AN: I hope everyone has been having a peaceful and enjoyable festive season; this will be probably be the final update before the New Year. Slide on your lifejackets, fellow shipmates, angst ahoy...

"I suppose you'll be driving yourself to Veronica's this evening?" Sir Anthony smiled over breakfast one Friday morning. Edith had received her licence, paid for by her generous employer, the week before, once Veronica had pronounced her a proficient enough driver.

Edith returned the smile. "If you'll lend me the Rolls, sir."

"Of course, my dear. I didn't pay five shillings not to."

"Can't you drive me to school this morning, Mrs C.?" Pip piped up. It was the last week of term, and Pip was itching to be on holiday. "Hardly any of the other chaps have mothers who can drive."

There was silence for a second, both adults staring at Pip, before he realised what he had said and flushed bright red. "Um… I - I'm sorry, Mrs C., I - "

"Yes," Edith interrupted brightly, "of course I'll drive you. It'll give your papa time to get on with all that horrid paperwork I've left on his desk." Kindly, she suggested, "Why don't you go and get your things together? Meet you on the front step in… ten minutes?"

Still crimson from his hairline to his collar, Pip nodded and fled.

Edith and Anthony exchanged looks and then, quite suddenly, burst into hearty laughter.

Pip was silent for much of the journey. Edith could feel him shooting her little sidelong glances. At length, he exploded.

"I'm sorry for being so forward at breakfast, Mrs C."

Edith pulled up at a junction, and looked at him. "I don't know that you were forward, exactly, my dear. You gave your papa and I quite a laugh, truly."

Pip looked out of the window, chewing his lip. "It's just… well, you're a bit… a bit like having a mother again, I s'pose."

"Am I, indeed?" Edith asked, releasing the handbrake and turning left, a tone of faint amusement in her voice.

Pip nodded enthusiastically. "Well, you scold like one. And you give nice hugs and sew buttons back on and sit with Papa in the evenings. But… I didn't… I didn't mean to insult you."

Edith wrapped her free arm briefly around Pip's shoulders and squeezed. "Darling, the very last thing I am is insulted. If I were ever to have a son, then I should hope that he would be exactly like you."

"Really?" Pip whispered, eyes glowing.

"Really really."

The motorcar club was a little quiet that evening - Isobel was at home, not wanting to leave Lavinia now that her baby was two weeks' overdue; Claudia and Hugh had had an influx of grandchildren; the Montgomeries were with their boys, home from school already for the summer (a point that had been the cause of much indignation in Pip when he had heard); and Miss Hargreaves was accompanying a school trip to the seaside at Whitby.

So it was that, at the end of the evening, when the members gathered in Veronica's library, Edith found herself somehow being drawn into conversation with Lady Fyfe. Really, Edith was not sure how it had happened, but Mrs Bentley was haranguing Veronica about the church bazaar ("Really, my dear, I'm sure you can spare an hour to stand on a stall for me, can't you?") and Flora was poring over the latest fashion magazines with Miss Bentley ("Hmm… I'm not quite sure about the buttons on this skirt. What do you think, Lady Flora?")

"My dear…" Lady Fyfe murmured in Edith's ear, "you might not think very much of me… we certainly haven't been friends… but I would like to warn you…"

"Warn me?" Edith tipped her head back, lips pursed. "About what, exactly?" Her voice was too cold to be polite, but she didn't care. After what Bertie had said - Your cousin and Lady Fyfe suggested that it might be worth my asking again - she had no inclination whatsoever to be nice to her. Isobel might have been acting out of kindness and care, but Lady Fyfe would have had no object other than satisfying her own jealousy, and getting Edith out of the way, leaving her path to Sir Anthony supposedly clear.

"About Sir Anthony." Lady Fyfe laid a faux-concerned hand on Edith's arm which she shook off immediately. "I must tell you… his attentions towards you have not gone… unnoticed."

Edith's face flamed red. "I have no earthly idea what you're talking about," she managed. She was lying, and she had never been good at that.

