Lavinia gave birth to her baby, a hale and hearty boy, in the third week of August. When Edith motored over to visit - anything to avoid spending any more time at Locksley than her duties necessitated - she found Lady Grantham tired but smiling, and her husband every inch the proud and devoted father. "You can hold him if you like, Edith," he offered as they all sat together in Lavinia's dayroom, the Countess stretched out on a sofa in nightdress and dressing gown, her red hair loose over her shoulders.

"Oh, no," Edith demurred. "He looks so comfortable with you, Matthew." She could not forget, after all, what had happened the last time she had had an infant placed in her arms, and she had no desire for a repeat performance, not in front of her distract them from pressing her further, "Have you had any thoughts about names?" she asked.

Lavinia smiled proudly. "George Reginald, after Matthew's brother and our papas."

"It was very sweet of you to think of it, Lavinia," agreed Isobel, her eyes a little misty. At that moment, baby George shifted in his father's arms, woke and began to cry. "Oh, now there's a hungry little chap," his grandmother smiled, swiping hastily underneath her eyes.

Carefully, Matthew settled his heir into Lavinia's arms. "Edith, can I offer you some tea downstairs?"

"Thank you, Matthew, that would be lovely."

In the library, well-supplied with tea and cake, Edith said, "You must be very happy, Matthew."

He grinned boyishly at her over his teacup. "I am. It's certainly a weight off my mind, knowing that the - the succession is secured, if that doesn't sound too medieval."

"Not at all," Edith reassured him. "It's an important consideration. And Lavinia looks very well."

"Yes," he agreed. A faint, troubled look passed over his face. "Do you know, I was rather worried about her? With the baby being so late and… it was a long labour, and he's so big…"

Edith squeezed his hand. "But she had your mother, and Dr Clarkson with her. They'd never have let her come to any harm."

"No, no, of course not." But he didn't sound convinced.

Edith refilled his teacup. "Lavinia's very lucky to have a husband who cares about her as much as you do, Matthew."

He smiled, but Edith - long practised at feigning polite emotions in company - could tell that it was forced. "Not really. I'm sure I just exasperated her." Thoughtfully, he shook his head, and when he next spoke, it was almost as if he had forgotten that Edith was there. "It's funny, you know… I never expected things to look so different once the baby was born. But… he's changed everything."

"Edith?" Veronica asked over tea one day. "Are you still looking for a new job?"

"Yes." It was now almost September - hence Edith's thoroughly gloomy voice. For some reason, there just didn't seem to be anything suitable being advertised just now. Perking up as the true sense of what Veronica was saying sunk in, she added, "Why - do you need a secretary?"

"No. Flora's invaded and colonised there, I'm afraid." At Flora's exclamation of half-amused indignation, Veronica smiled, "And a very efficient job you make of it, too, my darling." Turning her attention back to Edith, she continued, "No. My old headmistress is looking for one. She runs a girls' school in Somerset. She's absolutely terrifying, but utterly brilliant." She grinned sheepishly. "Although… perhaps don't tell her that you're an acquaintance of mine. Let's just say that I… wasn't her least troublesome student."

As they watched Edith motor away down the drive later, Flora sighed. "I wish you wouldn't encourage her, V."

Veronica frowned. "What do you mean?"

Flora shot her a speaking glance. "Encourage her to leave Anthony. They'll both be made dreadfully miserable by it."

Veronica half-scowled. "And she isn't dreadfully miserable now?" Tucking her arm into Flora's, she tugged them back inside. "She'll never leave, anyway, no matter how many interviews she has. It's been two whole months since the bomb went off - if she was really intending to leave, she'd have jolly well left by now. But perhaps… a couple of days away from Anthony will make her see how good she has it at Locksley." Veronica raised her eyebrows. "Certainly better than she'd have it slaving away for the wicked witch of the west coast."

"Oh. Well… that's rather clever." Flora frowned. "What will you do if she accepts the job, though?"

"Plan B, I s'pose."

"And what's that?"

Veronica shrugged a little guiltily. "Er… not sure, yet." Quickly, she kissed Flora's cheek. "Better get your thinking cap on, old girl."

Edith easily found the advertisement Veronica had been talking about, and sent a letter of application the next morning. A reply came by the afternoon post the following day, inviting her to an interview. Edith sighed in relief as she read it through: if only she could secure this position, her problems would be solved. She would be away from Locksley, for good and proper, away from Sir Anthony, with his hypocrisy and his lack of honour… and his smiles that still had the power to melt her insides into a puddle. Oh, yes, she truly needed to get away now, before her resolve weakened any further, and she ended up ruined again.

His secretary's news burst in on Anthony quite suddenly the following morning. Mrs Crawley rested five immaculately typed letters on his desk and announced, "I have an interview for a new position, next week." At his lifted eyebrows, she added, "There's a girls' school in Somerset where the headmistress is looking for a secretary. She's very advanced - they sent five girls to Oxford last year. She even has a doctorate in Ancient Greek."

Silence. Edith wondered why she had felt it necessary to expand on that initial statement at all. At length, Sir Anthony replied, "It sounds perfect. Surrounded by children and educated women? You'll be in your element."

"Yes," Edith admitted, "I rather think I will." There was a flicker of a smile, which Anthony began to return, but then she stepped back and the smile died, and she added, somewhat coldly, "The interview is next Tuesday."

