Locksley, August 1912

"Granny's here!"

Anthony looked up from his desk, brow wrinkled, as his son skidded to a halt in front of his desk. "She is?" he asked blankly.

Phillip grinned. "You know she is!" His arms clung briefly around his father's neck. "Best surprise ever!"

Anthony lifted his eyebrows in a rare expression of amusement. "If only I'd known it was that easy…"

"Sir Anthony? Lady Strallan is here," Stewart announced from the doorway.

"I think Master Phillip may just have beaten you to the mark, Stewart," their visitor twinkled as she strolled past him, pulling off her gloves just in time to catch her grandson as he flung himself at her. "Might I trouble Mrs Cox for a pot of tea and some of her seed-cake, Stewart? That was a journey sent from the very depths of Hell itself, I'm afraid." Turning to the desk, she set Phillip back from her, and rested her hands on her hips like a general surveying her troops. "Now, let me look at you both."

Reluctantly, Anthony rose from his desk. His mother eyed him appraisingly. "You've lost weight," she sighed, shaking her head. "And you look rather tired."

"Lovely to see you too, Mama," Anthony sighed.

"What about me, Granny?" Phillip asked, tugging on her sleeve.

His grandmother narrowed her eyes, inspecting him closely. A smile curved her mouth as she ruffled his hair. "Splendid, as always, Pip. However, I must absolutely forbid you from growing any taller, or I shall have two of you towering above me. Now, where is this marvellous train set you told me about in your letter?"

"Up in the nursery." A thought struck Pip and his eyes lit up. "Would you like to come and see it, Granny?"

"I'd love to, my darling. Go and get it set up for me, and I shall be there in precisely ten minutes."

As Pip exited, Nancy strolled to the desk and looked over her son's shoulder at the account ledger he was totting up. Running a proprietorial finger down the page, she frowned, "You're six shillings fourpence out." Fondly, she added, "Your poor dear papa was always adorably bad at figures too."

"I am not bad at figures!" Anthony objected, sounding far more like a recalcitrant teenager than any grown man had a right to.

Nancy tutted. "Six shillings and four pence would argue otherwise." Gently, she squeezed his shoulder. "You could get Pip to check them for you - a penny a mistake. He'd like that. Or you could hire someone."

"I don't need to hire someone," Anthony insisted. "Papa managed very well, and so do I."

"Your papa had me, my darling," his mother pointed out. "And now that Maude is - isn't with us any more - "

Anthony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as his mouth tightened. "Please, Mama. Don't pretend that you approved of her."

His mother shook her head slowly. "Darling, whatever I thought of her, she was Pip's mother and your wife. And you need someone to help you here. Anyone can see that."

"Oh, really?" her son snorted.

"Yes." Nancy touched his arm gently. "Not telling Pip wasn't a surprise, was it? You forgot that I was visiting." Her hand brushed through his curls as it had done since he was a child. "You had your mind on other things. Hire someone." She glanced darkly at the desk. "Before you are completely overrun."

London, September 1912

"Sybil, if you want to go around chaining yourself to railings, or throwing bricks through windows or blowing up theatres, then you are at perfect liberty to do so," Richard announced sharply, "but not while you are living under my roof!"

"You aren't my father, Richard!" Sybil snapped. "You're my brother-in-law - and a pretty poor one at that - and in any case, it's canvassing and fundraising for the Election Fighting Fund, not throwing bricks through windows!"

Richard snorted. "And I suppose you'll be telling me next that this Election Fighting Fund isn't one of the WSPU's little side-projects. Give me credit for a little awareness, please. It's the thin end of the wedge, Sybil, and I forbid it."

"And I agree," Mary intervened, turning momentarily from her bureau where she was writing some letters. At Sybil's look of furious betrayal, Mary added, "Darling, every day there's some new story about these suffragettes being locked up in prison and force-fed and Lord knows what else. Richard wants you safe, just like Mama and I do."

"Richard wants me vote-less and married off!" Sybil retorted.

Her brother-in-law rolled his eyes. "In fact, what Richard wants is a little peace and quiet in his own drawing room." He sighed. "I've got no objection to women voting, Sybil - you can't make a bigger mess of the political process than men have already - but I do object to Mrs Pankhurst and her band of rabid fanatics. No sane government will give voting rights to women who behave like animals. You want the vote, you can sign a petition like everyone else."

