First and foremost: I do not own Downton Abbey, any characters or situations related to it. If you recognize it, it's probably not mine. The mistakes, however – those are all mine.
Note: Edith is going to spend some time thinking back about her wedding-that-wasn't, which means lots of thinking about Anthony, angst, and canon typical ableism/internalized ableism.

I. 18 October 1920 [Monday]

The past is prologue. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Clichés were on Lady Edith Crawley's mind, most likely because they were all over the draft of her latest journalistic endeavor. Each one was an affront to her sensibilities, and she was itching to begin her red pen purge. She had not moved to London to be cliché, she'd moved to London to, at twenty-eight, begin living (this was in itself perhaps the most cliché of her clichés, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge that, as was her right).

The rebirth of Edith Crawley had begun with a letter. Well, a reply really. An offer. Offer was both accurate and sounded more literary. The offer was a position as a featured columnist in The Sketch magazine. Encouraged by Him she had several months ago sent out a few pieces she had written. At the time they had been her means of coping with the world, impassioned arguments against imaginary foes (only most of them were unexpressed rebuttals to her father's politics) about what challenges she thought face Britain and what best to do about them: Veterans: Honoring them without actually helping their material, mental, and physical wellbeing was hollow. Women: Well before the war half the population had demonstrated great capabilities but after their efforts on the Homefront, to deny the vote to a group who had sacrificed and suffered (just because, as Sybil once angrily put it, they did not have a penis,) was ludicrous, illogical, and offensive, and so on. In the excitement of her engagement and the depression that followed she'd forgotten she had contacted publishers. Then she heard back from The Sketch. Now here she was, paid to write. She'd like to think that at least Sybil would be proud of her. She'd grabbed the offer with both hands and did her best not to look back.

The second daughter of the seventh Earl of Grantham entered The Sketch main office with a determined bounce in her step. This was her shot. She would not throw away her shot.

"Morning Edith." Opal Larson greeted her warmly as she entered the office. The auburn-haired woman was already seated at her desk, pince-nez glasses perched on her slightly snub nose. Opal was Michael Gregson's personal secretary and the office manager for the editorial side of the magazine. The artistic aspect of The Sketch was handled on the floor below, managed by an equally effective but decidedly less personable woman name Weaver. Edith was content to have only met the woman once. She reminded her of the unpleasant German governess she and Patrick hid from as children.

"Hello Opal. How are you?"

"I am as I ever will be until they make something stronger than coffee – tolerable and awake." Even without a terrible foil to improve her Edith would have liked Opal, behind her exceptionally sweet face and bright voice was a dry and wicked mind.

"Tolerable and awake are still a far sight better than some." Edith found herself quipping, cocking an eyebrow at the darkened glass office of the Editor-in-Chief.

"Best make yourself comfortable, I have no idea when he will be in, he hasn't telephoned, and he has no appointments until much later. His Lordship will deign us with his presence eventually. No offence."

Another quality Edith admired about Opal was how little she paid attention to titles. She could use them properly – there was no Lady Crawley or other slips, but she also did not hang on them. All her life people deferred – at times even sniveled because she was a Lady. Her family expected this reverence. They were special, they were peers. Edith found this constant eggshell walking tiresome. Also, if she wanted her modern independence, she damn well couldn't hold her family name over everyone.

"Miss Larson that is no way to apologize to a Lady for offense caused." Her most devoted syncopate was here. Opal had been concerned for no reason.

"Mr. Gregson, good morning."

"Michael, please, Lady Edith." He did have a nice smile and he flashed it at her as he spoke. It was not nearly as nice as other, shier, warmer smiles… No Edith Violet none of that.

"Then, once again, I must insist, I'm simply Edith." Gregson crossed to his office, throwing her another smile so bright it could light Piccadilly.

"There's nothing simple about you, Edith." Opal's bark of a laugh only vaguely sounds like a cough. Edith wished she could be so free with her reactions. She'd not heard many flirtatious statements in her life, growing up next to Mary and Sybil, but that was hands down the worst.

"I have a draft of my article ready for your first round of comments. I confess I like my topic, but I'm underwhelmed by my prose. Your criticism is not just welcomed its needed – badly."

