Edith Crawley would have done anything for her daughter, walked through fire and glass—all the superlative clichés. Weeks of bed rest seemed a comparatively small sacrifice in order to ensure the safety and health of her child. Even for Edith, a habitually busy person, and even as summer caused the days to grow warm and golden and beautiful.
Logically, Edith knew it could be much worse, and she was glad for Anthony's nearly constant company and care as one week became two and then three. But she still had her moments she just couldn't help but feel she might go mad with boredom.
"I can only do so many of these damn things," Edith growled, throwing another completed book of crosswords at Anthony, who was going over some work leaning against the foot of the bed.
He smiled up at her, bemused more than anything. "Care to try your hand at Sudoku?"
"Anthony!" Edith growled. "I've been cooped up in here for almost a month. Please, please," she pleaded, "You know what I want. Just for a while, please?"
"Dr. Clarkson said you're supposed to be resting. What you're asking doesn't equate rest."
"I need it, Anthony," Edith implored, "I'll go mad without it."
"You're already mad," he muttered, turning back to the papers in his hand.
Without warning Edith lunged across the bed, snatching the manuscript from his hands. "I need to work!"
Anthony looked amused, which annoyed her even more. "A woman as pregnant as you has no business moving that fast," Anthony said, reaching his long arms across the bed to take the manuscript back. "And no work. Doctor's orders."
"Oh, you are so…" Edith huffed, struggling for a word that wasn't adorable or sweet or maddeningly sexy.
Anthony looked up at her, a smile playing on his lips.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she accused.
They studied each other for a good while. The bed was made, but messily. Books and papers were strewn about. Edith was in a pair of leggings and one of Anthony's button-up shirts, her new favorite outfit, and Anthony was in trousers and a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled.
He had barely left Edith's side since Dr. Clarkson's initial visit ordering she stay in bed, and neither of them minded. The first couple nights after the hospital she'd felt no shame in asking him to stay with her while she slept, but on the third night he moved to the other bed and he'd been in there ever since, and Edith's pride wouldn't allow her to ask why.
During the day he'd work while she read or watched tv. They'd nap together, he'd help her to and from the bathroom, though she adamantly swore she didn't need it.
It had been nice, overall, and Edith was sure she'd never tire of his company. Only she was so used to working in tandem with him, she couldn't stand feeling idle while she watched him markup stories and answer emails.
After a slow, audible breath, Anthony tossed his papers to the floor and folded his hands casually in his lap. "I'm enjoying being at home. I'm enjoying taking care of you. I'm not enjoying that you need bed rest, or that you're bored," he listed. Then with his lopsided grin and a shrug he added, "And a little bit I'm enjoying annoying you, and being the boss for once."
Edith growled, though she couldn't hide her grin, and threw a pillow at him.
"I can't do nothing for the next two months, Anthony. I really will go mad," she complained.
"Well, Dr. Clarkson did say he may reduce your sentence if everything is looking good at your next appointment. Perhaps next week he'll say you can be a bit more mobile."
"I hate it when you're reasonable," she grumbled in a valiant effort to stay irrationally mad at him.
"I know, old girl," he said softly, something warm and affectionate in his expression.
Another of their silences fell between them, and this time, Edith wasn't keen to break it. Their daughter seemed to have other plans, though. "Oomph," Edith huffed, feeling a rather strong foot. "She's trying to separate my ribs, I think."
Anthony grew a silly little grin as he stretched across the bed to get closer, sliding a hand over Edith's stomach. "She's strong, I've no doubt about that."
"Stop talking, you'll only make her kick harder," Edith demanded, failing to sound severe or remotely stern.
"That's my girl," Anthony chuckled to the belly, moving his hand and applying a gentle pressure to let his daughter know he was there. Then all at once his words sank in, and his eyes snapped to Edith's in a panic. "Sorry, I just… it slipped," he muttered.
Edith was about to reply when Anthony's mobile sounded. Checking the screen he muttered, "Sorry, it's Lavinia," and hurried out of the room.
Edith felt on the verge of tears suddenly. She knew it was completely ridiculous, but she couldn't stop herself. Lavinia called all the time, and while Anthony was willing to ignore almost everyone except Daisy, he always took Lavinia's calls. And he always took them in another room. Edith told herself it was because he was so adamant she not worry about work, and that Lavinia had taken on a lot and probably relied on Anthony's advice.
More importantly, Edith reminded herself, Anthony was not hers to claim. He could talk to anyone he wanted, whenever he wanted, and he certainly didn't owe Edith an explanation for it.
