Author's Note: I'm so grateful for all the kind and encouraging reviews. You inspire me! So, it seems I can't link out to "Letters From Brancaster," so I will have to include them in the text of this story.
CHAPTER THREE: A Question to Consider
January 15, 1926
London, England
"You are positively glowing, my dear," Lady Rosamund Painswick declared, kissing Edith's cheek. "I must thank you, Bertie, for taking such excellent care of my niece."
Edith's very fashionable new evening gown, dark ivy green with gold beading, told Rosamund that her niece had enjoyed some shopping in Paris. Their blushes and sly glances at each other told her everything she needed to know about the state of their marriage.
"Who else is coming to dinner? I am terribly glad to see Rose before they sail," Edith said.
"Shrimpy will be here, and I invited your editor, Miss Edmunds," Rosamund replied.
"Oh! How wonderful! I was going to call on the magazine tomorrow. I don't think we were able to exchange more than a few words at the wedding."
Just then the door opened and the butler announced Tom Branson, and Edith exclaimed in delighted surprise.
"I'm here on business," Tom said, kissing her cheek and shaking Bertie's hand. "We need more inventory. I go back on the first train in the morning."
The other guests arrived — Atticus and Rose, Shrimpy, Miss Edmunds, and Sir Charles Trevor. As they went into dinner, Edith drew her aunt aside and whispered, "And who is this? A new beau?"
Rosamund shook her head and gently pushed Edith toward her seat. Luckily, for her, talk soon turned to Edith and Bertie's honeymoon, and Atticus and Rose's journey, and she had some time to consider the issue of Sir Charles.
They'd met a dinner party in December, just before Christmas, and then again at a concert two weeks ago, and he'd called on her last week. He was a widower of three years, and was acquainted with Shrimpy, which had given her an excuse to invite him tonight.
Sir Charles was an affable, placid man. After her brush with Lord Hepworth, Rosamund had done her due diligence and discovered that Sir Charles had quite enough money of his own, with small homes in London and Bath. His son worked for the government, and his daughter had married a shipping magnate.
Rosamund was not sure if he was paying her court, nor if she wanted him to. At her age, one did not have boyfriends. He was 65 if he was a day, but he was nice. And she was lonely, and getting lonelier. Both of her nieces were married now, busy with their own families. Maybe Sir Charles was the answer to the question that was her future.
" … I think Lady Rosamund has," Rose's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Didn't you meet Coco Chanel?"
Rosamund rustled herself back to attention. "Yes, I met her here in London, at a party given by the Duke of Westminster. She was very elegant."
"Oh, I would've loved to seen her boutique in Paris," Rose continued excitedly. "I'm dying to see the suit you got, Edith. Her clothes are so divine — so modern and fresh. She is a true visionary, I think."
Miss Edmunds laughed. "And she has done quite as much as anyone for the feminist cause, in helping to get rid of corsets."
"Oh, you should see what women in New York wear," Rose gushed. "I do love the boldness of Americans. There is so much more freedom and informality there. Many people don't even change for dinner."
Tom smirked. "Don't tell the Dowager. She'll scream bloody murder."
While Sir Charles and Shrimpy puffed on their cigars and spoke about politics, Tom and Atticus took turns gently teasing Bertie about his honeymoon.
"We enjoyed ourselves," Bertie said, ears turning bright pink.
Tom chuckled and decided to let up. "Edith seems happy, so I'm happy," he said. "And you'll spend the winter in Brancaster?"
"Most of it, though I imagine we'll pop back to London a few times, so Edith can check on the magazine and I can do my duty in Lords. And I want to oversee the sale of Hexham House, to help pay off the death tax," Bertie explained. "l am also selling the house in Brighton. The 3rd Marquess bought it in 1813 — he was part of the Prince Regent's set — and it's barely been used since by the family."
Tom raised his eyebrows. His time with the Crawleys had opened his eyes to quite a bit of splendor and wealth, but from what he'd read and heard whispered, Bertie was very rich indeed, with properties all over the country and abroad. That he had a house in Brighton that had been barely used spoke clearly of his fortune.
Despite all of that, though, Bertie had always treated him as an equal. Tom had liked him from the start, and had felt sorry for both of them that terrible day last summer at Downton. Still, all had turned out for the best, and he was glad. But part of him felt restless, too, because both Mary and Edith had moved on with their lives, and he had not. Perhaps it was time to consider it. He had to admit, he was intrigued by Miss Edmunds.
