A little later, the same day

Daisy bit into an apple turnover. It was still dark, and from the corner of her eye she saw that the clock at the station struck six o' clock in the morning. They couldn't leave yet as there was some sort of delay.

Daisy shook her head. It was still winter, so what did she expect? Her slight fingers held on to the warm turnover more tightly. William was sipping tea from the cap of the flask. It was thoughtful of Mrs. Patmore to have made them a flask full of sweet, milky tea—the cook knew that both her kitchen maid (and the kitchen maid's husband) liked it. After finishing his tea, William filled the cap of the flask with tea again, and handed it to Daisy. "Drink it," he said. "Much warmer for your stomach," he added. Daisy did so, and she mused, "I'm glad you didn't see winter while the war were going on."

"Why?" asked William.

"Well...I can imagine it's cold over there. Remember when we read about the soldiers who didn't fight with the Germans on Christmas day in 1914?" William nodded, and Daisy continued, "I said that the reason that they didn't fight because it was too cold to do so, and they all laughed. Miss O' Brien said I was being silly, and told me to shut up. But I read th' paper that day after all the servants read it. And I looked for th' page for th' weather, and it said it was biting cold that day. I remember b'cause Mr. Carson were moody that day, an' Mr. Bates were acting strange too."

William nodded. He remembered that day clearly.

Boxing Day, 1914

Morning

There was to be no Servants' Ball; that much was certain. William heard Lord Grantham converse with Mr. Carson, until the duration of the war. There was talk that the way things are going, the war could possibly five years more. Mrs. Patmore was in a state, because she was worried about one of her nephews who went into war, as if it was a lark.

The detritus of the breakfast was cleared, and William was free from his duties upstairs. Lady Sybil was looking daggers at her parents again because she wanted to do real war work, but was not allowed to. William understood exactly how Lady Sybil felt. A few days ago on his day off, he had begged and pleaded with his father to allow him to go, but to no avail. Instead, his father gave him a new bicycle, in order to convince him not to leave.

William saw Daisy at one end of the table, knitting socks for the hall boys who left Downton to fight. Would she knit socks for me, if ever I would be allowed to go? He couldn't help but wonder. Daisy only knitted for the hall boys, and William had a small, nasty sense of satisfaction that she didn't knit Thomas' socks (that lot went to Miss O'Brien). It was a feeling that William stamped down in an instant, because he was more envious than satisfied. Thomas was fighting for King and Country, after all, and he wasn't.

Just a week ago, William had received another white feather. It was the third one that he received, and he didn't show it to Daisy anymore, because she would feel bad. Sympathy was what he didn't need, he needed support. Someone who would tell him to stand up to his father and go to enlist—but he knew he couldn't go and break his father's heart anyway.

"There you go," Branson said, handing the newspaper to William, who took it from the chauffeur. "Your turn to read the paper."

Absently, William began read the paper, but was later gasping slightly at the headline. "BRITISH, FRENCH AND GERMAN TROOPS DECLARE TRUCE FOR CHRISTMAS DAY". Daisy, it seemed, heard him gasp, and she looked up. "S'anything wrong, William?" she asked, putting down her knitting. William shook his head, and said, "Look, how extraordinary. The fighting's stopped, just for Christmas."

Daisy forgot that there were other people in the Servants' Hall, and she walked over to William and began to read the news article over his shoulder, her hands clasped at her back. "I suppose it's too cold for them to fight so they just sang carols instead," she mused. "After all, it's Christmas." The scullery maids tittered at that, and Anna and Lily smothered a giggle. Miss O'Brien was peevish. "Will you shut up, girl? Of course they shouldn't have stopped fighting. They don't care if it was Christmas or bloody Easter. Don't be so silly, Daisy."

Abashed, Daisy spoke no more and read the article over William's shoulder in silence.

The present day, later in the morning

At Malton

Dad was there in his horse and wagonette. William sat beside his father and Daisy at the back of the wagonette. The drive was cheerful, and the three of them began to catch up with each other. A new foal had just been born, and Dad was looking to buy a new breed of pigs—and what would William think of those Saddlebacks? He would show them the pictures in the magazine at lunch, which he did.