The weeks of bed rest proved something to Edith she had long expected. Anthony's care and attention was constant, his patience unwavering. He was at Edith's side almost every hour, and when he absolutely couldn't avoid a trip to the office, he called in reinforcements in the form of Rose or Aunt Ros. Anthony cooked meals, painted toes, rubbed feet, did laundry, ran baths, and anything else Edith's swollen, pregnant body required.
As if she wasn't sure before, all of it reminded Edith that Anthony was far, far better than she could hope to deserve. He was infinitely too good for a woman like herself, and she knew it.
With Anthony in the other room, Edith burrowed into her pillows and allowed herself to cry softly until she drifted off to sleep.
Edith's next checkup found her at 33 weeks, almost full-term, and quite anxious to get the okay from Dr. Clarkson. Anthony, who had always been so nervous at the appointments, had taken on the role of the calm, sturdy one so that Edith felt free to fret as much as she liked. It was a shift in their usual roles, but one they both enjoyed, and that Dr. Clarkson noticed immediately.
"Oh, she's doing just lovely," Dr. Clarkson assured, moving the camera around Edith's large belly. "Amniotic fluids are plenty, Baby's in good position, and quite active I see."
"Yeah, it's lovely," Edith groused.
After going over a few questions and checking Edith's blood pressure, Clarkson began wiping Edith's belly. "Alright, Edith, I think we're in the clear. I still want you to take it easy. You're not to go back to work, no walking long distances, no heavy lifting. Keep your feet up as much as possible. Lots of naps."
"You'll make me lazy," Edith joked, half-complaining. She didn't like being inactive.
"Well you'll have plenty of time to be exhausted, running around and on your feet all day, when the little one comes, alright?"
Edith nodded, agreed to make an appointment for the following week, and wished Clarkson a good day as Anthony helped her from the table.
"So, shall we call it 'modified bed rest'?" Anthony asked when they got back into the flat.
"If you think that'll appease me, you're wrong."
"It's for the baby," Anthony reasoned.
"I know," Edith conceded, sinking onto the sofa. "She's lucky she's so loved."
"Indeed," Anthony said. Edith looked at him curiously, wondering why he seemed so sad suddenly, and ignoring the hope that bubbled up in her chest. Surely, surely, if Anthony intended on…more, he would have said something by now?
She wouldn't press him, using her situation to her advantage felt wrong and unscrupulous. Anthony was such a good soul, so kind and generous, she knew that he'd give her anything she asked for, even if it was marriage. But she seriously doubted whether such an arrangement would make him happy, and with her emotions going haywire, she was in no place to sort it out.
Every time Edith would wander such a line of thought she'd find herself nearly crying and markedly upset, and reminding herself of John and Margery Drake, and that she was getting precisely what she had earned.
Still, while the threat of early labor or other complications had been the cause, Edith's bed rest led to a sort of domestic bliss she and Anthony hadn't expected. They did well together, Edith and Anthony, in whatever capacity. Rose became quite fond of him as well, dubbing him "Uncle Anthony" with her youthful charm, and even the wonderfully catty Auntie Ros couldn't complain about him.
Thomas and Jimmy, too, became regulars in Anthony's flat. One night in particular, Edith woke and was delighted to find Jimmy, Thomas, and Anthony all asleep around her, the film they'd been watching long over. Anthony's hand was draped protectively over her knee, and Thomas was curled against her other side, holding her arm. That Anthony was just as fond of 'the Boys' as she was tickled her pink, and she drifted off, content with her little makeshift family.
The tension was there, always, and continued to build. That throbbing, thunderous thing between them neither was willing to address. Edith feared it came from Anthony's obligation, and Anthony feared it came from his obvious unrequited affection. And both of them were too proud or scared to address it, so they carried on, happily embracing the ignorance-is-bliss life.
Anthony, for his part, was just glad to be needed. He had naturally become attune to everything Edith. Where she was in the house, her mood, any sounds she made. He had become an expert at predicting her needs, anticipating any craving or ache, and generally being on guard at all times.
As such, despite being in the process of brushing his teeth, he heard a sharp gasp followed by a low "oomph" and hurried down the hall.
"Edith?" he asked, his tone revealing only a small fraction of the concern that clutched his lungs. Edith was at the side of the bed, fists buried in the bedding as she braced herself. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing," she breathed, closing her eyes as one hand traveled to her back. She was crouched down by her bed, reaching for a weathered paperback.
"Careful. You get down there in your state, we may never get you back up," he teased, acknowledging that Edith's tummy had grown larger now that she was at eight months. In the July heat, she took to wearing little else than thin cotton bottoms and camisoles, stretched tight over her stomach. She was lovely, in his opinion, which he kept to himself.
Edith looked over her shoulder and laughed as Anthony came to help lift her.
She straightened cautiously. "I just, I was bending over to pick up my book and Baby kicked and it sort of," she winced, rubbing at her muscles.