"You should set a meeting with the tax people, like we did," Tom suggested. "It was Mary's idea, and we were able to get better terms on paying the bill. It might be worth it."
Bertie tilted his head. "Hmm, I'll think about it, thank you," he said. "You know, I had also thought to get your advice on pigs. It might be too cold in Northumberland, but I would not mind diversifying our farm production, if it can be managed."
"I will send you some information," Tom promised. "But I warn you, raising pigs is no easy task."
"If Lady Mary can do it, I hope I can," Bertie said, and they all laughed.
January 17, 1926
Brancaster Castle, Northumberland
Edith cuddled Marigold close and kissed the top of her head. Breathing in the scent of her child made her feel so completely happy.
They had arrived at Brancaster much too late the previous day to do anything but peek in the night nursery, but now, Edith had some very important things to relate to her daughter. She hoped the three-year-old could understand it, or at least, enough.
Now that she and Bertie were married, they could officially take in Marigold as their ward — or as official as these things could be. She could take the Pelham name, and be introduced to the neighborhood as their adopted daughter.
Bertie was perched on the settee opposite them. He smiled encouragingly at her and Edith took in a deep breath. Why she felt so nervous, she had no idea.
"Darling," she said to Marigold, turning the little girl to look her in the eye. "You know that Mr. Pelham* and I got married. Now you are going to live with us here, and be our daughter. We will be your Mama and Papa."
Marigold's eyes grew round. "Mama and Papa are in heaven," she whispered.
Edith's heart constricted at hearing the lie she'd been forced to tell her daughter. "Yes, they are, but they are so happy that we are going to love you and take care of you from now on. I won't be your Aunt Edith any longer, but your Mama. Do you understand?"
Marigold looked at Bertie. "You're my Papa?"
He smiled gently at her. "Yes, darling. I hope that pleases you."
Marigold appeared to consider this information for a few long moments, and Edith exchanged a look with her husband. Was it too great of a change, just after moving her to another new home? But how she ached for her daughter to call her mother!
Finally, Marigold looked up at Edith. "Mama, can I have a pony? And a puppy like Donk's?"
At that, Bertie and Edith burst out laughing. She hugged Marigold tightly, and Bertie moved to enclose both of them in his arms. "Darling, you may have a pony and a puppy and any other animals you'd like," he answered, for Edith was too overwhelmed with emotion to speak.
Edith knew someday, when Marigold was older, they would tell her the truth, but for now, Miss Marigold Pelham was the happiest, most carefree little girl in the world. And for now, she was the happiest woman in the world.
(*Footnote: Bertie was probably first introduced to Marigold as Mr. Pelham, and I imagined they would not want to confuse her with his new name.)
January 19, 1926
To: Lady Rosamund Painswick
35 Belgrave Square, London
From: Edith Pelham, Marchioness of Hexham
Brancaster Castle, Northumberland
My dear aunt,
We are arrived safely and settling into Brancaster. Thank you again for the lovely dinner party you threw in our honor and to wish Rose and Atticus safe voyage. I hope very much that he will transfer back next year, as I would be delighted to meet little Victoria. It would be wonderful to have all the children to Brancaster for Christmas. I pray there will be a new Pelham to join in the fun.
The weather is frightfully cold. Bertie has told me amusing tales of snow fights he and Peter had as children, but there is only a light frost on the ground. The house is dreadfully drafty — there has not been a Lady Hexham hereabouts for more than 20 years, and it certainly shows. Bertie did what he could, but with Peter gone so much, it is all quite outdated, aside from Mother Margaret's apartment. I took a tour of the south wing rooms, and I dare say modernising them shall consume much of the spring and summer.
Bertie is very well. He dotes on me and Marigold, and my love for him grows daily. Hourly! He always makes time for us, though he has been busy since the instant we arrived back at Brancaster. Several of the cottages need repairs, and there are tenant vacancies to fill. He is selling the house in London and the house in Brighton, as we need the money for death duties, and likely one of the farms, which is more painful for him.
He won't take a dime from me from the magazine — he wants it all to be saved for Marigold, which is so kind. But I will use some of the profits to redo the rooms here. It is my home and hers now, after all.
How is London? Have you seen much of Sir Charles? You were very sly at dinner, I must say. I won't press you on it, but I will say he seemed a very nice man.
With love,
Edith