Dad had hired a housekeeper, Meggie Blewett. Meggie was a widow who lived at the end of Pike Corner, and was bored out of her wits. Meggie's granddaughter Millie was now a grown child of four, and she thought that her mother should be able to take care of her. Her son, Phil (Millie's father) had a wooden leg (an injury he received at Vittorio Venetto), and couldn't do much in manner of farm chores. Instead, he worked at the post office, where he sat down and sorted mail, took care of postal bank accounts, and all manner of less strenuous work. Because Phil had steady income and so did her youngest daughter Caroline who now works as a nurse's assistant in Easingwold—her work as a VAD helped matters—meant that Meggie didn't have any problems where finances were concerned. But as she told Abner Mason, she was bored out of her wits, and wanted something new to do.

Meggie welcomed the young couple warmly. "This be William already, Ab? Such a strapping lad! Why, I remember him as a wee bairn in nappies." Turning to Daisy, she said, "You must be William's wife—Daisy, isn't it? Such a bonnie lass. William has chosen well. Can ye cook lassie?" When Daisy nodded and said that she worked as a kitchen maid, and therefore helped cook, the housekeeper's estimation of her grew. Dad's housekeeper reminded Daisy of Mrs. Patmore—with less of the shouting and shrieking. Meggie also had red hair, but she had wide, alert blue eyes. Daisy would never say it in front of anyone, but she suddenly missed her shouting, shrieking superior.

Lunch was a hearty, delicious meal, courtesy of Meggie (as she preferred to be called). Despite rationing, she had managed to whip up a steak and kidney pie, and a large hunk of oven-baked ham materialised. There were also baked potatoes, which Meggie artfully cut up and baked with cheese and bacon, cut into tiny bits. A large loaf of sourdough bread was also present, and an earthenware crock contained butter, in the shape of a clover. For pudding, there was—there was...

Suddenly, Daisy remembered the cake in the burlap bag. She saw it earlier this morning, cleverly wrapped in brown paper, with an envelope, which was secured by twine. "Oh! I remembered something! Mrs. Patmore gave us cake!" Daisy went to an old balloon-backed chair with a faded red velvet seat, where the bag was placed. She took a rectangular shaped package from the bag, and later put it on the table. William took the package and untied the twine, and handed the envelope to Daisy, who opened it, and read the note aloud. "Dear Mr. Mason, as William and Daisy are to have two days off, I am extending my Christmas greetings to William, Daisy and yourself. Here is a cake that both your son and your daughter-in-law like the most, and I cordially hope that it proves satisfactory to one's palate. A lovely Boxing Day to your family. Yours, Beryl Patmore. "

"Who's Beryl Patmore?" Meggie asked.

"She's the cook in the house William and me work in," Daisy piped shyly. "She's taught me a lot of things. I'm her kitchen maid."

"Tell her when you get back that it was very thoughtful of her to send one for us. We'll save it for pudding at supper," Dad said.

Glasgow Central Hotel

The same day, at forenoon

Edith was having a bad ten minutes, debating whether she should hire a cab and go to Philip's house. Funnier still was the fact that she called Captain Dunbar Philip. When and how she started calling him by his Christian name, she didn't know. Probably after opening his letter to her—which she did the night before, and had been reading it over and over again while in the train.

24 December 1918

Dear Edith,

I hope I can already call you that—you have insisted upon me calling you by your Christian name alone but I am afraid I am not as presumptuous. But in my mind, I call you Edith—without the Lady. No matter what you have told me—all your secrets—they remain safe with me. You remain a lady to me.

I deeply regret that I couldn't spend Christmas at Downton. My cousin, who has been like a brother to me is getting married in a few days, and he wants me to be there. However, my thoughts are with you—I do hope you had fun decorating the tree. You've looked forward to it, and may I be frank with you? I wish I could have seen you do it. Maybe I could have helped you. I've helped Mummy and my sisters decorate our tree, and I've always thought it great fun to do, and looked forward to doing it—after all those years of war.

And speaking of trees, this is why I am writing to you. It may sound so sudden to you—but it's not for me. I couldn't take my eyes off you, the day we first met, when you were taking charge of the health of your footman. I was thinking all sorts of mean things about so many things about you, and you have gone and proved me wrong. In some ways, I need to more about you—the months that I've spent working with you on the care of convalescents only gave me a glimpse. As I am writing this, I found myself thinking of you—how you would decorate the Christmas tree at Downton, and how I imagined you in a house of my own, decorating a Christmas tree, with a dog underneath it.

As a daughter of an earl, no doubt you would not want to leave the life you are used to—balls, hunts, the dinner parties, and fine frocks—all that to live a life of a surgeon's wife. I would totally understand if you wouldn't. But I need to say it—and it surprises me that despite the short amount of time we have spent together, I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life without you, now that I've met you.

This letter sounds as incoherent as I already am. But I need to put this in writing—how I feel about you.