"Your back?" Anthony asked, admittedly relieved it wasn't something more serious.
"Mm-hmm," she nodded.
"Alright, come on," he said, urging her to climb onto the bed.
"What are you going to do?" Edith asked, causing Anthony to laugh once through his nose.
"Something awful and tortuous, of course. What else would you expect?" he teased in his usual, patient tone. Using his hands, Anthony directed Edith to kneel on the bed, pushing her to face the headboard. "Here, hold on to the bed," he said quietly, sitting behind her.
"Mmm," Edith sighed. She couldn't help herself. In that position her muscles were stretched without the weight of the baby on them too much, and Anthony began to knead her back gently and slowly.
"You should let me do this more often, Eed. Your back is full of knots," he murmured while he worked.
"I wouldn't say no to regular back rubs," she half-laughed, rolling her shoulders as Anthony soothed each new spot. "Oh, Anthony, thank you."
They were silent for a while, Anthony enjoying the excuse to touch her freely. "Do you, do you mind if I just?" he stuttered, leaving the bed for a moment. Edith gave a petulant little huff until he took her lavender lotion from the bedside table and sat back down. "May I?" he asked, warming some lotion in his hands.
"Please do."
Anthony flipped up her navy camisole, exposing the creamy bare skin of her lower back. She was warm, and remarkably soft, and he was fascinated by every inch. The freckle above her right hip, the ridge of her spine, the way her pliant flesh felt beneath his hands. When he traveled around her sides he could feel the difference between her soft muscle and the firm protrusion of their child. Her child, he corrected himself.
"What's wrong?" she asked, apparently sensing the tension that suddenly gripped at him.
"Nothing at all," Anthony answered, forcing himself to smile as she looked over her shoulder at him.
"Why do you look sad? I keep catching you looking sad, and you always deny it," she said. Her voice was quiet and dulled, as if she were talking in her sleep. If Anthony didn't know far better he would think she was stoned.
"I'm never sad around you," he allowed. Talking to Edith about this, like this, it was like an alcoholic sniffing a fine scotch. It was fine, to an extent, but dangerous. Anthony felt himself teetering on an edge, wanting to jump as much as he dreaded it.
"I don't agree," she said matter-of-factly. "I, well I can feel it to be honest. Is it… is it me? Do you want me to go? Because Anthony, I would," she began. But he cut her off.
"Edith, that's the last thing in the world I want. You can stay here as long as you like. It's your home now too."
Edith looked down, releasing her hold on the bed frame to cup her belly. "We'll be a terrible nuisance," she said, making a little joke.
Anthony's pursuit of her aching back gave way to his wish to comfort her. Slowly, and oh so tentatively, he allowed his hands to travel around, slipping under her camisole to the bare skin of her belly, under her hands. She didn't move, which he quite expected, but instead pressed her fingers between his through the thin fabric of her top.
So warm, everything, every touch between the two of them—the three of them, really—it was so…warm. Nice, lovely, pleasant, besotting—a thousand words flooded his brain at once, and then all went silent as Edith sat back, into Anthony's chest, and laid her head against his neck.
For a long minute Anthony allowed his eyes to close, allowed himself to memorize the smell of her, the weight of Edith leaning into him, the feel of her temple against his chin, of her hands slowly caressing his, of their child, their child, between them, as if everything was well and right and good. And then it passed.
It wasn't real, and she wasn't his, and this—whatever was happening—was a result of her being alone and pregnant and vulnerable.
With a great deal of effort and a throbbing ache in his heart, Anthony slipped his arms away from Edith Crawley's small frame.
"Won't you stay tonight?" she asked, looking at him with those eyes that made him want to cry.
"No, Edith, I don't think I will. Early start for me tomorrow and you need your rest."
"Early start?"
"Meeting with Miss Swire before a pitch at 9."
Edith nodded, a gesture so infinitesimal he might not have seen it on anyone else. "Alright then, good luck. Enjoy your day."
"I'll be home with dinner by six. Rose will be over in the morning to keep you company. Anything you should need in the interim, just call."
"Yes, I know the drill, boss," she said with a sad and disappointed smile.
Anthony lingered awkwardly beside her bed as she pulled the covers around her legs. He was fidgeting, his brain telling him to go as his entire body ached to climb in beside her. They had done it enough times before, slept together, and it was always innocent enough.
But no. The frame of mind he was in at this point, it would be wildly unwise for him to allow any inch of Edith to press against his body.
"Goodnight, Edith. Pleasant dreams."
"Goodnight, Anthony," she said, her voice sounding distant and a little inhuman as she rolled to her side and propped several pillows beneath her belly.
The hand that turned out her light as he left was shaking, and Anthony didn't bother rationalizing that to himself.