"Lay-Edith, I sincerely doubt there is even a comma splice." It was a monumental feat of self-restraint that kept her from rolling her eyes.

"Your confidence in me is appreciated if misplaced." For a moment Gregson appeared like he might protest but ultimately did not. Thank God. She was in no mood to get into a flattery. If the editor wished to charm her, he would do better identifying what was off in her argument rather than trying to convince her it was perfect when it plainly was not. He was always so good with critique – clear, precise, critical yet supportive and kind.

Edith, she scolded herself. The first stop toward moving on was to stop comparing other men to Him, or at least his positive attributes. Gregson probably would not wait until the vows to tell her he had doubts. He skimmed her article, eyes skipping along the prose like a stone across a lake. His perusal offered a few minutes of silence for Edith to observe her surroundings. She had been in Michael Gregson's office five times now. The first time she had been rather overwhelmed – by both the offer and the amount of wood in his office, it was like she'd stepped inside of an oak tree. Wood floors, wooden shelves, large wooden desk, and even larger wooden bar. Beadboard and wainscoting, chair rail all in the same stain. What was not wooden was painted a very dull ecru. Edith was not an architect by any stretch, but she had grown up with Cora Levinson Crawley for a mother. Detail and design were inherited on the material side. Michael Gregson's décor was an affront.

Three of her subsequent visits were spent cataloging all the decorative differences she would make if given the opportunity. This visit she felt confident in the colors she would use to highlight the beautiful detail work on the ceiling and turned her attention to the bookcases. Shelves were built into the wall opposite the desk, and thus behind Edith. Even though he was reading it would be rude to turn her back on the editor to stare around his office. It also wasn't necessary, one look at the shelves told her what she needed to know – they were beautiful five shelves, deep, and nearly empty of books. There were several lovely pieces clearly imported or brought back personally from abroad and while Edith would never begrudge a person the rhetorical device of a souvenir, it felt so unbalanced - all the knickknacks and no literature. The library at Downton was by far more well-rounded, a balance of books with art and sentimental pieces.

First thing she would do if she had those shelves would be to fill them appropriately – with books. Periodicals, copies of The Sketch would not go amiss. She could not fully trust a person who did not have books. Then, once she'd collected the texts she wanted, she'd work on collecting the memories and mementos.

"Like I predicted, this is just perfect, Edith." He had finished his "reading", he could not have paid too much attention if he thought it was perfect.

"All the same, Mr. Gregson, I think I can make it better. Do you have any suggestions? Even just to vary the word choice."

"As far as I'm concerned, it's fit to print, Edith. However, if you wish to fiddle with perfection the boys in printing won't need final copy for another week." Edith nodded and reached for her draft. He withheld it. "What did I say about calling me Michael?" There was that smile again, handsome and oh so charming.

"I'll get you a final draft to sign off on before then, Michael." Edith smiled back.

#

"Opal, may I impose upon you for a favor?" The effective assistance looked up from her typing.

"What can I do for you?"

"I have a draft of my article that is in desperate need of editing, However, Mr. Gregson seems to be willfully blind to its faults. Would you please do me the tremendous favor of telling me what is wrong with my agreement. I cannot put my finger on it." Opal extended her hand for the pages.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you so much, Opal. Please do not hesitate to rip it apart." Opal took her Oxford spectacles off and rubbed the red marks on the bridge of her nose. She smiled.

"I'll give it a good look. How about you stop by my flat for dinner, say Wednesday?" Lori, my flat mate, tells me I'm harsh. Food will soften the blow I think." Edith laughed.

"That does sound lovely. You must tell me what I should bring."

"Aside from a thick skin?"

"Aside from that." Growing up with an older sister like Mary meant if nothing else Edith's skin was quite thick.

"I'll consult with Lori and let you know."

"Do!"

#

Edith returned to Bond House after her morning at The Sketch office and an early afternoon errand. She had been staying with her Aunt Rosamund since she came to London, a month ago. After the Wedding-That-Wasn't her father had been uncharacteristically sympathetic and offered to open Grantham House for he to hide in.

