the chance. She names him Thorn, because it fits his personality and because she thinks it might be a metaphor for her own life. The routine of grooming and riding takes up a part of each day, and Edith takes the rest of the time to explore the estate. Each time she rides out, new things catch her eye. Sometimes it's just a stretch of trees she's never seen before, other times it's the storm damage to the farmers' cottages.

On one of these rides, she spies a dark figure leaning on a shed wall, looking suspicious. A closer inspection reveals Thomas, recently elevated to valet. When he sees her, he startles and pulls his hands behind his back, hiding something.

Amused, she pulls Thorn up, and after a few moments of hesitation, Thomas helps her off and takes the reins.

She nods him her thanks. "Don't stop what you were doing on my account, Thomas." He makes no response and she wonders at the years of training it takes to remain without expression or humour for hours every day. She tries to draw him out. "I suppose I should call you Mr. Barrow now."

His cautious indifference falters, and he gives her a crooked half-smile. "You can still call me Thomas, my lady."

"What are you doing out here?"

He keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "His lordship didn't need my services after breakfast, so I thought I'd take a walk."

Edith raises an eyebrow, skeptical. She's rewarded a moment later with a smirk and Thomas's raised hand. He's holding a still-burning cigarette.

"Ah." Edith nods. She's always wondered about cigarettes, about the way the cloying sweetness of tobacco hangs in the air long after the flame's been snuffed out, the way O'Brien smells sometimes. Curious, she puts out her hand. "Would you mind if I tried?"

Thomas looks stricken and his mouth falls open. "I don't think—"

"I won't tell anyone. If you're worried…"

The notion that he might be anything less than wholly indifferent irks Thomas, and predictably, he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and hands it to her, putting the old one to his lips. She mimics his movements, holding the thin roll of paper between her fingers and bringing it to her mouth. She inhales but nothing happens, save the cigarette growing limp from the wet press of her lips.

Thomas laughs. "You have to light it first, Lady Edith."

Indignant, Edith tries to recover. "Yes, of course. I was only…testing it."

He raises an eyebrow and then surprises her by taking the cigarette from her fingers. He holds it up to the tip of his own and puffs until the end of her cigarette glows red. When he hands it back to her, he keeps his hand cupped around the end, an oddly intimate gesture that puts Edith on edge.

She pulls the cigarette from his hand and brings it to her mouth, ignoring the advice he's giving her. The acrid smoke hits the back of her throat, and in an instant, Edith is doubled over, coughing violently to expel it. It takes a while to catch her breath, but as she comes back to herself, she can feel a tingling sensation, a sort of euphoria she hasn't really felt since Patrick died all those years ago. It can't be the cigarette. Can it?

She casts a questioning glance at Thomas, but he only shrugs. Edith takes in a deep breath and braces herself before taking another drag at the cigarette. This time she follows his instructions to the letter, and soon, a pleasant calm descends on her. Her nerves stop jangling, her doubt recedes. She feels like a new woman.

-00-

By summer, it's become a routine. Once or twice a week—because more would arouse suspicion—Edith rides out somewhere and winds up at the shed. Thomas is always there, waiting, with two cigarettes at the ready.

She's not sure what the draw is. It is escape, of course, and that is a thrill all its own, but there is more here. There is the excitement of breaking the rules, of doing the unexpected, and Edith is exhilarated. Thomas too is the perfect companion. He says little, offers no judgment, and keeps her secret. It's all she can ask of him.

At first, she tries to probe him a little, to find out what he's made of. But Thomas, not particularly forthcoming, keeps the conversation focused on her, and she stops asking, content to just let the smoke fill the silence.

Today, however, is different.

"So," she begins, between drags. "Mr. Bates won his appeal. He might be coming back."

Thomas mumbles a response, his eyes fixed on something across the road.

"Will you stay on? If he comes back to be Papa's valet again?"

"Don't know. Probably not." He snuffs his cigarette out against the shed and pockets the butt, careful not to litter. "Maybe I'll go to America."

"America?"

For the first time in as long as Edith can remember, Thomas looks her right in the eye. "Yes. America. It's not like here. You can start out as a footman and become the master before you die. Nobody cares what you are. You can lose yourself, become a new man."

He fiddles with his gloves, an unusually nervous gesture. "It was Mrs. Levinson who gave me the idea."

"Grandmamma told you go to America?" Edith regrets the mocking tone in her voice, but at least it covers her surprise at knowing her grandmother took the time to advice her father's valet.

"She didn't say that exactly."

