So here it is! The final chapter! I don't think I can adequately express how happy I am to be done with this fic. I will already warn you that this is long and like...99% fluff and crack.

Thanks as always to AriadneO and Jadeandlilac for their insights and corrections.


Day 12: Celebrations!

Cloudless skies and a blanched earth greeted the sun as it crested the horizon on Christmas day. Morning rays flashed unimpeded to frame the brickwork of the Abbey, some even resourceful enough to worm their way through a set of half-drawn and distinctly familiar draperies. Their light was just enough to allow John Bates to study his lavish surroundings – the rich mahogany of the headboard, the intricate stitching on the duvet, and the most breathtaking sight of all – the exquisite jawline of his sleeping wife.

Her lips were graced with that slight upward curve that gives the impression of pleasant dreaming, and as he lifted a blonde tress off of her neck she began to stir, opening her eyes to his gentle face hovering near hers while her own face split open to a grin.

"Good morning, Mr. Bates," she said in that raspy way which suggests a very late night. The smile already in place on his lips broadened.

"Good morning, Anna."

Leaning over he kissed her, feeling that oneness, that unity decreed by each other, by the law – by heaven itself – and sealed with a love and longing that neither schemes nor vengeance could put asunder.

When he pulled away she pouted, and John shook his head with an insincere "tsk" as he reached down for his coat sprawled on the floor. Retrieving the garment, his hand disappeared into the pocket, and reemerged clasping a plain, white box, which he wordlessly placed into her lap.

She peered at the package, bemused.

"What is this?"

"It's your Christmas present." She pursed her lips, too happy for any feelings of real indignation, but still put out enough to feign annoyance.

"And just when did you have enough time to go Christmas shopping?"

He laughed. "Mr. Branson was kind enough to make a stop on our way back from Ripon."

"I'm sure he was. But I have to say I might have preferred an earlier arrival than whatever I've got in my hands here."

"You'll have to be the judge of that once you open it. Go on," he urged. Curiosity beat out any mild irritation and she lifted the box lid, pulling from inside a slim sheaf of documents.

"What is this?" she asked. She looked down to read the first few lines, but still appeared perplexed. "I don't understand. What have you gotten me?"

"It's a deed." Three little words, said in his usual soft and firm way – but they had the power to send shockwaves through Anna's arm that sent the papers in her hand quivering. "With Vera gone, all the money's come back to me, and all that time I had in prison, I was looking into hotels up for sale."

"You bought me a hotel?" she said, barely a whisper in the large, quiet bedroom. He covered her hands to steady them.

"I bought us a life – away from here, away from Downton – where we can start all over again, just the two of us."

She set the papers aside and looked at him with wet eyes.

"But what if you'd been found guilty? You tell me that in prison you were looking at hotels for us so we could start a new life, but what if the only new life I'd be starting was one alone, as a widow?" He shook his head.

"I wouldn't let myself believe that, not after how you stood by me, even when everything seemed hopeless. Planning our future together, believing that we had a future together – it was the only thing that got me through some of those days."

She reached for the deed – stark white paper crammed with tiny, block print – and held it cautiously. This was her future, resting here in her palms, and she stared at the words as they bled together from the small droplets cascading down upon them.

"I don't know what to say," she said.

"Say that you're happy."

She looked up at him. "I don't think I could ever be happier!" she cried, launching herself into his arms. After a few moments she pulled away, both his hands at her face as they wiped away the last of her tears. "But where is it?" she asked.

"The hotel, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Some small town up north. Only a few hours drive, really." A fuzzy memory worked its way to the surface of Anna's mind – surely it couldn't be – but she didn't have time to voice her suspicion before Bates asked, "Have you ever heard of the The Swan Inn?"


Three rows of ornate cufflinks blinked back at Thomas from their walnut case. With careful consideration he made his selection and carried the chosen pair to the window where his master stood by the open drapes, admiring the frosty blanket draped over every inch of his estate.

"I always dread the first snow of the season, until it actually comes. Stunning, isn't it?" the Earl asked, inhaling grandly.

Thomas found even the suggestion of skin-biting snow a dreary and miserable prospect to contemplate, but easily swallowed down his natural acerbity – his Lordship was a chatty sort and verbal forbearance was as necessary as air in his line of work.

"Quite so, milord."

Quietly and artfully Thomas performed his duties. Buttons were buttoned, hooks were fastened, and as Thomas gave the broad shoulders a final brush down he withheld a bitter sigh at the realization that this would be his last morning working in His Lordship's dressing room; for Bates was back, yet again, and ready to claim ownership of the post that Thomas had so long yearned for, and though there was no denying it rankled, if the war had taught Thomas anything it was to be grateful for small mercies, and he determined to relinquish the prize readily, even if still begrudgingly.

At length his Lordship spoke again.