"'Deeds, not words!'"

"And if I hear you've thrown a brick through anyone's windows, my girl," Richard warned, "I'll say the same thing!"

Sybil drew herself up to her full, rather negligible height, breathing heavily in indignation. "You wouldn't dare!"

Her brother-in-law quirked an eyebrow at her. "I never make promises I don't keep, Sybil. And I'm not going to prolong a profitless quarrel, either."

Wisely, Sybil decided not to reply. Instead, with a withering glance at Richard, she turned to where her other sister sat in the window seat, a open book abandoned in her lap as she stared blindly out of the window. "What do you think, Edith?"

Edith stirred and turned her head, offering Sybil a wan smile. "I'm sorry, darling. I wasn't paying attention."

Sybil let out a frustrated noise. "Is everyone in this house stuck in the last century?!" she exclaimed and flew from the room, slamming the door behind her. Slowly, Edith returned to her window-gazing.

Richard frowned and stood. Leaning over Mary's shoulder, he asked in an undertone, "Is Edith quite well? This is quiet, even for her."

"She wouldn't even talk to Mama about it - I don't know what makes you think she'll confide in me," Mary replied, not looking back.

He kissed her temple briefly. "Between her and Sybil, I'm feeling rather relieved it was you I chose to marry."

Mary lifted an eyebrow. "What a compliment. Now, do go away and let me finish this letter to Mama in peace." After six months of wheedling and arguing and persuading, the Crawley daughters had finally convinced their mother to visit France with Aunt Rosamund. Some time away from England had seemed a good idea, and in her last letter, their mother had seemed much more cheerful than she had done for several months. But, Mary thought darkly, if she had known Sybil would be this difficult, she would perhaps have tried a little less hard.

"Give her my love." Richard drew back.

"I'll say 'Richard sends warm regards' and maintain a crumb of honesty," Mary retorted. Richard could hear her smiling. He let out a short bark of laughter and settled his hands, broad and warm, on her shoulders. "Impossible woman."

Mary reached up and touched one of his hands with hers - brief and cool, a rare gesture of physical affection. "Did you mean what you said to Sybil?"

"Every word of it," Richard reassured her. "When she learns to argue in a more logical way, she'll probably convince me of some of the merits of her argument. But, as you well know, childish tantrums don't impress me."

Over by the window, snatches of their conversation reached Edith. It had been a surprise, returning to her family, and living with Mary and Richard again now that she had some experience of romance. Before, she had looked at them and seen what she suspected everyone else saw - a lifeless marriage between a bored wife and her cold husband. But that wasn't quite true. Mary and Richard might feign indifference all they liked in company, but still there was something indefinable in the atmosphere around them when they were together, something of strength and unity and solidity that was at once more subtle and more valuable than any overt displays of adoration might have been.

She hated to say it, but watching them made her ache inside. A lot of things were prompting that reaction, these days. Ever since she had left Michael's employ last month, that was.

"You can't seriously be planning to walk out on me," Michael chuckled, leaning back in his desk chair. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life!"

"You're married, Michael," Edith stated. "This - what we've been doing - it isn't right."

Michael frowned. "Your conscience has woken up very suddenly. It hasn't uttered so much as a murmur before - God, Edith, it's been nearly two years!"

Edith nodded, hands fisting in her skirt. "Yes," she agreed, her voice trembling. "And that's something for which I'll spend a very long time trying to earn forgiveness."

Michael rose and came around the desk, arms open to embrace her. "Darling, it isn't something that you need forgiveness for - "

Edith fended him off. "Of course it is! How could it not be?" Angrily, she swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. "When your mother-in-law visited you last week, do you know what she said to me? Do you, Michael?"

"What on Earth has my blasted mother-in-law got to do with this?"

"She said, 'I'm so glad that Michael has someone kind and clever like you to rely on, Miss Crawley. I'm so grateful - and I know my daughter would be too.' It was sickening, Michael - that she was so nice to me, and she had no idea that all the time, I'd been sleeping with you!" She swallowed thickly. "It made me feel cheap and deceitful and vile."

