Chapter 7

Edith stood outside the large black gate of Temple and raised her hand to her head, shielding her eyes from the cold sunlight. She could see The Sketch offices in the distance. The tall red brick building protruded clumsily onto the side of the Fleet Street, in stark comparison to the uniform constructions at its sides.

She wondered briefly if it wasn't best to go back to Eaton Square and consider everything. She had rushed away from Downton almost immediately in the wake of the meeting with Anthony. It confirmed all of her worst fears. She still loved him, but he showed no care for her or what he'd done. She could not and would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her state of mind. Edith had decided to go to Gregson. She planned to forget about Anthony in the same way she wrote an article or learnt to drive or managed her grief: sheer perseverance and grit.

She walked towards the office with purpose.

The small desk in reception was unmanned. Edith peered through the glass door into the newsroom. It was a hive of activity and across the bobbing heads she could see Gregson's office at the far end. The door was slightly ajar. Edith smoothed the front of her navy dress and took off her hat. She was nervous, as if she hadn't been in the hum of the office a hundred times before. Her throat was dry and her palms were damp. The first occasion with Gregson could be ignored as a mistake, like Mary's Mr Pamuk, she could walk away relatively unscathed. But that was not the choice she was making, she would commit; it was decided as soon as she shut the door to the billiards room. Her life would be off the ordinary path. There was no going back.

Perhaps she could be happy.

"Lady Edith?!"

Edith looked over as she walked through the newsroom and found the smiling face of the sub-editor Mr Jones, "Hello. How are you? How's the edition looking?"

"Excellent ma'am. We've missed your keen eye looking over some of the articles though. If I see one more sentence ending with a preposition I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions."

Edith smiled and was glad to be needed, "well, I'm back now and available for all the proof reading required. Put everything on my desk I'll pick it up when I leave."

Turning towards the office Edith smiled at a number of the familiar faces and eventually she saw Gregson leaning against the doorframe looking straight at her. His waistcoat was undone, tie loose and shirt terribly wrinkled. He wore a broad, confident smile, "hello".

Edith felt a flush rise in her cheeks. He was pleased to see her. "Hello."

"Your article's late. It was due at 6 yesterday. The print deadline's tomorrow." He scowled but continued to smile.

"I know, I'm sorry. I have it, here." Edith held up her bag as if proving its existence.

Gregson stepped away from the door to his office and held out his arm, beckoning her in. Edith briskly went past him and felt his hand glance the small of her back. He shut the door.

They stood for several moments in silence. Gregson opened his desk drawer and pulled out two chipped glasses and a bottle of whiskey, "do you want one?"

"It's three in the afternoon" Edith was puzzled, "and I'm not sure I like whiskey."

"Have you ever drunk it?"

"No. But it doesn't seem like the sort of thing, that I-"

Michael smiled and poured two glasses, "you mean women like you don't drink whiskey."

Edith shook her head, "Not ordinarily." She hated the implication. Edith set down her bag and her hat and reached for the glass, "but, nothing ventured..." Her fingers overlapped Gregson's and for a moment he wouldn't release the liquor. He looked straight into her eyes and for the first time, he stopped smiling. Edith stepped back, glass in hand, and asked "Why the whiskey?"

"You've come here to tell me something. And I'll either need to celebrate or commiserate. Whiskey works for both."

Edith took a sip of the drink. It was strong and bitter. Not entirely unpleasant. "Michael, I'm so sorry for what I put you through. For – " Edith couldn't find the words, "For that – and then leaving straight away. It was stupid and foolish. I'm not going away again. I'm here, with you and that's that."

Michael broke out into a broad grin and finished his whiskey in one gulp. He glanced through the glass lining the wall of his office. No one was watching them but he couldn't do anything more than talk, "Edith? Do you even know how I love you? I would pick you up and spin you around but I'd never want to let go."

Edith looked down at the floor and felt the warmth creep up her collarbone and rest on her cheeks. Gregson was unafraid to say exactly what he thought and what he felt. She would never be accustomed to it and she had no words in response. She simply smiled and replied, "I'm not sure that would be entirely appropriate."

Gregson laughed, "Tonight. You must come tonight."

There had been no consideration of the practicalities but Edith thought she might be able to use the print deadline as an excuse to be out late. She could come back early and Aunt Rosamund would never suspect. Being the ugly middle child had some advantages. "Yes, alright."