"I never thanked you for sorting out that business with the new footmen. To think all this time I've been employing gamblers." Robert turned to inspect himself in the full-length mirror. "What do you think should be done with them?" he asked of his valet's reflection.

Thomas raised his head.

"Everyone makes mistakes, milord," he said slowly. "For lots of different reasons. They seemed sorry for it, and I think that should be enough for a second chance."

The Earl looked thoughtful, rolling around the idea in his mind. "Yes," he said softly, and then more loudly, "Where would any of us be without second chances?"

Thomas bowed.

Still watching carefully from the mirror, Robert said, "I've had word from Bates. He will not be returning to his post as my valet." Thomas' face appeared impassive at the news, but in the watch glass Robert caught the gloved fist minutely clench. "I've spoken with Carson," he continued mildly. "We've agreed to offer you the post – that is, if you're amenable to making your current position more permanent."

Thomas let out a breath.

"I would, milord. In fact, it would be my privilege."

"Very good, then!" Robert turned around and held out both wrists. "Now, which cufflinks have you chosen for me today?"


O'Brien had insisted on a warm velvet dress and at least two shawls while her ladyship breakfasted in her dressing room, but even bundled as she was, Cora had never felt colder in her life.

The storm had blown over, but its effects had yet to pass. Cora stared numbly out the window, a field of snow covering the grounds, and wondered whether there could ever be a return to the lush gardens and warm sunshine that had marked the spring of her married life, before it had been thrust into this unceasing winter.

"Is everything all right, my lady?"

Cora smiled briefly. Dear O'Brien. She could hide nothing from her.

"No," she replied ruefully. "No, it is not. And I'm not sure it ever can be."

Sarah laid the blouse in her hands onto the bed and knelt at her ladyship's feet.

"What is it, milady? Can I be of any help?"

Cora shook her head, attempted to form words, but was beset by a bout of tears that disabled her lips from speaking. O'Brien stuffed a handkerchief into her mistress' hand which Cora brought to her face, blotting her tears and muffling her voice when she spoke. "What is there to do when you've been betrayed by someone you thought you could trust with everything?"

O'Brien's throat tightened. Did she know? Of course she did not know. Whatever her ladyship was alluding to, it had nothing to do with a maliciously placed bar of soap.

"Please, milady." O'Brien laid a hand to her back and rubbed small circles in the space between her ladyship's shoulder blades. "If there is anything I can do, please tell me. I hate to see you so distressed."

Cora turned and squeezed O'Brien's hand.

"You do quite enough for me as it is." She sighed. "No. This is something I must face on my own – and I will. I need to forgive those I love, and those who love me. Even if they have hurt me beyond what I thought possible."

Sarah's heart clenched with the secret she knew would stay burrowed in her heart till its final beat. A confession dangled on her lips, but her common sense reasserted itself and let it go no further. Although her Ladyship's words of assurance were not intended for her, O'Brien still felt that gnawing pain, that continual acid drip in her heart subside with the conviction that, had she known, her lady would indeed have forgiven her. This was Cora Crawley, and she was capable of no less.


Twelve days ago the breakfast table had been dismally thin, so Edith recalled. She could have labeled herself something of a parasite then, leeching any morsel of acknowledgement from parents too preoccupied to notice the shadow sitting beside them. Now, less than a fortnight later, the parlor was almost uncomfortably cramped. Chatter flew back and forth, side-to-side – at times even shockingly diagonal – but there was at least one seated among the throng whose mouth stayed perpetually closed and pensive.

For a little while Lady Mary knew she remained safe. Lord Grantham was engrossed in conversation with Sir Anthony to his right and had so far neglected the newspaper sitting perilously at his elbow. But when the flow of words between the two men ebbed and her father's hand began to creep towards the ironed stack, Lady Mary set down her fork, no longer even capable of the appearance of appetite.

It would be only seconds –

"What the devil?"

The headline would sink in –

"Mary! Have you seen this?"

And she would be lost to him forever –

"Mary! Mary, for heaven's sake, open your eyes and read this!"

His tone was unexpected, more urgent than disgusted, and when she heeded her father's command, snapping open her eyes to see the front page he held before her, she was shocked to read:

Sir Richard Carlisle Found Dead in London Office – Police Suspect Suicide

Bewildered, dizzied, at a complete loss for words until her eyes glanced over to the article situated just beside:

Sir Richard Carlisle Linked to War Profiteering

Stunned, speechless, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions until her eyes trailed down to the byline beneath:

By Tom Branson and Edith Crawley

Her eyes were glued to the latter name, and in due course they rose to rest upon her younger sister sitting directly across.

Brown eyes met green.

A silent pact was forged.

A truce.


The post-breakfast lull was anything but for the denizens of the servants' hall at a grand estate such as Downton Abbey. Under normal circumstances, the amount of scurrying betwixt the hours of nine and noon could rival that of a bloated rat's nest, but today – Christmas day – saw the one exception to the rule, when schedules were magnanimously rearranged to accommodate a simultaneous luncheon and gift exchange both above and below stairs.