For her to bury her shame in the house would be hers, but for her writing career Edith had not even bothered to ask. She had leaned over the years to pick her battles. Aunt Rosamund was a God-sent. She understood. Neither Cora, nor Robert understood Edith like Rosamund Painswick. When she was little Edith used to dream she was really Rosamund's daughter raised at Downton for secret reasons. It explained why she looked so unlike her sisters. Alas, and alack, this was not a gothic novel, but only her sad life. Aunt Rosamund was not her mother, but she was a wonderful champion, nonetheless. She had welcomed her into her home for the indefinite future, and even taken out an enthusiastic subscription to The Sketch once Edith was made a fulltime contributor, something she was certain her own parents had not done.

Edith found her aunt in the sitting room, cup of tea in one hand and worn copy of The Tempest in the other. She hadn't changed out of her day dress, but had thrown on over the top a long, unfashionable, old cardigan. Edith recognized it, fondly, as one of Uncle Marmaduke's sweaters. Marmaduke Painswick had not been a diamond of the first water, but he had dearly loved Aunt Rosamund and Rosamund had dearly loved him. Together they had given her some of her happiest memories. Uncle Marm, as she often called him, had also loved Shakespeare. He'd wooed Rosamund with the Bard. He could recite all of the major passages at the drop of the hat and often he'd drop the hat himself. Always have a monologue prepared, you don't know when you'll need it, he'd often say. Marm had made her learn a few, when she was little, quizzing her on them every night they were together. She'd forgotten most of what he'd drilled her on in the intervening years, but there were a few passages that she could recite in his memory.

"Be not afeared; the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight, and hurt not." Rosamund looked up, tipping her head back against the wingback and smiling at her middle niece. She closed the book over her finger. The Tempest had been Marmaduke's particular favorite, of the comedies at least. Rosamund read it every year around his birthday.

"I'm not quite there yet." She said with a small, sat grin. "How was your day, dearheart?" Edith slipped her shoes off and curled up on the sofa as her Aunt rang for Mead to bring another teacup.

"Fine," Edith sighed. "I'm having some trouble with my latest article." Mead arrived with the teacup and a fresh pot of tea as they talked through her argument as well as all the tangents they found along the way.

"Do you have great plans for dinner Wednesday?" Edith finally asked, the tea drunk down to the dregs.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about that." Rosamund shifted in her seat.

"Oh?"

"You first." Edith, shifted on the sofa, tilting her knees to the other side. It would be the first time since she'd had a social engagement of her own since she'd begun living with Rosamund. She could feel her Aunt's perceptive gaze bore into her.

"I've been invited to dinner, Wednesday, by a colleague from work. If we've no prior engagement, I'd like to accept the invitation."

"Oh, thank God!" Rosamund let out a whoop. "It's about time, dearheart, I was beginning to worry about you." Rosamund rubbed her hands together with a clap. She'd not pushed, she'd not pried the entire time Edith had been staying with her. Oh, she'd drug her out to various outings – teas, charity committee meetings, the occasional concert, dress fittings and the like. But she'd not said a word when Edith shut herself in her room or the library, when she stayed home. Rosamund's silent understanding was a blessing, but with each passing week it had become more and more a curse. It had not started as pity but pity it had become.

"So, you won't mind if I don't dine with you Wednesday?"

"Mind! Edie, dearheart, heaven's no." Rosamund leaned forward in her chair, a smart smile playing across her marsala colored lips.

"You wanted to talk to me about Wednesday, yourself?" Edith prompted.

"Yes, well, I was going to say: it's time, dearheart."

"Time?" Edith knew what her Aunt was getting at, although she wished she didn't. As much as Rosamund understood her and loved her, Rosamund was still very much Violet Crawley's daughter.

"Time you got out there again." That Dowager Countess gleam was in her grey eyes and Edith knew that Rosamund wasn't just talking about going to a play. "I was planning on throwing a little dinner party, just a small get together…" there it was. She should be grateful, Rosamund had given her months before throwing eligible bachelors at her.

"Just a few friends?" Edith asked wryly Aunt Rosamund did have the good grace to give her a rueful smile.