Your Philip.

After reading the letter, which was the first thing she had opened after opening the box, Edith's mind was all agog. Despite the tone of the letter, she wondered if he left the "s" off intentionally, or accidentally. But she felt the same way about him, in a way she could not properly say. Since Edith was a little girl, she kept her feelings to herself—joy, rage, fear. So far, the only emotion she had ever expressed all her life was grief—and felt that she would mourn Patrick all the days of her life. Probably Strallan too—God only knows where he was—but being friends with—well, meeting Philip Dunbar gave her some sort of hope in her life.

Here was a man who she could discuss things openly with, and even argue with them, but still, remain in cordial terms with. And such humour! On his very good days, Philip could make her laugh until her sides ached. He told her about the day he came looking for his dog when he was a little boy, skipping the afternoon classes at school when he learned that his dog was missing, only to find out that it followed him to school and hid behind the coat closet. At thirteen, he was sent to boarding school in Edinburgh—his parents reminded Edith of her late Cousin Reginald and the very much living Cousin Isobel. They certainly had enough to send Cousin Matthew to Radley, and on to university. Although she wouldn't admit it, Edith, like Sybil, envied her cousin because he went to school, and they didn't. Mary didn't seem to mind, however.

The night before

Downton

Edith's bedroom

Edith almost forgot about the other contents of the box, which contained a book about the birds in Scotland, a box of McCowan's toffees (Edith only knew of the toffees from Parkinson's in Doncaster, and was curious about the Scottish ones—Philip remembered Edith's wish to taste the particular confection), a woolly scarf, with a note pinned on it (Philip's younger sister Anne knitted it for a present, as she wanted to give the girl her older brother talked so much about a present), a small notebook filled with flowers, painted in watercolour. Edith noticed the familiar initials: PAD—Philip Andrew Dunbar. A note from him, secured by a paper clip, explained that as a young boy (and until the present) he loved to draw and paint—a skill that proved to be useful when he studied medicine in Edinburgh, as he was required to draw and label some diagrams after dissecting so many living creatures, including humans. The flowers painted and drawn were the flowers most commonly seen in Scotland.

Another package was wrapped in red and white candy striped paper, and tied with twine. Edith untied the twine. Taking a letter opener from her writing table, she opened the package, which contained two folders filled with music sheets of every song imaginable.

All my favourite songs, thought Edith.

Philip, Edith thought, must have put much thought in making the present. Funny, she didn't think of him as an officer—to her, he was a friend, if nothing more.

Don't fool yourself, Edith. You know you want more. The fact that he wrote you meant something. So, what are you going to do?

Gingerly, Edith pulled herself up from the floor, and she looked at herself in the mirror. She didn't look anything out of the ordinary, but at least she had courage. Courage to take the bull by its horns, as Grandmama Levinson would say. Quickly, Edith thought of a plan. Since she was still dressed in her evening finery, she would tiptoe to the small library to see if Major Clarkson was still there. If not, she would call the hospital, and ask for Captain Dunbar's address, with a story concocted to achieve her desired result. Fortunately for her, it wasn't necessary, when she went downstairs. She saw Major Clarkson, drinking wine, while conversing with Cousin Matthew.

"Major Clarkson, might I have a few minutes with you?" Edith said rather quietly, her hands clasped at her back. On one hand, her fingers were crossed.

"Certainly, Lady Edith, what can I do for you?" asked the major. Edith couldn't believe her luck, and took a deep breath.

"May I have your nephew's address?" she inquired as calmly as she could, as if she was taking care of details for a picnic.

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" was Major Clarkson's kerflummoxed inquiry.

"I would like to have Captain Dunbar's address. In Glasgow." Here I go, Edith thought. She tried to imagine her baby sister Sybil and what she would do if she needed or wanted something. Putting on the sunniest of smiles, Edith ploughed on. "Well, after months of working with your nephew, Major Clarkson, I am glad to think of myself as his friend. He has been very kind to me (the whitest of white lies—Philip, indeed, had been kind to her, on his cordial days—and to Edith, they seemed to be so happenstance, that she relished every moment), and I would like to send him a token of friendship."

"Can't it wait, Lady Edith? After all, he would be back New Years' Eve."

Putting on a smile that rivalled Sybil's sunniest, Edith shook her head. "Absolutely not, Major Clarkson. Please understand."