The servants were nearly ready to sit down to their meal, and Carson had only minutes to accomplish the deed if he wanted to perform it sans the prying eyes of his many underlings.

He accosted Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room just as she was making to quit it.

"Well, Mr. Carson. Right on schedule, as usual," the housekeeper said while moving back inside the parlor and taking one of the open seats.

"We are creatures of habit, Mrs. Hughes, and I wouldn't have it any other way." He sat in the open chair beside hers, and without preamble Mrs. Hughes retrieved a package from her desk drawer and placed it into his lap. Removing the paper, Carson's grizzly eyebrows proceeded to shoot up high enough to nearly brush his hairline when he caught sight of the heavy tome within.

"A new copy of Burke's Peerage?"

"Your old one was getting a bit worse for the wear. I hate to think of you making preparations for some guest or other without knowing whether or not they can be traced back to the conqueror."

"Very clever of you, Mrs. Hughes." He'd been yearning for the newest edition but had not as yet breathed a word to anyone. "I suppose you think you've outdone me this year."

"There's only one way to find that out," she retorted, and held out her palm, into which he laid the typical small box, covered with an atypically ornate bow.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

She cocked an eye at him.

"Did you actually spend a little extra to get this wrapped up?" She jiggled the box lightly next to her ear, but heard nothing. "Another ornament, I presume?"

"Open it and see."

Off came the bow, the paper peeled back with painstaking neatness, and with a small amount of unaccountable nervousness (really, how many years would it take to cast off such girlish shyness when opening a gift from the butler?) Mrs. Hughes lifted the hinges on the small velveteen box and gasped at the contents.

"Heavens above!"

Sparkling like a midnight star: a solitary diamond set in a ring of polished white gold.

"Mr. Carson! Is this – is this what I think it is?"

"If you're thinking it is an engagement ring, then yes, you are correct."

"But they would never allow it!" she hissed in undertone. "We'd both lose our jobs, and –"

"Come now, Mrs. Hughes. Do you honestly believe I would propose marriage without every detail adequately provided for? I've already spoken to his Lordship and all the arrangements have been made." He cleared his throat. "That is, if you will accept me."

"But why now? After all this time…?"

"Because I love you, Elsie." And there it was, the elephant in the room that had sat pretty in the corner for nigh onto fifteen years, and with but five little words he had whipped off the Holland cover and exposed it for both to see.

There was no going back.

"Mr. Carson…Charles." She looked down at the ring. "I'm not sure what I should say."

"A housekeeper at a loss for words? Perish the thought." That lifted her eyes back up straight away, and he forestalled the severe scolding poised on her lips by grasping her hand. "Say yes," he whispered.

She swallowed down the lump rising in her throat.

"Of course my answer is yes," she clucked, and felt it reasonable to spend a few moments composing herself. They sat there, hands clasped together in companionable silence for several moments before she quietly asked, "Can I put it on?"

He raised her left hand to his lips, and kissed it softly.

"As long as you promise never to take it off."


"What do you think's going on in there?"

Ethel's pert gaze was zeroed in on the firmly shut door of the housekeeper's parlor. Apparently her moral journey had not subdued her inclination towards nosiness, and while she'd learned some lessons the hard way, it was clear she was still several miles off from perfection.

Anna quelled a laugh and adopted her best head-housemaid voice. "Whatever it is, you best leave it well alone. It's common knowledge not to interrupt Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes when they're speaking privately." Ethel had a retort roaring to go, but the subject was duly dropped when they heard a high pitched squeal sounding at the servant's entrance.

"Ethel! I'd like you to meet Mr. Mason!"

Trailing in Daisy's wake was a short man a few decades past middle age. He had a bounce in his step, and Ethel was mildly surprised at such a visual display of energy in one who seemed older than dirt.

"Hello, Mr. Mason," she said tentatively, shifting Charlie from her right hip to her left so she could shake the gentleman's hand.

"Miss Parks." He tipped his hat at the mother but his eyes were all for the child bobbing against her hip.

"This is Charlie," Ethel said, holding up the lad in front of her. "Would you like to hold him?"

"If you don't mind." Mr. Mason took the boy in his arms with a grin. "Oh, but he's a squirmy one! Just like my William was!"

Everyone present smiled at the sight, none more so than Anna, who felt a warm and familiar presence sneak up behind her and drape an arm across her shoulders.

Leaving the others, she and Bates left to carry out the errand that they'd both decided in the wee hours of morning would best be accomplished together. They came upon Miss O'Brien, freshly relieved from her duties upstairs, puffing away in her usual spot just outside the back entrance.

"And just what do you two want?" Sarah asked, blowing a column of smoke into their dopey faces as they shared a glance between them.

"To apologize," Anna said. "And to say thank you."

Sarah scoffed.

"I can't imagine what for."