"It's love, Edith!" Michael let out a frustrated noise. "I don't understand what's deceitful about that!"

"Is it?" Edith asked, looking him full in the face for the first time. "Is it really love?"

Michael stared. Edith gave a sad little smile. "I didn't think so."

"We haven't done anything wrong," Michael insisted. "Elizabeth's sanity has gone and it is never coming back - what am I supposed to do? Live like a monk for the rest of her life? Is that fair, Edith? Is that just?"

Edith shrugged. "I'm not a lawyer, Michael. And no, it isn't fair - it's not fair to you, or to me, or to Elizabeth - but you stood up in a church with her and promised 'in sickness and in health'. She needs you much more than I do."

"She doesn't even know who I am any more!" Michael shouted.

Straightening her shoulders in the face of his fury, Edith offered, "I'd like us to part amicably. I'll work out a month's notice, help you find someone to take over my work here." Quietly, she added, "I don't hate you, Michael, I honestly don't. I want you to know that."

He chuckled bitterly and threw himself on to the sofa. Dispassionately, Edith recalled that they had kissed for the first time on that sofa. Kissed - and other things. "How very consoling!"

"I'm sorry," she tried.

"Damn your apologies." Looking up at her, Michael's lip curled. "I could make this difficult for you, you know. I could refuse to give you a character. Where would you be then?"

Edith watched him steadily for a moment, hoping for evidence of even a trace of shame in him. Eventually, she replied. "Knocking on your father-in-law's door, I imagine, to tell him exactly what has been going on under your roof for the past two years." She shrugged. "Would he continue investing in the paper if he knew you'd been unfaithful?"

Michael laughed, sounding almost surprised. "How manipulative! You wouldn't dare. Even if he believed a word you said to him, you'd be ruined."

"I'd be ruined without a character, too," Edith pointed out. "Michael, if you ever cared for me - if you ever thought of me as anything more than a body to be lain with - then you'll let me go, freely and honourably and without fuss." Her voice broke. "Please."

To her utter astonishment, he had. The reference had been placed on her desk by the end of the following day, and by the end of the following week, they had found him a new secretary - an efficient, middle-aged man called Roberts - who fitted so seamlessly into the household that Edith had felt quite de trop by the time she had finished explaining all his duties to him. After that, there had been nothing to do but pack up two years' worth of a life and return to Richard's house.

Perhaps the appointment she had tomorrow would help her escape. Someone called Sir Anthony Strallan. She had looked him up in Debrett's after she had received the letter inviting her for the interview.

Strallan of Locksley, in the county of Yorkshire

Anthony Phillip Strallan, born 3rd September, 1870, married, 15th April 1900, Maude, daughter of Sir Edward Gould, of Gould Hall in the county of Leicestershire; by which lady (who died 1910), he has issue a son, Phillip, born 20th January 1901.

A widower wasn't much better than a married man with a sick wife, but a letter to Cousin Matthew, followed by a short telephone conversation, had reassured her somewhat as to Sir Anthony's general character. "Nice fellow," Matthew's kind voice had said. "He's dined here a few times, apparently - when Papa was alive. He's a good landlord, apparently, all his tenants speak very highly of him. Mother was singing his praises last night, said she's never seen a man grieve the way he did after his wife died." Edith had breathed a sigh of relief, thanked Matthew for his help, and put the telephone down. If the Dowager Countess, her Cousin Isobel, liked Sir Anthony, then that spoke very much in his favour.

Besides, what other option did she have?

Sir Anthony Strallan sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been a most trying day. He had taken his mother's advice, of course. Complain he might, but his mother was the most intelligent woman he knew - the most intelligent person he knew. He'd have been a fool not to take her advice, and he might be many things, but he wasn't a fool. Added to which, she was right.

So he had advertised. Someone capable, who would take charge. That was what he needed.

Unfortunately, the day so far had been a disaster. None of the candidates he had interviewed so far had been remotely suitable. He glanced down at Stewart's messy scrawl on the page in front of him - one last candidate.

"Sir?" his man's voice at the doorway drew his attention.

"Final applicant here, Stewart?" Anthony sighed. "Show him - her? - in."

Stewart smiled. "Her, sir. Very good, sir."

