A/N Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. They are very much appreciated! I'm sorry an update has taken such a long time (and, I fear, isn't very good). For some reason I've decided to undertake this whole writing malarkey at the busiest time I've ever experienced at work but I have most of the story sketched out - it's completing and editing the chapters which takes the time.

Hope you all enjoy anyway!

Chapter Four

The blackbirds made an awful racket but they simply reminded Anthony, that even with the occasional high-pitched caw of startled birds, English wildlife was quiet, reserved even, in comparison with what he'd encountered in America. He stood still and watched the black shapes fly into the distant sky above his ancestral home. The cold pinched at his cheeks.

On arriving in America Anthony had established a base in Dallas with an old school friend who found himself in a Foreign Office posting no one else wanted. From there he travelled from state to state, city to city, town to town and farm to farm. The exercise started, like Anthony himself, with a significant degree of formality. He donned a neatly pressed linen suit and took on a driver and a valet to shepherd him through the trip. He carried a leather bound notebook filled with the names of farm machines, crude sketches and tables of facts and figures.

Quickly though, Anthony found he could not carry his English affectations around this rugged country. The valet was dismissed, the linen suits were decidedly unpressed. Eventually Anthony would simply pull on a pair of light trousers, don a white shirt, roll up his sleeves and consider himself dressed for business. Dressing alone was difficult with only one arm but without the regalia of the English aristocrat it was a vastly simplified exercise and he found, to his surprise and delight, that he could manage. The driver remained a necessity, of course, but he was more of a companion. He called Anthony the 'English Cowboy' and insisted he swap his panama for a stetson, at least when they were in Texas. The content of the leather notebooks changed too. They became travel journals, a record of the Americans he met and the America he saw. He was curious about what made this country the way it was, and so quickly.

Late one afternoon Anthony found himself sitting in the University of Kansas library leafing through a card catalogue. His heart leapt on finding the reference he was looking for – the diaries of the founder of a small farming town outside Salina - and he stood up to search for the stack he needed. He realised as he did so that he wasn't researching farm machinery any more, or keeping a travel diary; he was writing a book.

Lying in his bed in Dallas, with a choir of crickets performing outside, Anthony stared at the row of half a dozen black leather spines on his bookshelf. It occurred to him that the task of forgetting Edith had taken him to extreme lengths. It wasn't enough. At night, in the dark and the quiet it was Edith who swum around his mind's eye. He could not examine a machine or chat to a local or bury his head in a book; he was alone, with her, and yet, without her.

The letter from Constance arrived just as the days ticked over into 1922. Anthony knew immediately that this letter was not like the others. The envelope was thick and addressed in haste. Inside he found a short note from Constance, an open envelope addressed to him at Locksley in a different script and a newspaper article. Out of curiosity he flipped open the newspaper article first. The headline was stark, 'Tragic Death of Earl's Heir'. Staring at him from the page was a photograph of Matthew Crawley. It was Matthew who was dead. He skimmed the article. Dead, but not without issue. Downton had an heir but he would never know his Father. Anthony paused for a moment and lowered himself on to the chair in the corner of his bedroom. It was a terrible tragedy. He felt for Edith most of all, Downton would be an even more difficult place for her without Matthew's influence.

He turned his attentions to Constance's letter.

"Dear Uncle Anthony,

I felt it necessary to pass on the enclosed letter as quickly as possible in light of the news in the paper.

Best,

Constance."

It was unlike Constance to be so brief. Anthony opened the enclosed letter. To his surprise it was from Matthew Crawley. It was dated two weeks before his death and it was a polite but desperate request for aid in saving Downton from financial ruin. Matthew called Anthony 'the foremost authority on estate management in the country.' It ended with a plea for his (as then) unborn child. It was an extraordinary letter, the likes of which Anthony had never seen. In light of subsequent events it took on a tragic air. Anthony felt a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was the death, the letter, the article or what they meant. They meant, he acknowledged with some frustration, that he would have to go home. He would endeavour to answer Matthew's last request. He wished he had less of a heart. He was afraid to return.

A month and a half later Anthony found himself looking out on a grey Berkeley Square. He sipped from a delicate china cup and marvelled at how far away America seemed.

"Goodness, you're a sight for sore eyes!" Constance Wood strolled into her front room. "Still arriving 15 minutes early for everything, I see? America can't have changed you that much then!" She approached Anthony and kissed him on the cheek."