Gregson and she quickly fell into a routine and, with the help of Aunt Rosamund's latest housemaid, Grace, who saw the advantage of keeping Edith on side, they avoided discovery. Excuses could always be made the day before and the day of publishing. The former generated a deadline which required late working and the latter was a cause for celebration. Invariably her Aunt went to the West End on Tuesday nights and slipping away proved easy then as well.

Gregson was charming and attentive. When he finished he would run his hand up and down Edith's back as she went to sleep. He kissed her goodbye in the morning and told her how beautiful she looked. Edith grew accustomed to his gentle affection and enjoyed intertwining her legs with his and sleeping next to someone else. None of it satisfied her, but it was a greater measure of happiness than many people enjoyed and, for that, she was grateful.

Edith looked hopelessly at herself in the mirror, "I'll never, ever be able to do my own hair. I need Anna, or Grace." Bathing had become somewhat of a necessity whilst staying with Gregson but the heat of the water usually unravelled her delicately crafted finger waves. Edith's hair untamed fell into fine waves stretching out in every direction. She looked like she belonged in East London, not amongst the prim townhouses she was travelling between. It was also mark of serious suspicion to look so undone.

"I could hire a ladies maid? She could set my hair too." Gregson crouched down and his reflection appeared in the mirror behind Edith. He picked up a bobby pin and forced it nonsensically into the front part of his hair, "what do you think?"

"Please be serious?"

"I am deadly serious." Gregson kissed her shoulder.

Edith recoiled from his touch and stood up, "I'll just wear my hat again."

"You're still angry about the article."

Edith put her dirty undergarments into the flower-motifed carpet bag she had acquired from the back of the wardrobe in one of the spare rooms at Downton, "I'm not."

"It's a wonderful article Edie. Passionate, articulate, well argued, well structured. All those things are there. But I can't publish it." Gregson looked at Edith whilst she busied herself, purposefully avoiding his gaze, "you know I can't."

Edith pulled on her green dress from the previous day, "'it's a diatribe': I remember what you said." Her coat was strewn over the back of the armchair in the corner of the room, she quickly pulled it on, "I just hoped there would be a place for it in our magazine. Sometimes it's necessary to publish for the greater good."

"Ede" Gregson pleaded for her attention.

Three strings of pearls were hooked around her neck, "It's fine. I'm fine. I'll re-draft or re-write. I've got all my research on file at the Museum library. It'll be done by tomorrow." Edith looked out of the bedroom window and was relieved to see her taxi below, "it's here."

Gregson approached to kiss her goodbye in his usual manner. Edith picked up her bag and turned her head. He caught her on the cheek. She smiled weakly and left.

Edith was glad they rowed. She was angry about the article. But, mainly, it was exhausting pretending that she shared his enthusiasm. This was a respite from the pretence. A pretence she was usually pretending she didn't notice. At the front door she jammed her hat on her head without looking back and half-ran to the waiting car.

Gregson called to her and was soon on the pavement wearing a half open shirt, with braces attached to creased trousers and no shoes, "Ede!"

Edith's eyes widened at the sight of him in the street looking so unkempt. Her eyes darted to the windows looking down on them and she hissed at him, "Michael, what on earth…"

"It's fine. It's 7.15. London's sleeping. I need you to review a play tonight, The Better Half."

"I'm not a reviewer Michael."

"You are tonight. Francis resigned to take a job at The Spectator."

Edith would have argued but the spectre of being so exposed in the street was inclining her towards compliance. She wondered if that hadn't been Gregson's plan. "Fine." She snatched the ticket from his hand and all but leapt into the back of her patient taxi. Edith wanted no more conversation. She wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of anger for just a little while longer. She knew he'd be watching the taxi drive away. She didn't look back.

She felt more herself as she arrived back in Belgravia and the guilt for pushing away Gregson crept over her. She tried to shove it aside as she strode across the road to buy her paper. She exchanged a nod of acknowledgment with her usual newspaper boy and begun fishing in the side pocket of her bag for some money. She wouldn't need it.

"Let me get that."

Edith recognised the soft but confident tone of voice immediately. The blood rushed to her feet. She turned her head to find Anthony's blue eyes smiling back at her. He had taken the bag so quickly she barely realised. One moment she was holding it and the next she was not; a newspaper was in its place. Edith stared intently at his hand wrapped around the leather handle. Just beneath the unzipped surface there was a silk slip, on top of underwear and stockings and hairpins. It was the story of her illicit liaison in a small, carpeted package, "That really isn't necessary, Sir Anthony. I'm quite alri-"

"Nonsense I can't very well walk you home and let you carry the bag. That wouldn't look right at all."