"I know what you did, Miss O'Brien," John said. "Mr. Crawley and Mr. Bellamy explained how they received the evidence that exonerated me. You saved my life, and I think that warrants some gratitude."

"There's no need to thank me for doing the decent thing."

Anna smiled. "Even if there isn't, we wanted to do it all the same." They turned to leave, and were almost inside when Anna indulged in a final glance over her shoulder and a, "Happy Christmas, Miss O'Brien!" brushing shoulders with Thomas who was just on his way out.

He came to his place beside her, striking a match as he asked, "What did those two want?"

"To feel better about themselves, that's what," she sniped, but couldn't control the tiny smile on her face that evinced the even tinier swell in her heart.

The treacly moment was quickly over. With a brief nod, he said brusquely, "What you got for me?"

O'Brien smirked. "The usual," she said, and laid into his open hand a pack of fine Turkish cigarettes. "And me?" she asked, expecting a pack of gamblers in return, and was shocked when instead he plopped an ornately wrapped box into her arms.

"Thought I'd spring for something special, this year," he explained.

"That's some expensive paper you've got here." She looked at him with suspicion. "Don't tell me you're going bloody soft on me," she said, eyeing the green bow in distrust.

"Not likely. Girl at the shop wrapped it up for free after I complimented her scarf."

"Was it nice?"

"Ugly as sin."

Without another word Sarah began shredding through the wrapping, but she didn't get very far before recognizing the contents within. Her heart skipped several beats and she felt her knees wobbling like a bowl of trifle when she took in the sight – right here, in her very own hands – of the one item she'd daily dreamed of but never dared purchase for herself:

A new button box.

"It's…beautiful," O'Brien managed to choke out. "I…I've never seen its like."

Thomas reached over to awkwardly pat his friend's shoulder. If he'd known the soapy reaction his gift would have induced he would have tossed it into the lake as soon as present it to her. But she was happy, and any sacrifice to his comfort was a small price to pay for all the times she'd stuck her neck in the noose for him.

He gave one last, reassuring pat.

"Happy Christmas, O'Brien."


He felt markedly out of place amidst the lavish Christmas attire, every member of the family gussied up like a holiday parcel while he sat there mutely in a cheap suit, feeling like a lump of coal. What was the typical Crawley method for giving, receiving, and opening Christmas presents? Did they simply chuck packages into each other's laps like he did growing up in Dublin? Would they end the gift exchange with something akin to the traditional Branson beer and brawl?

Somehow that seemed unlikely.

"Papa and Mama always start by exchanging gifts with each other," Sybil whispered from beside him, and true to her word the Earl and Countess of Grantham turned and proffered to one another a set of handsomely decorated packages.

It was customary for the Earl of Grantham to purchase a new set of earrings for his wife's collection, and this Christmas he had chosen a pair of diamond studs.

"Oh, Robert. They're breathtaking."

"Hardly compares to the woman they're meant to adorn." She cast him a playful look, and he smiled. "But I'm glad you like them anyway."

Terse words and harsh whispers had filled the bulk of their morning as they spoke in the privacy of their bedroom. Apologies had been made, forgiveness had been granted. They were still not whole, but as Cora fingered the sparkling jewels in her palm, stones whose beauty would never fade, she felt the seams in her marriage begin to mend, and it was as good of a start as any in this brave new world.

Opposite the Lord and Lady of the manor sat Lady Rosamund and the fully recovered Viscount on the loveseat sofa. It was the first day he'd stepped foot out of the sickroom since the bout of stomach flu had seized him, and his mood was so much lifted at the release that he eschewed his natural silence to indulge in a bit of conversation.

"Happy Christmas, Lady Rosamund." Rosamund started at the unexpected sound.

"Thank you, my lord." She could not recall having once heard his voice the entire length of his stay, and was at a loss for words, settling at last on a trite reply to test the waters. "I know it's been a bit of an awkward holiday, but I hope you've enjoyed your stay at Downton."

"I have many fond memories of Christmas in the country, and this will no doubt fail to number among them."

Rosamund smiled. What a pleasant surprise!

"How heartwarming. And next I suppose you'll tell me I remind you of your late wife."

The Viscount grunted.

"Not at all. Harriet was a very nice woman, with a sweet disposition." At her abrupt laugh he cocked his head at her with a leery, "Might I ask what it is you find so amusing?"

"Oh, it's nothing my lord, only that I like a man who doesn't mince words."

Violet could not contain her chuckle when she caught her daughter's eyes waggle in that familiar, lascivious way. Her girl was never down for long – it was a family trait – and she took in the Viscount's alarmed expression with particular relish. That man had no idea what lay in store for him!

But the Dowager's happy thoughts were soon interrupted by a wicked elbow jab – her granddaughter's fidgeting from beside her was beginning to do more than simply irritate. "Sybil!" she snipped. "What on earth are you doing over there?"