"Dearheart, it was a disappointment and a setback, but it's time to start moving forward again. I don't have any expectations for the night, truly, but you need to get your feet wet again." A disappointment. Just a little "setback". She'd felt her heart smash into a million jagged pieces, cutting and stabbing her until she bled dry at the altar of Downton church. She didn't want to get her feet wet, never again. She wanted to hate Him for what he had done to her, but she found she couldn't – not really. And since she couldn't hate him, she wanted him back. She'd do anything to have him back in her life again, with his shy, lopsided smiles, perceptive blue eyes, smart tweeds, and smarter conversations. But since she couldn't have that either, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone with a cat, a well-stocked library, and an even better stocked wine cellar.

"You really have no expectations?" Edith challenged her aunt, an eyebrow arched so clear and high it was unmistakable who her grandame was. Rosamund returned the look tenfold, that imperious, knowing look was less watered down in her, after all.

"I expect you to be prompt, polite, and pleasant and nothing beyond that." The 'this time' was implied. There was no way she could put her Aunt off, not while living under her roof for so long and having the hope to remain far longer yet.

"I will mind all of my 'p's and even my 'q's, if you would schedule this 'get together' any day but Wednesday." Rosamund sat back in her chair, Cheshire cat smile splitting her features.

"Dearheart, I'll do you one better and give you a full week's reprieve."

#

Edith retreated to her room later that evening, she and Aunt Rosamund had taken dinner in the less formal breakfast room. They hadn't bothered to change for dinner, it was just the two of them and a plate of cold chicken Provençal with dilly beans and white bean tapenade on baguettes – neither of which required any tie at all, let alone a white one. They'd retired to the library afterward with the remainder of the wine from dinner and both lost themselves in books. Back in her room Edith flopped gracelessly down on the window seat. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the small garden, not that she could see the details of it. The autumnal sun had slipped below the London skyline a while ago. The light in her room against the inky darkness outside turned her windowpanes into mirrors. She met her own eyes in the glass and then looked away.

She looked tired.

She was tired.

Nigh five months since her failed wedding, she hadn't slept properly since. And now Rosamund was trying to trot her out once again. There wasn't enough powder in the world to cover the circles under her eyes.

She didn't think back on her wedding often, only whenever she was left alone with her thoughts. Moments like this the fear and the doubt and the pain leached into her, gnawing away at her heart and her mind. Was the prospect of being married to her so ghastly? Why didn't He say something earlier if he didn't want her? That he didn't love her? Why did he let her believe that he did? She was a horrible person, she knew, but she'd thought that cosmic debt had been paid when he'd left the garden party, and then for the war, and she didn't hear from him again for years. It was in moments like this that she hated him. She hated him more than she hated anyone – more than Mary, more than herself.

Moments like that never lasted long, however. For one, she could never truly hate him. It wasn't his fault, at least, not entirely. What choice had she left him? She had loved him selfishly, for herself rather than him. In 1914 she'd loved him because it felt like she was taking something from Mary, he'd been invited to court her after all. His interest in her was something to be lorded over her older sister, the first time she'd had something like that. And then, of course, she'd loved him for making her feel lovely, and intelligent, and worthy. She'd felt… sparkly, with him, and loved him for that. She'd loved him for the fact he could make her a wife.

During the war she'd realized her error, how she'd almost completely overlooked himself when she'd thought about him. She'd been so caught up in how he made her feel she'd neglected the thousands of reasons to love him that had nothing to do with her. There was his strong, steady presence, his voice, his eyes, that boyish, lopsided grin of his. Then there was his wit, his wisdom, how terrifyingly brilliant he was. The respect and knowledge he had for traditions as well as his willingness to try anything and everything new if he thought that the change could help preserve everything he held dear – the land, his tenants and their lives and families, education, literature, the safety, security, and happiness of those in his orbit. He was so forward thinking and yet very much grounded as well. There was his sense of adventure, of humor, of wonder… She'd vowed that if he came back to her, she'd never take him for granted again.

She'd failed almost immediately out of the gate. He'd reappeared back in her life and oh, she'd admired so much about him – his bravery, the cut of his suit across his broad shoulders, the sound of his laughter – but she'd failed to show him the breadth and depth of her feelings for him. Him himself. She'd pushed too hard, too fast, wanting wanting wanting what she wanted. She'd pushed her way into his life. She'd pushed him into society again, pushed him into her family and all of their drama. She'd pushed him into a declaration, into an engagement and eventually all the way down the aisle.