Edith looked back down at the bag and weighed her options. She was caught off guard by his presence and she wondered what he made of her here, in the early morning, getting out of a taxi. If she tried to wrest it from him it might burst open and spill her secret. Anthony could never know. It was decided, they would have to walk together and she set off at a rapid pace.

Hours later she sat once again staring at her reflection in a mirror. The rounded face of Aunt Rosamund's maid appeared behind her, "do you want it pinned at the back?" This morning the face had been Gregson's, now, in spite of herself, she wished it was Anthony's. She marvelled at her ability for self-sabotage; focusing on the man who had broken her heart and neglecting the one who had not.

She had been brave enough not to wait for an answer to her question about his living arrangements, although not brave enough not to ask it. Now part of her wished she'd never told him about the play as well. There had been no expectation, only a wish to talk a little longer. The idea he would be there had never crossed her mind, Anthony hadn't been interested in the theatre when she knew him. But be there he would. Edith could feel the anticipation at the tips of her fingers, she tried to ignore it, but the slight shake of her hand as she dabbed perfume onto her neck betrayed her feelings. She told herself that she would avoid him.

Edith's eyes flicked to the mirror. She saw Grace pull a navy dress from her wardrobe, "Not that one. There's a peach one in there. At the back, with beading around the neck."

Grace tilted her head, "for the theatre?"

Edith responded without meeting her eye, "for tonight."

Commentators don't generally experience the phenomena of being a reporting critic. Edith had not expected that she would be ushered into a separate room. She excused herself to arrange an interval drink. Unconsciously her eyes darted amongst the faces in the crowd but there was no time to accidentally find him.

The play dragged. Edith was dismayed to discover that the second half would be longer than the first. She wondered if she lacked the capacity to appreciate it, everyone around her was giddy at the spectacle. She needed her drink.

Edith entered the bar and searched the delicate white slips of paper leaning against the stems of the crystal. Finally, she found it, 'E. Crawley'. Slipping onto the chair conveniently placed next to her drink she discarded the paper and brought the red wine to her mouth. Glancing upwards she found Anthony looking down the bar at her, he gave an awkward wave. In her eagerness to escape the play she had forgotten object of her attention at the start of the night. The butterflies returned. He moved towards her, stopping to lean against the bar where she sat, "Lady Edith, hello again."

Edith furrowed her brow and brought the glass to the mahogany bar. She wanted this, but was unable to say a word. Anthony's blue eyes looked straight at her. His slender but broad frame was exaggerated by white tie and tales. In the soft lighting of the theatre bar he looked like the man she had known at Downton, the man who had offered a thousand reluctant touches, accepted several reluctant kisses and made one reluctant proposal. He looked like her Anthony, but there was a confidence in how he stood and smiled and approached. Edith wondered if being with her had driven it out of him. Perhaps now he was alone, he was himself again and happier for it. Despite all the years that had passed, she was still grappling for an explanation. Finally, Edith found her voice. It was harsh, she couldn't help it, "Hello." In her mind she riffled through topics of conversation but she couldn't manage one, clumsily she asked, Where are you sitting?"

"The boxes. My niece, Constance, and her husband, Edward?" Anthony paused as if waiting for an acknowledgment from Edith. She remembered conversations about Constance and her travelling spouse but she didn't want to show that she remembered everything they had ever discussed. She sat still and stoic. "They have one. When they're not using it they send me the tickets. They're back in London now. You may remember Edward was a diplomat; they were in Europe, when -" Anthony trailed off.

Edith looked into the pool of red, "what do you think?"

"Of the play?"

Edith nodded.

Anthony drew closer. There was little space now between where she sat and where he stood. Edith's heartbeat quickened. He smiled, bowed his head slightly and whispered, "it's quite dreadful."

"It is isn't it?!" Edith was relieved. She had thought, amongst the pearls of laughter, that she was the only one underwhelmed by the experience. "I don't even know what I'm going to write. I don't think I can write more than seven words."

"What would the six be?"

"Probably, 'It's quite dreadful… don't go.'" Anthony smiled at her and laughed gently. It was gratifying to see that she could make him smile, she had wondered if she had imagined ever having that kind of affect on him. "But I'm not sure that would satisfy M-" Edith bit the inside of her cheek. She had nearly said his name. His first name. "- my editor."

