Reflections
These are not set in any kind of order...
The Dowager Countess was becoming increasingly annoyed with her daughter. Ever since Edith and Bertie had reconciled and become engaged Rosamund had been fairly dancing on air. She'd been almost as delighted as the bride herself, whose beaming joy conversely Violet found completely charming and in whose light, as proud grandmother, she took especial pleasure in basking. But decorum was required and certain degree of self-discipline was necessary to deliver the bride to the altar with the skills necessary to be an effective Marchioness.
That decorum was not reflected by Rosamund grasping Edith to her side at every spare moment, stroking her hair and wistfully calling her poppet.
Between Rosamund and Robert, the child was in danger of being smothered with approval and affection in the after-dinner hour. Robert was so entirely enraptured to have an ennobled son-in-law (and one that wasn't a jackass to boot, heavens bless him! The next session of the house of Lords was going to be a great deal more enjoyable!) and to have the daughter he'd come to see as his most deserving settled with a man who adored her so completely, he claimed it had healed his ulcer.
Violet had no idea how she'd managed to raise to such affectionate, dim-witted children. Clearly the late Earl had spent more time in the nursery than she'd credited.
Edith's romantic career had certainly been more varied than had been expected of her as a girl. The changing times and fashions had suited both her temperament and her figure. And she'd been studious in learning every lesson that life and love had ruthlessly thrown at her head.
The war had been a very good thing for Edith, forcing her to look out of herself. Giving her a door out into the wider world and oh how she stepped through it. Violet had been proud of her granddaughter. It hadn't been the showier work that Sybil had done, but she'd done many lovely things more quietly. Her tender, devoted care for William Mason during his death had given her grandmother great pride.
And what had her reward been? To fall in love with an elderly crippled man. Sir Anthony was a nice man to be sure. And a suitable husband. For Cousin Isobel. But he was not for the Edith that the war had revealed to her grandmother. That fast driving girl surely needed someone with a little more blood flowing to all his various extremities, someone who would give her a bit of a challenge. The best thing that ever happened to Edith was when she'd been abandoned at the altar. It had revealed her spine. It had lit a fire in her. Although her grandmother would certainly never have encouraged her to write a letter to the Times on any subject... it proved the proverb.
When the student is ready the teacher will appear.
The Dowager Countess was not surprised that Edith had illicitly lost her virginity to Mr. Gregson. After giving Edith a subversive outlet for her most modern views, introducing her to his bohemian social set and doing everything in his power to awaken the sleeping dragon of her granddaughter's rather interesting intellect, had the girl's virtue survived the relationship... that would have been the shock. Also he had those deep dimples and that disarming smile. Had she been her granddaughter's age and in her position, she'd have acted passionately and rashly as well. Indeed her in own past she'd acted rather more rashly and with more passion and nearly wrought greater destruction, but there was no reason for Edith to know about that.
Edith had broken free of any discernable mold with the birth of her child. Most girls who found themselves in that position were just that. Girls. They did what they were told because that's all they'd ever done. Edith was not like them.
When Edith had Marigold, she was a woman who had abandoned blind obedience to those who claimed to know best some time before. She'd written enough about women's rights to, unfortunately, know that she had them. That made it difficult for anyone to tell her that she had no choice but to sign away rights to her baby. To tell her that she simply wasn't allowed to nurse her child. That it was impossible for her legal name to appear on the birth certificate. Edith had reacted coldly to all attempts to manage her and went her own way. So instead of giving her baby away permanently in adoption, she'd given it to a foster family and paid them financial consideration. When she could no longer stand the misery of not being with her child she fetched the little girl. She brought her child ever closer to her, until she had Marigold in her arms again. In doing so, Edith abandoned the hope of finding a husband, for who would want a woman so encumbered? And where would she find love again after Michael?
Thus enter the adorable land agent.
Bertie Pelham had stolen Edith's heart very quickly. Apparently, not as quickly as she had stolen his, but still.