Sybil ignored her Granny's question and continued to fish around in the small sack at her feet, retrieving from inside a trim little box. "For you, darling," she said with uncharacteristic shyness as she rose from her seat and knelt down on the floor in front of her husband.

Branson looked down at her askance – hadn't they said no gifts this year? – but said nothing, feeling the weight of every aristocratic eye lingering on his hand as he meticulously peeled back the wrapping paper, slowly removed the silver lid, gently pulled aside the crinkling white tissue, and at long last reached into the inner depths of the package to grasp and lift out a pair of atrociously knitted booties.

While his audience choked on a collective gasp, Branson brought the offensive needlework close to his face, examining the frayed, blob-like bits of yarn with an undecipherable expression on his face. Sybil held her breath.

"What are these?" he sputtered, his complete confusion drowned out by a sea of happy exclamations.

"How wonderful!"

"Absolutely marvelous!"

"My first grandchild!"

Sybil let out her breath. The Bransons' first visit back at Downton had been accomplished with much unease but very little throttling, and as she took in the happy squeals of her mother, the reluctant smile of her father, the amused eyebrows of her sisters, and – the best gift of all – the ecstatic expression of her husband, she could not recall a happier Christmas spent in her childhood home.


Matthew had, upon first arriving at Downton, considered the annual Christmas day post-luncheon snowball fight with something of wry bemusement. Of course, it hadn't snowed enough the first two years to partake of the tradition properly, and then the war had thrown such a damper over every subsequent Christmas that the ritual was temporarily abandoned altogether.

But it was the dawn of a new age, and while the other combatants prepared the ammunition out on the lawn, Matthew stood alone in the garden, working out the logistics of how to win over the one lady from whom his heart could never properly become disentangled, no matter how stupidly hard he tried.

The morning light had dispelled the storm clouds raging in his mind, and in the clearness of day, it had finally occurred to him what an utter fool he'd been – and not only in the last few days. There was much to be done if he was to win back his lady's favor, and he determined that the first step would be a gift of her favorite flower – blood red roses – the procurement of which would be difficult at this time of year. But no matter. Nothing would stop him from accomplishing it, and he rehearsed their delivery now:

He would get down upon one knee – no, only two knees would suffice. Tenderly he would reach for her hand and press into it the dozen long stems. They would be smooth, stripped of any thorn so as to preclude the possibility of nicking one of her delicate fingers. She would feel the absence, and remark upon it.

"A rose without thorns?" she would breathlessly ask, at which point the background music would romantically swell and he would swooningly reply:

"You're my thorn…"

It was in this position that Lady Mary stumbled upon her cousin, both knees buried in the snow and proffering to a blighted, frostbitten shrub an imaginary bouquet.

In her mind she was already wording a discreetly constructed request for a referral to Dr. Clarkson's most trusted psychiatrist, but aloud she said hesitantly, "Matthew? Is everything…quite alright?"

At her voice he hastily righted himself, trouser legs drenched and with the face of a guppy soon to be gobbled up by a shark.

"Mary!" he nearly shouted. She visibly started.

"Forgive me! I didn't mean to intrude, I –"

"No. No, please." He reached a hand towards her. "I very much desire to speak with you." A bitter swell rose in her breast – his desire had come several hours too late –and he interpreted her delayed response as leave to continue. "I should not have left you last night. I was very shocked, you see, and I –"

"Your actions are your own business, and there's no need for you to explain them," she cut in, crisp and smooth as a sharpened blade as she turned on her heel to leave. She had nearly made it to the lane that led to the gate when he at last caught up with her.

"Please, Mary," he begged, catching her by the arm. He spun her around to face him, but she avoided his gaze, choosing instead to peer down at the shriveled hydrangea to her right. "There is much I need to explain. I fear I have hurt you, which was never my intention. As I said, I was shocked, of course, but that was no excuse for –" he stopped here and laughed humorlessly. "What a cursed fool I am! It seems as though I am forever asking for your forgiveness."

"There's no need to feel foolish over that. You wouldn't be the first man to prefer making apologies to acting in a way so as to preclude them."

"Mary," he said quietly. "For once, let us not speak circles around each other."

His request caught her off-guard, and she looked up to him. His eyes were in earnest.

"What happened with Pamuk," he continued, "that was your business and years ago. I have no intention of making any judgment. "

Mary felt the beginnings of a sting pricking her eyes. Matthew wished her to speak plainly, to relay her heart directly to her voice without the veiling effects of bravado. But Mary was unused to living without masquerading, and in her meager attempt could do nothing but blurt out the first words that sprang into her throat.

"I didn't love him!"

She saw him soften at the declaration, and his next words were spoken through the thick film of emotion.

"What matters is not what happened then or even how you felt then. All I care for is how you feel now." He took her hand in his. "I love you, Mary. I love you and I've tried to deny it, I've tried to put it to death, and it was wrong of me! All of it! For there is nothing that would be a greater honor than loving you, save for knowing that my love is returned, and that you would consent to become my wife."