Lady Fyfe lifted a pitying, derisive eyebrow and in that moment, Edith could have struck her, were it not for the others in the room. "Concerts?" she pointed out, voice dripping with disbelief. "Trips to London? He's making no secret of the fact that he finds you attractive, my dear. And his behaviour is raising eyebrows. Just a friendly warning - you wouldn't want your reputation to be called into question, after all…"

"Sir Anthony has never behaved with anything other than absolute propriety towards me." Edith could hear her voice shaking as she uttered the lie. "I think that only someone with an exceptionally low mind might think otherwise, my lady."

"Please, don't let yourself be tricked, my dear." Lady Fyfe shook her head almost sadly. "After all, it wouldn't be the first time…"

Edith swallowed and the breath went out of her. "I don't - I don't understand."

"My dear… just think about what you know about the late, lamented Lady Strallan." Virginia's voice was still quiet and it dripped condescension. "A silly, flirtatious, frivolous chit of a girl. Does that really fit with what you know about Sir Anthony, about what a man like that would want in a wife?" She tutted. "Of course, I don't blame him - men will, after all, be men - but you know, he never would have married her if she hadn't seduced him first." Her eyebrows lifted sadly. "He has a taste, shall we say, for the less than respectable - especially in women. A habit of… not worrying overmuch about the bonds of matrimony. And, whatever we may feel about each other, I would hate for you to find that out… first hand."

Edith felt her heart thump, once, twice, painfully. "That is a lie," she managed. "A foul slander. How dare you? How dare you even think of impugning the honour of a man like him?" Her voice trembled and anger made her reckless. "Is this because he didn't want to marry you?"

"No." Lady Fyfe shook her head. "Believe what you like, my dear, but I am telling you these things because they are the truth." She chuckled sadly. "If you don't believe me, then ask Claudia. She'll tell you everything you need to know." Her ladyship's eyebrow lifted sardonically. "I trust that you will accept her word?"

Edith didn't reply. Almost blindly, she shot to her feet. "Veronica," she blurted out, "I'm terribly sorry - I think I must go."

"Are you all right, my dear?" Flora asked anxiously. "You look terribly pale."

"Mmm," agreed Veronica, frowning. "Don't want you ending up in a ditch somewhere, Edie."

Edith shook her head firmly. "N-no. I'm fine. Bit tired. Thank you, for a lovely evening. Goodnight, everyone."

She drove home very slowly and carefully, keeping a firm lid on the ache that was rising in her throat, her hands clenched tightly around the Rolls' steering wheel. She slipped in through Locksley's front door, studiously avoiding the glimmer of light coming from the library passage, locked up the front door and slipped away upstairs with all the silence of a mouse. Mrs Dale met her on the landing. "Oh, you're home early, my lamb! Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"No," Edith lied, "just a little tired. I'm turning straight in. Goodnight, Mrs Dale."

A few hours later, Mrs Dale went into the library, to empty the ash tray and collect the whisky tray. Sir Anthony frowned sleepily up at her from his armchair. "Oh, hello, Mrs Dale. What time is it?"

"Just gone midnight, sir."

His frown deepened. "Oh? That's odd - has Mrs Crawley arrived back yet?"

Mrs Dale nodded. "Why, yes, sir - just after half past nine. She was tired and went straight to bed. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Dale. I'm sorry for keeping you all up. Please, tell Stewart I shall be up in five minutes."

"Of course, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mrs Dale," he murmured, but there was something troubled in his eyes as he rose from the armchair and set aside his book.

Claudia's butler was terribly surprised to see Mrs Crawley in the hallway at such an hour of the morning. "Hello, Mrs Crawley. An errand from Sir Anthony?"

"Yes. Something like that." Edith knew her voice sounded odd - trembly and tight - but she was too wound up to care. "Is Lady Gervas available?"

Her ladyship was available. Of course she would see Mrs Crawley. Edith was shown through to Claudia's comfortable sitting room, all soft squishy sofas and footstools, with Jasper curled up on the window-seat, snoozing in a patch of sunlight.

"Oh, do sit down, Edith dear. I'm just finishing a letter, but I shall be with you in two ticks," Claudia smiled from her bureau. "Davis, Mrs Crawley will be joining me for tea."