Unlike with Henry Talbot, Violet had never been overly concerned about his finances or his prospects. He was of good birth, a gentleman with a profession. If he and Edith loved one another, there was no reason to suppose it couldn't be a successful match. Edith was the kind of woman who would be made happy by love and would strive to make those she loved truly happy as well.
It was the honest blessing of an unhappy childhood.
The only trick had been when to tell him about Marigold. He'd been very sweet about her little ward. Would that translate into being very sweet about the child of passion she'd created with her last great love? Even without knowing about Marigold, the fact that Gregson had left Edith not only a home, but his business and the training to run it probably indicated to Mr. Pelham that Edith and her Mr. Gregson were more than just chaste admirers and had veered into a more modern, perhaps more interesting way of relating to one another.
Also, Edith was no may flower. And from what Violet now knew, she'd behaved in quite a modern fashion during her early courtship with Bertie as well.
That is to say that Edith could be a trifle unrestrained in her affections, not that she necessarily gave the whole cake away as dear mama used to say. The fact that Mary just had to drop one bombshell to despoil their perfectly good love affair had confirmed that Edith hadn't given Bertie the best of her bakery.
Violet had been very cross with Mary the whole train ride home, but what good did it do rail at her when she was among the guilty parties that had raised the woman to behave so poorly at times? The only thing to be done at that point was to get her eldest granddaughter married off before she burned the whole manor house to the ground and to attempt to force her to make amends to her sister.
Of course, the dowager thought, sourly, Mary had never done so. Of course she would never truly make an even tolerably good apology to her sister, not unless some act of God occurred or Lord Hexham's disapproval was a stronger weapon than one could dare hope. Thank God, somewhere along the way some unknown personage had actually taken some pains with Edith's upbringing (teaching her the importance of forgiveness and family unity and whatnot) or the family would have fallen apart at the seams.
And actually, it seemed Lord Hexham's displeasure might be a stronger motivating force than an act of God at this juncture.
Since Bertie had expressed his deep dislike of his future sister-in-law, Mary had been rather solicitous to him. So much so that the barbs she directed at her sister's head were much less razor-bladesque and one or two of the more apt japes had actually made Edith laugh. And when she'd returned with a jest in kind, Mary had laughed in returned.
Clearly, the world was running mad.
Seeing both her granddaughters so relaxed and cheerful made Violet realize two things, Henry Talbot was very good at his true job, which was distracting Mary from burning the manor down with sex, and two, Bertie Pelham was enjoying the whole of Edith's cake. She wondered if he didn't have premarital run of the bakery.
What was she to advise Edith to do? She was a woman in her 30's. Clearly, Lord Hexham wasn't put off by all the sweets being thrown his way and with only a few weeks toward the wedding, her being with child on her wedding day wouldn't be a bad thing at all, since they did need to produce a male heir sometime quite soon. Her Granny would just be the most vocal in her worry about that the (gigantic) baby was coming early.
Seeing her daughter link arms with Edith, with a warm affectionate look upon her face, suddenly warmed the old woman's heart. Edith was Rosamund's favorite. She reflected. Not only her favorite niece, but likely her favorite person in the world. They were so alike. Quick witted, soft-hearted yet sour tempered little girls that never quite seemed to belong in the Downton nursery. They were soon joined in conversation by Bertie and his mother. Rosamund drew Mrs. Pelham off the happy couple and off to a corner for a good chat like any fairy godmother worth her salt would do. The two women seemed companionable enough. Perhaps Bertie's mother could become what Isobel was for Violet. Perhaps as Rosamund grew older, she might call Brancaster home.
Feeling her eyes well a bit, the dowager waved Tom over, "Distract me before sentimentality drags me to the depths."
"Did you know Miss Edmunds mother is Italian? She's Catholic." Tom said, brightly, out of nowhere.
Well, that was a distracting thought.