"Matthew?" she breathed. "Are you proposing? Now, after all this time?"

"Yes, I am." He shook his head. "I've been blind, I've been a fool, but I hope, I desperately hope, that it won't prevent me from becoming your husband."

She lifted her free hand to her face to capture the deluge his words had unleashed.

"If you could know," she cried. "If you could only know…the things I've longed to say but for the pride that has prevented me!"

"Don't let pride be an obstacle now. Let it never be an obstacle between us again."

"Very well, then." She sniffed. "I love you, Matthew. I never stopped loving you."

"Then you accept me?"

"Yes!" she cried, that sound between laughter and tears. "Yes, I do!"

And there, in a dying garden, he kissed her in the snow on Christmas day.


Across the white lawn, Edith's two beaus were bent over, stacking up neat rows of snowballs as she smiled dreamily, admiring the view.

"Got some options going for you, I see." Her smile quickly disappeared at the voice of her brother-in-law behind her.

"Yes," she said, but did not turn around. "It's rather strange, really. I'm not at all used it to it. When the gentlemen came, it was always for Mary, and then later Sybil. I'm used to grabbing for whatever I can, not actually having choices."

"Well, I don't want to complicate things for you," he said, and something in his tone caused Edith to crane her neck around, "but how would you like another?

The rest of her body followed suit and she was facing him fully when she asked, "What do you mean?"

"I had a call from my editor. He was impressed with your work and wants to offer you a job."

"Me?" she squeaked, bringing a hand to her chest for emphasis. "A journalist? Well, I – I've never thought of that before." Her green eyes lightened, but after a moment's consideration they darkened and she shook her head. "But wouldn't I have to move to Ireland?"

"Not exactly. You could be an occasional correspondent, send over editorials about life on the other side of the tracks. My editor thinks it could be of interest to our readership."

"I'm not sure what to say."

"Just think about it," he said with a grin, walking several paces off. Edith glanced towards her suitors, then back again toward Branson, and was struck with the complete reversal of fortunes that twelve days time could bring. Casting her face up to the sun, she removed one of her leather gloves and held her hand against the spotless blue sky, watching the light – the opportunity – dancing through her fingertips.

Mary strode by just then and informed the overwrought statue resembling her sister (how many times had their governess warned Edith about staring directly into the sun?) that the game would soon commence, and realized too late that her task had unfortunately lodged her into the rough vicinity of her brother-in-law. She had every intention of rebuffing the man, but Branson could never identify a proper snub when he saw one and actually had the audacity to look at her, even going so far as to bid her a "Happy Christmas, m'lady!"

Mary scowled.

She didn't like him. She would never like him. He was the chauffeur, for heaven's sake, and always would be. But more than that, he was Sybil's husband, the one who snatched away her baby sister's heart and settled it hundreds of miles away from her.

And yet, despise him as she may, he was still one half of her guardian angel.

Mary opened her mouth. She closed it. She rehearsed the hasty "Hello, Branson!" in her mind, but the message never quite made it to her mouth. It got stuck somewhere in the sensible portions of her brain, the part that knew Tom Branson deserved no words of acknowledgement from her.

And so, nodding her head once in his general direction, she left without a word, passing by her younger sister along the way.

Sybil's eyes trailed after her sister's retreating figure. "What was that all about?" she asked her husband. "Is Mary finally speaking to you?"

"Not quite. But I think she's almost there."

"Well she'll have plenty of opportunities, you can be sure of that," she said, overlooking the expression of horror that was now crossing his face. It was perhaps cruel to reference a future visit when their current one had not yet come to a close, but she paid no mind, and blithely hooked her arm into his and began tugging. "Come now, darling, we'd best move over to our side before the game starts."

His look of horror intensified.

"You mean to the family's side?" he asked, aghast.

"Well, of course!"

"I'm sorry, m'lady, but I'm afraid not. I'll be joining my fellow workers for the match, and that I do know."

"You can't be serious!" she cried. "You're part of the family now!" Her rage was such that she barely heard his muttering refutations, something about "rights of the common man" and "socialist immunity" – whatever that meant – and in due course other voices were added to his in promoting his stance.

"Forgive me, milady, but of course Mr. Branson is on our side!" Anna said. "You can't go stealing away our players just because you married them!" The other servants nodded in agreement, Daisy even punching the air with an exuberant "Ya, that's right!"

"Very well," Sybil said. "Then we are to be…opponents!" she cried, enunciating her point with a concealed snowball that she dexterously launched into her husband's insufferably smug face.

Very slowly and very methodically Branson wiped the ice out of his eyes.

"That was not very lady like," he said, low and menacing, advancing on his wife rapidly. A somewhat unearthly and not entirely human sound was shortly emitted from Sybil Branson's mouth as a handful of snow slid down the back of her frock.