"Hello Constance. You look well."

"Rot! I look pale and sallow. English weather has never and will never agree with me."

Anthony raised an eyebrow, "I think pale is rather good, actually."

Constance murmured her disapproval of the statement and poured her own tea. She turned back to him and fixed her eyes. She looked exactly like her Mother and Anthony knew what was about to come. "Shall we talk now or later about the fact that you've only come back because of a letter from an estranged acquaintance? A dead one, at that. I suppose I should count myself lucky you've even deigned to pay me a visit." Constance's tone was light hearted but Anthony knew she was largely serious.

"Constance, it took longer than I anticipated. It took on a life of its own really. And don't complain it was the letter that bought me back, you knew it would, that's why you sent it."

Constance smiled. "Yes. I knew your sense of propriety and your kindness would be moved by it. What do you plan to do?"

"I've written to Lord Grantham. I shall go and see him. Show him the letter and offer my help, I suppose. I can't imagine he'll take kindly to it but it's what Matthew asked. I'm bound to do it."

Constance clenched her jaw and rested her hand on her stomach, "You've already written?"

Anthony pulled the corner of a letter from his breast pocket, "Yes. Why?"

"It's not sent." Constance relaxed.

Anthony had a sense of growing unease, "why, Constance?"

"It's just that, if you're going to write, you should mention Lady Sybil."

Anthony felt uneasy. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. He was stern as he asked the question, he wanted a serious response, "what about Lady Sybil?"

"She passed away too."

The blood rushed to his feet. The tea was spilt. It pooled in the saucer and droplets plummeted onto Anthony's freshly polished shoes. Pressing his eyes shut he thought only of Edith-poor, dearest Edith, "She died in the accident? The article didn't…"

"No. No." Constance took a breathe. "The day you left."

Anthony's cheeks flushed and he raised his voice, "The day I left?!"

"Uncle An-"

He could feel his panic rising, "Constance! What were you thinking?! How could you not tell me?

"You were gone. I thought it best -"

"You thought it best? Constance you had no right." Anthony was overcome with regret and anger. It was unforgiveable what he'd done, but he didn't know. He couldn't have known. He put his cup down on the mantelpiece and he begun to feel the despair give way to anger. Anthony gripped the edge of the fireplace with his good hand. He thought he might rip the marble from the wall. He turned to look back at his niece, "I would have…"

It was Constance's turn to interrupt and she spoke loudly to match him "you would have what? Come back? Run to Yorkshire-to Downton?! And?! Gone to her? Held her in your arms?"

"Yes!" Anthony brought his hand to his mouth and shut his eyes. He hadn't intended to reveal himself.

Constance was quickly at his side but the silence hung between them before she broke it, her tone was muted, "to what end?"

Anthony's eyes darted to meet hers. They were filling with tears.

"Uncle Anthony," Constance's tone was sympathetic, but firm, "what did you expect? That you'd be able go to her whenever it was bad? And then? You take yourself away again?"

Anthony spoke at a whisper, "This is different… you don't know her - you don't know, how it would have been for her. She would have been alone in it. No one in that house would have understood."

"This isn't different."

Anthony knew she was right. His argument was hopeless. He'd left Edith. He'd left her to happiness and tragedy. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"You told me it was done. That it was better for you both. I took you at your word. I didn't see the point in disrupting your trip. Matthew was a separate problem, I felt-"

Anthony cleared his throat, "I know. You're right." He hated that she was right, but right she was. Constance choosing not to inform him wasn't the cause of his current situation. The wedding, or the lack of one, was the cause and the blame for that was squarely at his feet.

"She's fine now. More than fine, in fact. Thriving."

Anthony was so overwhelmed by the sudden revelations of the last few minutes that it took him several seconds to comprehend Constance's words. He jumped to the only logical conclusion and tried to seem disinterested as he did so, "married?" It wasn't so much a question as a statement. Edith was a treasure, it seemed inevitable some other man would have discovered her.

Constance scowled and rolled her eyes. "No." She turned away from him and walked over to a tall row of drawers framing her large bay window. She opened the second draw from the bottom and fished out a paper magazine. It was folded back on itself. Thrusting the magazine towards her Uncle she said simply, "she's a journalist."