Anthony rummaged on the desk until he found the letter she had written applying for the job, paper-clipped together with her references by Stewart. She had neat handwriting, he observed - which he supposed was a start -

"Good morning?" There was a question in the greeting. That was not Stewart's voice, either.

Wonderful. She had caught him ferreting around in his own desk like some sort of - of ruffian -

Anthony looked up. She was young. Blonde and young and looking at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. Despite her best attempts, there was a glimmer of amusement in the brown eyes that were surveying the scene, but it was not an unkind sort of amusement.

"Good day, Miss - ?" He couldn't remember the surname. Better and better.

She smiled and stepped forwards, extending her hand for him to shake. "Crawley, sir. Edith Crawley."

"Miss Crawley." With relief, Anthony gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you." She sat gracefully, hands clasped neatly on the knee of her navy skirt, still looking at him with those calm, slightly amused eyes.

Anthony lifted the letter he had been searching for. "A glowing reference from your previous employer. I congratulate you."

Miss Crawley's face closed up and she gave him a somewhat anxious smile. "Thank you," she repeated. "Mr Gregson was… interesting to work for."

"He's unmarried?" Anthony asked. At Miss Crawley's querying look, he explained, "I'm a widower, so if you were used to being under the direction of the mistress of the house - "

The furrow between her eyebrows cleared. "Oh, n-no. Mrs Gregson is… ill." There was a slight, pregnant pause, and then she added, "Being cared for in - in an institution."

"How sad." And he looked it, too, Edith thought briefly. Mind you, her brain reminded her, looks were never a guarantee of honesty. Especially where men were concerned. "Well," Sir Anthony smiled, "Mr Gregson speaks very highly of you in his reference. A wonder that he was willing to let you go."

Miss Crawley took a sip of tea through slightly pursed lips. "He's - he's been… very kind," she replied, eventually, in a wooden little voice.

Poor girl, Anthony thought briefly. Well, it's obvious what's happened there. Refused advances, and now she's out on her ear.

"Miss Crawley," he stated clearly, "you are the best qualified applicant I've seen all morning. But I must ask - I spend much of the year at my estate in Yorkshire, Locksley. Would it bother you to move from London?"

"Not at all." Miss Crawley shook her head very firmly. "I… have relatives in Yorkshire." She paused. "You may know one of my cousins, in fact…"

Sir Anthony raised a polite eyebrow. "Oh? Who is he?"

She flushed and bit her lip. "Matthew Crawley. The… the Earl of Grantham."

"I see. Yes, I know him - a very fine young man." He smiled. "I suppose I really should have guessed from your name. But, why tell me? It's none of my business, you know."

She shrugged. "I thought it would be dishonest not to tell you, sir. You mightn't like the idea of employing an earl's cousin. I'm told they can be rather… uppity." He chuckled at that and Edith felt a strange thrill run through her at the thought that she had made this clever and rather dashing man laugh. "Well, the duties won't be taxing for a woman of your abilities. Typing, ordering papers, accounts' work if you think it's something you can manage. And I'm in the midst of straightening up the family archives, so there'll be a certain amount of research to keep track of - but I suppose you'll be used to that sort of thing, having worked for a journalist?"

"Yes, sir. I'd enjoy it."

"Excellent." Another one of those warm smiles. He clasped his hands together, pleased. "Well, then, I suppose it's settled. The salary is sixteen shillings a week, with accommodation here and at Locksley as required. I'm travelling down to Locksley tomorrow. Would Friday be convenient for you to arrive?"

Miss Crawley's eyes widened. "You're - you're offering me the job?"

"Yes. If you'd like it, the situation's yours."

Her fingers pressed themselves against her mouth as a startled little laugh escaped. "I'd - love it! Yes. Thank you, yes. Friday would be - yes!"

"Good." He stood and Miss Crawley stumbled to her feet as well. "Send word here of what train you'll be on, and I'll have my driver meet you at the station."

"Thank you, Sir Anthony."

He extended his hand, as she had done at the beginning of the meeting, and they shook. He bowed his head, formal and old-fashioned, over her hand, and then released her. "Until Friday, then. Good day, Miss Crawley."

"G-good day, sir."

When she reached the pavement again, it was pouring down, raindrops bouncing off the street. Edith grinned the whole walk home.