Edith lowered herself somewhat unsteadily onto the sofa as the butler bowed and slipped from the room. She would have rather been allowed to pace. Her hands fisted in her skirt, sieving the slightly rough wool through her fingers. How would she begin? Now that she was here, it seemed ridiculous - and yet she knew that Lady Fyfe would not have suggested it if there were not some truth to the matter. Edith knew that she was here not because she expected to have her ladyship exposed as a liar, but because she wanted to know the worst - to be told it plainly and honestly, by someone she could trust. What she would do after that, she couldn't say.

Briskly, Claudia signed off the letter, waved it to dry the ink, folded it in half and slipped it into the already addressed and stamped envelope. "Now, what can I help you with?" she beamed, settling herself on the sofa next to Edith in a cloud of soft violet scent.

Edith took a deep steadying breath. "Oh… it's… rather awkward. I - I was talking to Lady Fyfe today. A-about Sir Anthony."

Was she mistaken, or did she see Lady Gervas's eyelashes flutter as if in surprise? Cautiously, Claudia repeated, "About Anthony?" Her chuckle was fragile and the sound of it dropped like lead into Edith's belly. "Whatever can she have had to say about him?"

"She - she seemed to believe that - that Sir Anthony's behaviour towards his wife… before they were married was… somewhat less than honourable." Edith chanced a glance at her friend, trying not to sink further into the sofa in her embarrassment. "And… and I came to ask whether… whether she was being truthful, or just… just…"

"Just her usual spiteful self?" Claudia asked wryly, an eyebrow lifted disapprovingly. "Well, out with it, my dear, the full tale - you've piqued my curiosity now."

Edith took a breath. "She seemed to think that - that Sir Anthony had… had… that he and Lady Strallan… before wedlock…" She couldn't force the words out of her mouth, no matter how hard she tried, could not ruin the cosy tranquility of Claudia's sitting room with such foulness.

Claudia sighed heavily. "Ah. What you're trying to ask me, I believe, is whether Anthony and Maude went to bed with each other before they were married."

She sounded so completely unsurprised that Edith found herself suddenly able to look at her. Her mouth felt dry and bitter with tension. "Are - " she croaked; and then coughed and swallowed. Claudia poured her her cup of tea; gratefully, Edith took a sip from it. "Are you saying that it's true?" Edith managed to whisper.

"My dear…" Claudia sighed, her eyes brimming with sympathy. "I hope that I haven't shocked you - Anthony - "

"No," Edith interrupted; she couldn't bear to hear whatever it was that Lady Gervas was trying to say. "As you say, it's better to be in full possession of all the facts, in any situation." Quickly, she rose to her feet, setting aside her cup. "Thank you, Lady Gervas. I won't take up any more of your time. You've been… most helpful."

She saw Claudia rising to her feet, an expression of compassionate sympathy crossing her face, but she could not bear, either, to stay and hear her try to justify her friend's disgraceful behaviour. She marched very steadily from the room, collected her coat from the footman (glad beyond measure that Claudia had not tried to follow her) and went out to the car.

The betrayal was searing - as if someone had physically sliced her open with a kitchen knife, one of those horridly sharp ones with a wicked, serrated edge. Edith drove quickly away from the Gervases' house - got herself back onto the main road, and a good mile or so away, before she pulled over in the Rolls, turned the engine off, buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

He had done that. He had gone to bed with a woman before she was his wife, before she was even his fiancee, by the sounds of things. What had he done to Maude, that Michael had not done to her? At least Michael had never made any secret of the fact that he was not free to marry her - that all he was offering was a casual, if long-term, dalliance. But he - he had been free to marry Maude in the usual way, he had had no need of deception and immorality and -

Any thought of such a connection repulsed her now. It was repugnant, disgusting, nauseating. Connections such as that were made for the convenience of men - and only of men. As she had found out - as had been brought starkly home to her when she had lost the baby - in situations such as that, the woman bore all the risk. Hers alone would be the shame and the humiliation and the loss of reputation were such an illicit affair to be discovered by anyone outside of her immediate family. A man could disentangle himself with really very little difficulty - unless the affair were made public, unless his lover became with child (and that only if she were of his class), he could walk away, start again, seduce some other poor, impressionable, innocent girl.

And Anthony Strallan, whom she had built up to be such a great man, such a hero… when it came down to it, he was just as dishonest and shabby and lustful as every other man in Creation.