Anthony's lips parted slightly and he uttered a murmur of surprise. He looked down at the paper. Staring back at him was Edith. Pencil drawn and determined with the hint of a smile. He took it from Constance and stared at the page. The headline was printed in strong, thick text, 'Ireland's Lonely Path'. The byline hovered below and to the side in a more delicate script, 'by Lady Edith Crawley'. Anthony ran his thumb gently over her face.

"She's quite good. Controversial, at times. Phyllis Brand put me on to The Sketch. Imagine my surprise at turning to page 7 and finding your…" Constance paused briefly at her mistake. Anthony continued to stare at the page in front of him. "at finding Lady Edith there."

"May I keep this?" asked Anthony, he slowly pulled his eyes up to meet the gaze of his niece.

"Of course. I have quite a few issues actually. You're welcome to those as well."

"Yes. Thank you." Anthony's heart begun to beat loudly. The idea that he could have some small window into Edith's life in the time he'd been away from her was thrilling. There was nothing to be achieved by it, of course, but he didn't care. He was holding a piece of Edith in his hand and he was greedy for more.

Anthony spent the next week locked in Ebury Street reading and re-reading. She was an extraordinary writer and she had covered a complete gamut of topics. There were articles on suffrage, the plight of war veterans, pensions, one particularly remarkable column began with a discussion about car maintenance and dovetailed into an examination of the British car industry. Anthony didn't always agree with her opinions but he glowed at her fluent expression of them.

Eventually a response arrived from Robert Crawley inviting him to Downton. Anthony posted an acceptance and considered the way in which he had been quickly plunged back into Edith's sphere. He couldn't help thinking he should have resisted. The articles. The return to Yorkshire. The visit to Downton. He shouldn't have undertaken any of it and he should stop it before it went too far. He couldn't. He told himself it was all necessary - the spiralling consequences of Matthew's letter.

Walking around the grounds of Locksley on the cold winter's evening he acknowledged the truth: he was trying to capture Edith again, at least in some small way. That was the only genuine explanation for his actions. He promised himself he would be strong enough to see Lord Grantham and end it all there. He would return to his life away from Locksley and leave Edith's world untouched. She was happy; he would not ruin that.

Later that week he was staring at Downton's imposing entrance ready to do his duty to Matthew Crawley, but thinking only of Edith. His stomach was knotted and his pulse raced. His head was willing her to be away or busy or locked in her room. His heart, however, called out to her. He could not deny his desire to see her again, to speak to her, to hear her voice, perhaps to take her arm in his. Those thoughts had been his respite and his torment in the time since he and Edith had parted. They toyed with him now, along with the memories of what was and what might have been. Downton, like Locksley, brought it all back to the forefront of his mind.

Inside he was greeted, as expected, by the stoic presence of Carson, who scowled at his return. Lady Grantham stood at his side and managed a smile, "Sir Anthony. Welcome back to Downton. Lord Grantham is somewhere in the grounds. He has probably forgotten you were due this afternoon. We've sent someone to locate him."

"Thank you. Lady Grantham, can I say how terribly sorry I am about Mr Crawley and, of course, Lady Sybil."

"Yes. Indeed." Cora's eyes glazed slightly and Anthony recognised her demeanour, it was one he had worn on many occasions: she did not wish to discuss her loss. Cora cleared her throat and glanced at the staircase behind her, "Let's put Sir Anthony in the billiards room, Carson."

Carson's eyes widened and he turned to his mistress, "M'lady guests are ordinarily received in one of the front rooms."

Cora maintained a small smile on her face, "Yes. Thank you Carson. I'm aware of where we usually receive people. It's just that the billiards room is quiet at this time of day" she paused, as if underlining her point, "Lord Grantham and Sir Anthony are much less likely to be interrupted." She turned to look pointedly at the staircase again.

Anthony understood her meaning from the moment she proposed the change of venue but Carson continued to look back at Lady Grantham with a dumb expression. Anthony did not want to find himself in the midst of an explicit explanation of the point and hoped Carson would grasp the situation - Lady Grantham did not want her middle daughter to find the man who jilted her in the front room of the house.

Grasp the situation he did, his lips parted slightly and he nodded his head heavily, "Yes. Very good m'lady."

Anthony followed Carson into the billiards room, where no one would expect to encounter another person, guest or resident, at one o'clock in the afternoon. Anthony's heart was at a loss. He would not see her.