"You'll want to go down the day before, I would have thought."

"Yes. If it can be arranged. It's rather a long way to travel."

"Of course." He nodded. "Good."

Edith waited by his desk. Almost impatiently, he looked up. "I've drafted an advertisement for my job." One slim hand pointed out an additional slip of paper, resting atop his typed correspondence. "I thought you ought to approve it. Really, it should have been arranged before now."

Anthony glanced down at it:

Secretary, male: required for estate business, accounts and archiving. Locksley Hall, nr. Ripon, Yorkshire.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Male?" Edith did not reply, only looked steadily at him until his mouth quirked bitterly. "Ah, of course. I am not to be trusted with the reputations of any more impressionable young ladies."

"No," Edith answered, blunt and brief.

Sir Anthony shook his head and then handed the advertisement back to her. "Very well. Have it posted, Mrs Crawley."

"Very good, Sir Anthony."

"Richard?"

He looked up from his desk and blinked tiredly at the sight of his wife - hair loose down her back, swathed in only a very thin nightgown - hovering in the study doorway. The light from the hallway shone through it, making it almost transparent, leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination. Richard grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How long had it been, now, since they had last…? Damn Mary. The minx knew precisely what she was doing.

"What is it?" He focused on his paperwork, to try and dull the ache between his legs.

Silence, save the hiss of soft fabric brushing the floor as she stepped closer, until she was standing directly in front of the desk, in his line of sight again. "I - Aren't you coming to bed?"

"Too much to do." What time was it anyway? Despite his assertion, he set aside his pen. "I'll try not to wake you going through to the dressing room."

He heard a strange noise in Mary's throat, as if she were suppressing a sob. Ridiculous. Mary made a point of never crying.

"You don't have to carry on sleeping there, you know." A pause, and she added, as if confessing to some great weakness, "I - I rather find that I miss you."

"Do you, indeed?"

He sounded almost bored. Another sob caught in Mary's throat. Had she really pushed him so far away that she would never be able to get him back?

Since George had been born, things had… cooled somewhat between her and Matthew. He had been meant to come down to London the previous week, but he had written to cancel. And, in all honesty, she had been relieved. This time away from him had made so very many things clear - not least of which was that she was still very much in love - and in lust - with her husband.

Richard was sensible and clever. They were partners, equals. He didn't believe that she needed coddling or fussing over - a habit of Matthew's that had always irritated her. And recently… well, she had missed that way that they had of working together - solving problems, fixing things. She missed his hand squeezing hers, the I know I can rely on you, darling's, the sense of satisfaction when their little team of two came out on top. She missed the smugness he had about him when he took her to bed, loving her so well that it seemed that he knew her own body better than she did.

In any case, whatever Matthew did or did not feel for Lavinia, she knew now that the situation was utterly different for her and Richard. She had walked in the grass on the other side, and it most certainly had not been greener. All she wanted now was to put all of that silly nonsense behind her and look to the future.

"Yes." She stepped closer, sliding round the desk and knelt beside him, her hand curving over his thigh. "Please, Richard. I want you."

He snorted derisively. "Really? We don't talk properly for months - I can hardly do a thing right… but as soon as you get a little itchy, you'll forgive and forget?"

"I've been a beast. I know I have." Mary shrugged, with a sense of defeat that surprised him. "There's no law that says you can't be cross when you bed me, you know."

To her surprise, he huffed out a laugh. "You mightn't enjoy that much, you know."

Mary's hand brushed lightly along his thigh, making his head drop back against the top of his chair. "How do you know, if you won't try?" she teased quietly.

Suddenly, they were both smiling - shyly, bashfully, the way they had done on their wedding night. "Damn you," Richard muttered, and buried his hand in her hair.

Mary leant into his touch, closing her eyes, letting him pull her up into a rough, open-mouthed kiss. She slid onto his lap, and felt his hand tugging the skirt of her nightgown up, his fingers clinging hard to her thigh. "God, I've missed you," he whispered desperately. He sounded twenty years younger and lost with it. "God, Mary - I love you - "

Mary clung to him, arms tight around his neck, burying her tears of love and regret and guilt into his broad, sturdy shoulder. "I love you too," she whispered - and meant it.

Afterwards, Richard heaved himself to his feet - Mary's long limbs wrapped around him - staggered the few steps to the sofa and sank them down onto it, tugging at the blanket from the back of it to cover them. "Aren't we going to bed?" Mary asked sleepily into his shoulder.

Richard shook his head. "Don't think my old legs will carry us that far, darling. You can slum it for one night, can't you?"

Mary lifted her head from his chest briefly, the blanket slipping from her bare shoulders a little. "You said that to me when you brought me to this house after our wedding," she observed, a touch of dry amusement in her voice.

He huffed out a laugh, as Mary continued, "Half the rooms were still unfurnished, you didn't even have a cook, and there was a hole in the roof."

"It was a work-in-progress," he protested, kissing her hair. "We were a work-in-progress." He tugged the blanket more firmly around them. "Mary… if you ever regretted me… if you ever regretted taking me on…"

Her hands tightened around him. "I don't."

"But if you ever did…"

"Well, that's by the by, isn't it?" she whispered. "I wouldn't… Richard, I'd never abandon you." There was a moment of silence and then, as if she had realised that she had slipped too far into sentimentality, she added, coolly, "You'd never manage without me, you know. I'd be a monster to make you…"