Had she ever properly listened to him during their engagement? Oh, sure, she'd sat back and enjoyed the glorious sound of his voice, letting it wash over her after years of fearing that she'd never hear it again. And she'd mined his conversation carefully for things to discuss, a place to make a witty rejoinder or drill down deeper in the analytics of their conversation. But had she actually listened to him and what he'd been so clearly (in retrospect) been trying to tell her. What he'd been screaming behind those soft, intelligent words? No. She'd ignored them or worse waved them away as unimportant rather than actually engaging with the man she'd wanted to call her husband since she was twenty years old. It was unforgivable of her, as someone who wished to be his wife, and it was unforgivable as someone who spent years tending to convalescing soldiers. She'd not gone into training like Sybil had, not anything that formal anyway. But Dr. Clarkson had given her thorough instructions on how to help the wounded men. She'd learned how to do basic dressing, how to bathe a man, how to treat a headache. She'd learned how to listen. Many of the men she met hadn't wanted to discuss their experiences, but some had needed to – the nightmares, the fears they had wouldn't always be cured after they spoke to her but the burdens they carried were always, always lessened when they shared them.

Old. Broken. Crippled. Burden. Useless. He'd used these and so many other watch words. If he'd been a stranger recuperating at Downton, she'd have flagged him immediately for Dr. Clarkson to get him some counseling. His arm was not the only thing that hadn't fully healed, or at least not healed back the way it had been before. Did she counsel him? No. Had she stopped to just listen to him, fully and truly engaged in listening to him? No. She'd waved everything he said away as if it was unimportant, rather than his deepest concerns and worries cautiously, slowly, being let out of the carefully locked box every Englishman kept their emotions in.

Of course, the few times she'd tried to tackle his concerns head on, she'd said exactly the wrong things. When he'd told her, he didn't need a wife, he needed a nurse, she'd insisted that she'd be happy to nurse him. She hadn't assured him that it wasn't the case, that he was perfectly capable still on his own, with only a little modification and help. No, she'd taken his assumptions about himself and run with them, confirming everything he thought true even though the state of reality plainly suggested otherwise. No wonder he was convinced she was throwing herself away and that he needed to sacrifice to stop her. She'd once told him that he would be her life's work. Her life's work, like he was a novel or a painting or a play. Like he was a thing rather than a man - her equal and her partner. Not only had she seemingly accepted fully his premise that he was broken beyond repair she'd also quite successfully reduced him to an object rather than a person. If only she'd thought before she spoke, if only she had listened.

Looking up at where the stars should be (if she could see them given the lights in her room across the city) Edith wished. She wished she could go back and start again. She wished she had done things differently the first time. That she had taken her time with him showing how much she loved him. How much she loved him for him and nothing more, nothing less. Reminding him of how capable he was, helping him realize that he could do everything he thought he couldn't if they both just took their time and made adjustments along the way. That while he might need some assistance from time to time, he wasn't down for the count just yet. Certainly not in need of a nurse. She wished…

If. If. If. Wish. Wish. Wish.

She could hear her mother speaking, firmly but gently, in her head: Darling, if wishes were horses beggars would ride. Sadly, Edith rose from the window seat. It was early yet, compared to the hours her family kept while in London for the season, but she was bone tired, nonetheless. She hadn't cried this time. It seemed like eventually a person truly could run out of tears, but the weary, ache in her heart and in her limbs was still there. Slowly she began getting ready for bed. She didn't need a maid to help her change, when Edith decided to move to London to follow the opportunity journalism offered her, she had reevaluated her wardrobe. Fine gowns were necessary for impressing Peers, but what The Sketch wanted from her wasn't her breeding, but her opinion. Fripperies would just take away from what she had to offer. The three small buttons at the back of her neck were easy enough to undo, she could pull her own hair pins out. Dressed in a light nightgown and robe Edith brushed her hair out carefully, her eyes avoiding herself in the mirror before she turned off the lights and quietly slipped into her cold, lonely bed for the night.