"I suppose not. You'll just have to draw comparisons to great literature. Poor comparisons, but you can spin the words out."

Edith shook her head and ran her finger across the lip of her wine glass, "I don't know anything about great literature! I'm a commentator – of contemporary events, normally. I can't write about language and syntax and characterisation."

"Nonsense! You read your way through Locksley's library. I didn't even know we kept Bronte's and Austen's until you rooted them out and forced me to read them. Practically the whole of the fiction section was a mystery to me before you." Anthony laughed again and smiled broadly at her.

Edith caught his eye and silence fell between them. He looked down at his feet. It would always be there. The time they were together, learning from one another, on the cusp of everything. Edith wondered if she could forget; if they could be friends.

She didn't want to be friends. That could only bring misery.

The bell rung to bring them back to their seats. Edith stood up.

"I'm not going back in." Edith raised her eyebrows and looked back at him. "Terrible I know, but I called my car. I can't face a second round of it!" Anthony smiled a slightly crooked smile and then let out a small sound of exclamation. He had obviously had an idea, "You're welcome to come. I can take you back to Eaton Square. If you have enough for the review?"

Edith sighed slightly at the prospect of such a choice. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if checking to see if she was being watched. Really, it was to see if she was being judged. She was judging herself, but powerless to stop the answer, "yes, thank you."

Coats were retrieved and the doorman whisked Edith to the car under the protection of a large black umbrella. The rain was light but persistent. Edith nestled into the corner and looked out on the theatre. Anthony was only just coming out; the stalls were some distance away. He was wearing a dark raincoat, the right sleeve was empty. He obviously hadn't taken the time to remove his arm from the sling and adjust it into the coat. The time such a process took had always bothered Edith, it seemed to her that it was unnecessary when a coat just needed to be put on for a brief time. Somewhere along the way he'd finally embraced the practical solution. He strolled quickly down the steps and stopped to say something to the doorman, both laughed. Waving away the umbrella he half ran around the back of the car towards the door.

It suddenly occurred to Edith how small the back seat was, it had been something she had used to her advantage before but now it seemed inappropriate, even dangerous.

"It's easing off. Hopefully it'll have passed by the time we get back to Eaton Square." Anthony clambered into the back of the car, in a somewhat ungainly fashion, as ever, due to his height, and took his place next to Edith. The car pulled away.

As expected they couldn't help but come into contact. Edith felt the heat from his arm through her coat. Inadvertently their knees touched. Her breath quickened and her pulse raced. Anthony cleared his throat.

Edith had been rather disappointed with the physical aspects of her time with Gregson. She thought it was a normal reaction. It was rare that a woman truly enjoyed the act itself. But here, in the back of the car, sitting so close to Anthony Strallan – touching Anthony Strallan – Edith felt a desire she had not felt before. She wanted to experience what she had done with Gregson but with Anthony instead. Sheepishly she turned her head slightly to look at him. He caught her in the act and smiled. They were so close. She could lean over and kiss him. Or run her fingers along the back of his neck and through his hair. They'd be much more comfortable if she lifted herself up and sat in his lap.

Edith turned away. If she could have exclaimed out loud in frustration she would have done. This was a silly game. There was no hope in it. She'd be unhappy when she got out of the car, unhappy not to be touching him or talking to him. She couldn't spend the rest of her life looking for excuses to travel these closed avenues. Being with him, all the while knowing she would never really be with him, was utterly futile. Edith wished she hadn't accepted the lift. She shifted her knees away from his, tensed her legs and pushed back into the corner of the car. She would be uncomfortable for the rest of the journey but she had moved herself as far away from him as she possibly could.

The short journey played host to some idle small talk. Mainly questions from Anthony about Edith's family. She was largely monosyllabic and looked resolutely out of the window.

At Eaton Square Anthony stepped out of the car and Edith quickly followed. He took her hand to help her out. She felt a jolt in her stomach at his touch. Looking down at her hand in his she pulled it gently free.

After a moments silence he spoke first, "It was lovely to see you again. If you continue reviewing we might yet see each other at another one of these innumerable new plays." He raised his eyebrows, "Or perhaps somewhere else in town."

Edith was resolute, "thank you for the lift." Before she knew it she was on the other side of Aunt Rosamund's door. She went to the small table at the side of the hall and put down her bag. Glancing up she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the wall above the table. Pools of light appeared at the bottom of her eyes and quietly she begun to cry.