It was the hypocrisy of it that bit at her most of all, she thought, that he could rail so against men like Michael and Larry Grey, and not show the slightest trace of shame, or merest hint that he, too, had once behaved in such a way, had once ruined a girl.

Had he wanted to marry her? Maude? Or had someone discovered their relationship? He never would have married her if she hadn't seduced him first, Lady Fyfe had said. Well, Edith wasn't sure what to think about that, about who had been responsible. Had she seduced him, or was that just Lady Fyfe's own petty unwillingness to believe anything bad of her darling Anthony?

Well, Edith had no such scruples.

She felt, in that moment, that she could believe anybody capable of anything. If even Anthony Strallan - kind, noble, honourable, steady, decent Anthony Strallan - could have his way with a woman before marrying her, then there was no goodness left in the world, no honour, no kindness, no nobility, no decency.

Edith took a deep, shaking breath. The hour was drawing on. She had to get back to Locksley before she was missed.

And then… she knew not what she would do.

She managed for the rest of the day, forcing smiles in Pip's company, and avoiding solitude with Sir Anthony. After dinner, she pled a headache from the sun, and fled to bed.

Breakfast the next morning was more awkward still - Pip was shovelling food into his mouth at a rate of knots, eager to escape off with some school chums, and Edith could only pick at her food, her stomach still a hot, broiling mess of rage and grief.

By ten o'clock, the confrontation could not be put off any longer. It was Sir Anthony who finally broached the silence. "I wish I knew what I had said or - or done to - to put this wall up between us." He came to stand by her desk, his voice doing a creditable impression of someone very upset indeed. Edith almost laughed - a bitter laugh, to be sure - at how wonderful a liar, how skilled a manipulator he was, and how foolish she herself had been to allow herself to be lied to and manipulated for so very, very long.

"I don't know what you mean, sir." She kept her eyes fixed on her paperwork, refusing to look up. It was the height of rudeness, but hurt had made her reckless. Who cared if he thought her rude?

"I thought that we… were a partnership." His voice was helpless. "Friends."

Now Edith could not hold back her savage amusement - she let out a dry, bitter chuckle. "A friend to whom you pay sixteen shillings a week, sir, is no friend at all."

"I don't understand."

It nearly broke her, that soft, quiet, hurt voice. He almost sounded… sorry. As if he truly believed himself to blame, and wished to correct whatever he had done wrong.

"I don't want to - to give the wrong impression," she managed, to her shame. But it was true. If Lady Fyfe had seen the connection between them, had started to make assumptions, then others would follow. How many other people in Sir Anthony's circle were aware of his predilections? The Gervases, certainly. Mrs Montgomery? Veronica? And if she let it go on, then all too soon, they would assume that she was his mistress and her character - for the second time in her life - would be irreparably ruined in the eyes of the world at large. She could not risk it. She would not risk it - certainly not for a man like Anthony Strallan!

"You haven't, not to me." Suddenly, he asked, "Has someone said something to you? Something unkind? Accused you of something?"

"No, sir. Please excuse me, I have an awful lot of work to do." It was a brisk, not altogether polite dismissal.

"Of course," Anthony murmured, unable to shake the feeling, as he left the library, that his secretary was about to cry.

Two more days of silence ensued. Mrs Crawley discharged her work with perfect efficiency, was helpful to the staff and lively in Pip's presence, but the moment she and Anthony were left alone, she would sink once more into frosty, severe politeness.

At last, after too many sleepless nights wondering what had caused such a sudden change, Anthony could bear it no longer. "Mrs Crawley, I - I do wish that you would tell me what has happened to distress you so much."

"I - "

"And do not even think of telling me that it is nothing," Sir Anthony interrupted firmly. "We cannot continue like this. If I have offended you in some way, then much better to have it all out in the open and clear the air." He sat down and gestured between them. "So… what is it?"

Edith took a deep breath. She needed to get it all out in one breath, really, no matter that it would embarrass her to speak the words, no matter that he would think her prying and impertinent and -

"I was talking to Lady Fyfe on Friday evening and she made me privy to certain - certain pieces of information, regarding your marriage to Lady Strallan, and - and what led to it."

"I see." His eyebrows knitted together briefly, but his voice remained perfectly even and polite.