"You monster!" she shrieked, the high pitch of her wail sending all the participants scattering to their respective ends and officially signaling the start of the battle royale.

Team Crawley found the obvious general in Lady Mary, who with stern confidence began issuing crisp orders to the family: "Matthew and Mr. Napier shall build the snow-trench defenses! Papa and Sir Anthony will maintain the ammunition reserves and act as moral support! Cousin Isobel is on medical detail! Sybil to scout out enemy territory – permission to use powers of seduction if required! Edith…. just try not to get in anyone's way…."

Team Servants would naturally have had the numbers advantage, had not many of them felt they had better ways to spend their afternoon off. O'Brien, for example, found the entire affair ridiculous, but her disdain for the sport did not stop her from solicitously shadowing her mistress as Cora stood serenely amidst the chaotic swirl, lobbing pathetically sized bits of snow at nothing in particular which inexplicably managed to pelt at least three unsuspecting hall boys. Mr. Carson, too, was missing from the battle, which left Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore to duke out which downstairs matron would be conferred the title of commander-in-chief.

"Grab that snowball, Daisy!"

"No, Daisy, come here and help build up a snow bunker!"

"She's got quick hands, she'll do better on the offensive!"

"I think I know Daisy well enough to decide where she'll best be useful!"

Daisy stood helplessly in no man's land, hopping from foot to foot as though standing on coals, until she was blasted by no less than half a dozen snowballs and dismissed from the match entirely.

Anna squeezed her beloved's hand and they shared a silent prayer for their fallen compatriot before propelling themselves over the snow wall and littering the opposition in a kamikaze style bombardment. Their raid was suicidal – both were soon found sprawled on the ground under piles of crushed ice – but effective: Matthew found his face plastered in snowy white residue which contained a yellowish hue he'd rather not dwell on, what with Isis scampering about, and collapsed dramatically into the snow.

"Mary! I've been hit!"

Mary ignored the craven whimpering of her beloved – causalities were a necessary sacrifice in any war, he should know that – her jet eyes burning like coals on the fire. Yes, yes, it was all coming together! Under her careful command she watched as each enemy soldier was meticulously felled by her brilliant stratagems. Thomas was taken out by a snowball to the back – quite fitting, she rather thought – and out of the corner of her eye she nearly gasped when Edith tripped and her snow ball went sailing into Lily's scowling face.

There remained only a few stragglers to the enemy's ranks, and she calculated with precision the best maneuvers to pick the last of them off. She would need Sybil – where was Sybil? – and searching the grounds she caught her sister approaching from the right, a single snowball perched in her hand.

"Sybil! I need you to distract them while I attack from their flank!"

Sybil smiled sweetly, and in one, deft stroke the snowball in her hand sailed through the air and splattered dead center between Lady Mary's perfectly coiffed eyebrows.

"So sorry, Mary, but I'm afraid I've been seduced to the other side."

Mary growled, and clenched her fists to the sky.

"Defector!" she cried up at the warm Christmas sun.


And up in a tower, in an unused and normally unoccupied room, two sets of wrinkled eyes were poised above, observing the silly fray as it spread across the snow covered lawn.

A posh, feminine voice was heard to decry: "Snow on Christmas!"

"A Christmas miracle, some might say."

"And look at them, Carson, all mingled together – engaging in a snowball fight, of all things. It's as though I'm in a poorly written novel!"

Carson chuckled, and after a measure of pause said with a more serious bent of voice, "I'm sure you've seen the headlines. Sir Richard is finished, and Lady Mary's scandal has died along with him."

"Yes. All it took was a well placed tip – by the by, you must remind me to send that cheque to your former colleague – and a bit of grand-parental nudging and off the eager pawns went to solve the mystery."

"And Marigold Shore is now firmly behind bars."

She chuckled victoriously. "One hint in Rosamund's ear about how much I loathed Lady Flintshire's current hair styles and I knew she would snatch up Shore in a thrice. After they arrived at Downton, well…. it was only a matter of time before my machinations managed to expose them."

"And yet you knew who the real the real murderer was. Your perception is uncanny, to say the least."

"Hardly. Shrimpy's a fool if he thinks he can hide anything from his Aunt Violet."

He'd had the foresight to bring a tea service up to the drafty room and poured her a cup. Handing it to her, he asked, "And the footmen, my lady?"

"What? Oh, that. That was pure chance. I'd no notion they were infecting the food, I simply wanted that ghastly barbershop shut down. Have you seen the haircuts the young ladies are walking around with these days?"

"So you've managed it all."

"As I always do." She took a warm sip and cast him a sly eye. "Though not without help. If experience has taught me anything it's that behind every mastermind there is always a capable butler standing in the shadows."

There was no arguing with that.