Edith smirks. "You mean you were eavesdropping."

Thomas shrugs off his discomfort. "Maybe. We're not meant to hear anything, of course, but we're not deaf."

Her scorn dies on her lips. She wonders at all the things she's said in front of the servants with little regard for their feelings. In this at least, Mary and Sybil have always been wiser. She feels callous now, small before Thomas. She tries to think of an appropriate apology, a kindness that will blunt the edge of her behavior, but before she narrows it down, Thomas's voice breaks into her thoughts.

"Why are you doing this?"

The question is direct, and from Edith's view, too familiar. She bristles a little, but she's still feeling the sting of taking the servants for granted. She shrugs, trying to make light of things. "I don't know. A bit of fun, I suppose.

"And I'm enjoying all this," she adds, waving at the space between them. Too late, she sees the smirk lifting the corners of Thomas's mouth.

"Careful." Thomas mock-chides her. "Today, we're only sharing a cigarette. Tomorrow it might be a kiss."

Edith goggles at him, shocked at his presumption. But the twinkle of mischief is hard to resist and a moment later, she's laughing instead. "I don't think there's anything to worry about, Thomas. You're not my type." And if the rumours are true, I'm certainly not your type!

The smirk stays on Thomas's face a moment longer, but it peters out, and Edith feels a sudden need to be understood, by someone, anyone, even Thomas.

She takes a long drag and exhales slowly, choosing her words. "Have you ever seen an aquarium?"

He clears his throat. "Yes, my lady. There used to be one in the hall here."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, I'd forgotten all about that." She shuffles her feet absently. "The thing is, I've always felt bad for those fish. They're so pretty, and we stare at them, just to amuse ourselves. But their whole world is just that tank. They must want to jump out now and then."

Thomas gives her a frank look. "Do you know what happens to fish when they're out of water, Lady Edith? They thrash around and struggle to breath. Then they die."

She gives him a sharp look, payment for his presumption and for the cruel directness of his words. Wisely, he says no more. Edith drops the cigarette and crushes it into the ground with the heel of her boot. "Don't be so dramatic, Thomas. It's only a cigarette."

He picks the butt up, careful to pat down the divot Edith's raised. "If you want to jump out of your fish tank, there are other ways."

Edith raises an eyebrow at him, worried that he's misjudged her attention, that he's about to propose an elopement or something equally scandalous. Her voice shakes with panic. "Like what?"

"Like America."

Edith gapes at him, relieved, but certain he's mocking her. "I should go to America? To lose myself?" She guffaws to punctuate the absurdity of the suggestion.

Thomas glances at her once before politely turning his gaze elsewhere. What he leaves unsaid hangs in the air between them, as dense as cigarette smoke. To lose yourself, you have to find yourself first.

-00-

Two months later

"America? What a ridiculous notion!" Violet Crawley's voice echoes through the solar of the dower house.

"Oh, granny. It's only for a little while. A chance to do something new and different." Edith lets her voice trail away, hoping to mollify more than persuade.

"You were always so clever, Edith. Couldn't you find something else that's new and different? Something in England?"

Edith is oddly touched by her grandmother's insistence that she stay close to home, although she suspects it is more disdain for her mother's family than affection for her that drives Violet's thoughts. "If you must know, I thought about going to university first."

"University? What on earth for?"

"To study, of course. You know, the vicar's daughter is off to read history at St. Hilda's."

"Yes, and tomorrow, the grocer's daughter will stand for Parliament! That doesn't mean it's appropriate."

Edith chuckles. "Well, you needn't worry about that, granny. I'm not going to university."

"I'm not sure America is any better. And Cincinnati? Do you even know where that is?"

"Er, I've looked at some maps. It's in the middle bit. In Ohio."

"Ohio? Sounds ghastly."

Edith sips quietly at her tea, stifling her laughter.

Violet bangs her cane on the ground just a bit harder than necessary. "Did your mother put you up to this?"

"No, of course not. In fact, I think Mama would rather have me stay, now that Mary and Sybil are both out of the house." Her father had agreed, however, once she'd explained to him how she truly felt. He'd neither encouraged her decision nor thwarted it, but the look of worry never left his face.

"When do you leave?"

"In about two months. Papa's trying to book my passage right now, and I'm writing to Aunt Rosamund to see if she might know of someone I could travel with."

Violet nods, as if these are the first sane words she's heard all afternoon. "Well, I suppose your mind's made up, and there's nothing for it now. But do be careful, Edith. America is full of cow hands and traders, and I daresay we don't want them to dinner."

(TBC)