"And then, because I was so very shocked by what I had learned, I went to Lady Gervas, who categorically confirmed all of those reports. So… if you must know why I have been so distressed, as you put it - " Edith stopped, realising that her voice was had risen in volume and taken on a spiteful tone. With an effort she controlled herself. He might be little better than an animal, but she could still behave with propriety. "If you must know why I have been so distressed, then that is why. It is because I have discovered that a man whom I have respected and admired has been capable of such - such a lack of all gentlemanly behaviours." There was a long silence, broken only by the tap of soft raindrops - a sudden summer shower - against the window panes. "Well?" she challenged him eventually. "Will you deny it, sir?"

"No," he admitted, heavily, after a moment. "No. I will not deny it. I will not deny that I ruined my wife's character before our marriage." She let out a little choked gasp and he closed his eyes briefly. "I will not deny that that was the reason why we were married so very quickly." He met her eyes. "Claudia and Ginny were perfectly right to tell you. I ought to have done so myself. Your reputation - "

"Damn my reputation," she snapped, eyes blazing. "How could you? How could you be such a hypocrite? Whenever I have been angry about Papa, or Michael - or even Bertie, for Heaven's sakes! - that was the one thing that reassured me, the one thing that made me feel as if there were still some good in the world. I used to think 'at least Anthony Strallan is a decent person - at least Anthony Strallan would never behave so callously'. Well, just how wrong can one woman be?"

"Edith…" he tried.

"Don't." She almost spat the word at him, flinching at the sound of her Christian name falling from his lips. "Don't even think of trying to justify yourself. Is that why you've been so kind? Because you were hoping for the favour to be returned? I suppose, given my past behaviour, I oughtn't to be surprised. I've ruined myself once, why on Earth shouldn't you assume that I'd do it again?" Her voice dripped poison.

"No!" He couldn't hide the horrified disgust in his voice. Was that what she thought? That he was some sort of lecherous cad who had been trying to seduce her? "God, no! That was absolutely not what I was thinking. I…"

"When would I have realised, I wonder?" she continued, as if she had not heard him. "Knowing my own stupidity, not until I was flat on my back with your hand up my skirt!" That was what had happened before, after all, wasn't it? That first night with Michael, she hadn't really focused on what was going to happen until he had pressed her back into the sofa cushions and started to lift her dress.

He winced at her words. "Oh, I'm so sorry." Edith's voice shook with anger. "Was that awfully crude of me? Of course, in future, I shall ensure that I don't say anything else of an improper or unladylike nature in your presence. You being such a gentleman, sir."

She marched for the door; his hand reached out to stop her and she jerked away. "Don't touch me! Don't you ever lay a finger on me again!"

"Edith, please - "

"You'll have my resignation on your desk in the morning." She swallowed. "After that… I'll be leaving as soon as possible. Don't even think of trying to persuade me to stay."

Well, that was it. His own stupidity brought back to ruin him, just when he had least expected it, just when he had believed happiness to be within his grasp. He had been a young idiot, had let his feelings run away with him, and while everything had turned out as happily as it could in the circumstances, he had been a fool to think that he would escape so easily. That no one would ever think to inquire a little more deeply into the circumstances surrounding such a very hasty marriage.

He was sickened with himself. He'd hurt two women he'd claimed to care about - one thirteen years ago, and another just five minutes earlier. Three, if you counted Ginny.

Ginny. His lip curled. Well, he could hardly blame her. No doubt she'd been feeling spiteful - not surprising, given his behaviour towards her - or perhaps she truly had been trying to do Edith a good turn, and warn her about the sort of man with whom she'd been planning on getting herself involved.

What did it matter now, anyway?

Edith was distraught, and intent on leaving, and there was nothing he could do to persuade her otherwise. He did not even think he deserved to try. After all, it was all his own fault. He had been young and stupid, and had let himself get carried away. Maude had been passionate and willing and when she had said, "Anthony. Yes. Please." … well, he had not had the strength to turn her away. Of course, Edith, with all her awful experiences of men and their carelessness, would not understand, and he could not expect her to.

He buried his face in his hands. He was an idiot. An idiot of the first degree - and he had broken Edith's heart.