Together they watched the occupants of Downton Abbey – bedraggled and drenched in snow, and laughing together as they ambled back inside the house. Above and below stairs, they lived and breathed together, woven into the fabric of the house that Violet had considered her home for nearly sixty years.

She smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Carson."

"Merry Christmas, my lady."

END

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Or is it…?

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IRRELEVENT EPILOGUE!

Watching from above, she gave what she thought would be a contented sigh, had she still the capacity for breathing.

"And so they're happy, in the end." She smiled sweetly. "It's what I always wanted for him – for both of them."

He looked over to her. She was nodding with such equal portions of serenity and stupidity – how the girl never made Angel was beyond him – that he could no longer withhold the contemptuous chuckle from tripping out of his mouth.

"Completely boring, if you ask me," he sneered. "The eldest daughter engaged to the future heir? Too neat and tidy by half. Give me something more interesting, more scandalous!"

"But they love each other!" cried another voice, the starchy earnestness causing him to groan. "They love each other more than anything and deserve to be together despite all that's happened. It was a good thing Captain Crawley survived, so that he and Lady Mary could have their happy ending!"

Such insipidity induced another long groan. The boy should count himself lucky that the three of them no longer had anything like a stomach, else Kemal might have nearly vomited – but there were other ways he could spew his vitriol.

"Spoken like true cannon fodder…." he drawled, prompting a fierce look out of Miss Swire.

"Don't be so unfeeling, Kemal!" she reproached, and turning said, "I agree with you, William. It's love that matters in the end, not circumstances. Just look at Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson – so happy together, even if this world never intended them for each other."

Kemal examined his fingernails, once again inwardly bewailing that he had failed to get that last manicure before his midnight rendezvous in Lady Mary's bedchamber. Cursed with such imperfect cuticles for all eternity – now that was the real hell.

Or was it?

"Am I really doomed to spend eternity listening to such tripe?" he moaned, bringing both hands up in a great show of covering his eyes, not exactly sure why he bothered with the dramatic, for he could see straight through the incorporeal appendages to where Miss Swire was levitating, fists clenched dangerously, ever closer to being pushed to her breaking point.

"It would certainly take an eternity for you to grow anything like a sense of decency!"

"My, my – the inner flame at last breaks through the fire grate." Kemal floated to where she hovered, rank disapproval evident on her pale, ghostly face. "These moments when your fiery nature comes out – I would say I live for them, but I'm not sure that idiom quite applies here –"

"You're completely insufferable!" she snapped.

"Better to be insufferable than disposable!"

"Please!" William begged. "Could you stop fighting? I hate it when you two fight!"

"Don't worry, William – mommy and daddy always make up, now don't we?" Kemal soothed, making a show of patting the footman's lumpy head fondly while he tossed a saucy wink to a fuming Miss Swire. "Ah, but you're such a sensitive thing, William, always going to pieces over the mildest bickering. It's a wonder you survived a world at war for as long as you did."

William's form flickered, the ghostly equivalent of unabashed bristling.

"I may not like quarreling, but I considered it an honor to fight for my country and my countrymen."

"And for your 'girl' as well?" Kemal asked slyly, laughing when he saw William flinch. "Yes, all your flowery speeches about love and nonsense, and yet your own wife didn't even care for you!"

Miss Swire flew to William's side, consoling.

"Don't listen to him, William, he's only trying to bait you."

"Just telling the truth is more like it," Kemal corrected. "Daisy told you herself how she lied to you – and at your own gravesite, no less!"

William was quiet for a few moments. "Daisy did what she thought right, and I don't fault her for it. I'm just glad I was able to take care of her."

Kemal sighed. His goading had reaped little reward, and as he took in William's rather heroic and dopey gaze, all the Turk could feel was vague disappointment. Wearily he turned towards Miss Swire, hoping that she, at least, might not have yet eschewed with the last traces of her dignity.

"And what about you?" Kemal asked. "I suppose you're just happy to be out of the way so the love birds can finally take flight." Lavinia cast her eyes down at the lovers, and gave a watery smile.

"I'm happy they're happy. Of course I am."

Kemal rubbed at his intangible temples, the effect of which rendered him looking as though to claw out his brain. William Mason and Lavinia Swire – two peas in a pod, the selfless among selfless – and both more than grateful for being given the chance to cast their very lives aside to make way for the happy union of Matthew and Mary Crawley.

And he stuck with them for time everlasting.

"I'm surrounded by martyrs!" Kemal wailed. "What have I ever done to deserve this?"

END


WHEW! Like I said, I am so happy to be done! And I think I have explained everything satisfactorily. If something doesn't make sense just assume Violet is omniscient :D

I'd like to thank everyone who read, reviewed, or even just perused for the parts with their favorite characters (not that I could ever be accused of doing that *COUGH*). Your kind comments have really helped motivate me and I appreciate all of you for taking the time!

I know it's little late to bid you all a "Merry Christmas", so instead I will just say happy waiting till Series 3!

:)