The major sighed, and reluctantly, he finally gave his assent. He knew his nephew well. "All right. Should he growl and grouse about it, on your head be it." Which translated to, I wash my hands off this if anything untoward happens. "Give me a pencil and a piece of paper," was Major Clarkson's request. He scribbled on a piece of paper the address of his younger sister—Philip's mother.

Edith smiled at Major Clarkson. Victory, she thought. "Thank you," she said, in a tone so heartfelt that Clarkson stared at her as she left, wondering how she made his taciturn nephew a little more sociable.

That night, she started packing for a three day trip, something that she accomplished with amazing expediency. She threw whatever smart item of clothing she could wear in the suitcase—blouses, skirts, frocks that didn't require much care, and wrote necessary notes to the necessary people—but decided to write a general letter. God only knows how Papa would react.

Back to the present

Later on, she realised that she had not brought her bedroom slippers. Edith thought that it didn't matter. The flooring of her suite was carpeted; her feet sank into it. And it felt good, really, really good.

Her mind was still debating whether or not to go.

You're here now, won't you take the leap? A little voice inside Edith said. Ignore what the others say. Hire a cab, go and see him. Gamble, Edith. Gamble.

Which was exactly what she did.

And she found herself calling the reception desk downstairs to ask them to call for a cab. Her hands shook as she tried to smooth her hair before putting her hat on again. She took out the slip of paper into which Major Clarkson had scrawled his nephew's address.

Here goes nothing, Edith thought, and took a deep breath.

Downton Abbey

Earlier, the same day

Mary Josephine Crawley stared helplessly at her younger sister Edith's letter—a note, rather. While she knew of her baby sister Sybil's "romantic involvement (as she preferred to call it)" with the chauffeur, she knew little of what went on with her other sister's mind, let alone her heart. They were still in the process of mending fences. At first, it was difficult trying to be pleasant to Edith, but there was a war and there were more important things to think about. Edith, on the other hand, went out of her way to be pleasant, which surprised Mary most. Mary thought she and Edith have gone a long way in trying to get along with each other—she confided to Edith that she was relieved Richard Carlisle would not be present at the family Christmas dinner, and in turn, Edith supported that relief. Mary even teased Edith about the Scottish Captain Dunbar, and there was something in Edith's tone that made her think something was going on. But what?

26 December 1918

Dear Papa, Mama, Mary and Sybil,

It has been difficult to write this, but I find that I must. Today, I will be in a train to Glasgow, to take care of an important matter. It's about someone I know very well, and am very fond of, and something has happened, and I cannot rest until I see for myself that my friend is happy and well.

Will be gone for a few days.

All my love, E.

In spite of her bewilderment, Mary grinned. Her sister was indeed a Crawley. Once there was something she felt she should accomplish, there was nothing anyone can do to stop her. As her Grandmama Levinson would say, Edith would be "taking the bull by its horns". Mary was certain there were no bulls in Britain. In America probably they would be plentiful. Suddenly, she found herself laughing. If Edith did what she suspected—to see Dunbar—then her sister had more spunk than she thought. And if Edith was able to make that gamble, why couldn't she? If Richard survives from the flu, she would break things with him—scandal or no scandal. The man she really loved knew the truth. And Matthew said that he would never despise her. Perhaps in time?

A puzzled Sybil walked toward her eldest sister, whose back was against Edith's door and a letter was in her hands.

"Edith's in Glasgow. Golly. I think I know who she's going to see." Mary was smiling, but it was not a smug smile. It was more of amusement and amazement—in a good way.

"Captain Dunbar," Sybil said in agreement. "I've always known. The way he looks at her. All the time. And the way they interact—you'd think at first glance that they hate each other to the bone, but it's a different kind of tension—Miss Lambert would say it's a frisson." Mary nodded. She remembered their former governess, a very clever young woman, and the only one Sybil adored. Mary toyed with the fringes of her shawl. Both she and Sybil were still in nightgowns, sitting outside their sister's door. "Edith asked me if she and I could get along together in the future, but I told her I doubted it could happen." Mary sighed. "But she's trying, I'll give her that. I suppose there's no harm in giving it a go."

"Are you going to tell Mama and Papa where exactly she's gone?" asked Sybil. Mary shook her head. "In her shoes, I would have gone to Manchester if that's where Matthew chooses to live instead of at Downton."

I know, I know, another late update. Am attending a training course at work, and it requires full concentration! Still have two weeks more, then it's over. The next chapter would reveal a step up in William and Daisy's marriage, Philip Dunbar's reaction to Edith's surprise visit, and a delivery of a mysterious telegram for Mary—something that could change her life. Can't wait to start on Chapter 15!