"You really didn't need to come with me, sir," Edith sighed for the tenth time that morning. Next to her, in the passenger seat, roadmap spread out across his lap, Sir Anthony grinned.
"Nonsense, my dear. I think you'll find that for the ordinary human being, a drive from Yorkshire to Staffordshire in one day would be considered a job for two."
"I managed perfectly well on my own on the way up!" Edith protested.
Sir Anthony chuckled. "Yes, my dear, but as we have established on multiple occasions, you are a woman of superhuman strength and capabilities. Alas, the rest of us are mere mortals." He squinted down at the map. "Left at the next crossroads, I think. However did you manage without a navigator?"
"Thank you, sir." Edith blushed. "I kept stopping, when I needed to check. I suppose it wasn't the most efficient method of travel."
"No, indeed," he agreed, still sounding faintly amused. "Shall we stop for lunch soon? Another five miles, say? Break into our provisions. Then I can take over the driving for a bit."
Edith rolled her eyes. "I can manage, you know."
Sir Anthony's hand touched hers briefly, over the gearstick. "I'm perfectly aware of that, thank you. You never cease reminding me of it. But - just this once - you needn't." As Edith opened her mouth to argue, he rushed on: "And I know you don't manage well with being looked after, but it's unfair to expect to have all the fun, you know."
"Fun?" Edith wondered.
"Yes - being in charge and admired and in control. Eventually, you'll have to let someone else take care of you, you know."
"Will I?" Her voice was very dry.
"Yes, you will." He shook his head and added, almost to himself, "How on earth are people supposed to show you they love you, Edith, if they aren't even allowed to do that?"
"Your tea, sir." Awkwardly, Molly edged around the library door, the heavy tray in her hands, and carefully nudged the door closed a little with her hip. Her wrists were already aching - usually there were two of them to bring the tea things up, but with Mrs Dale still in hospital and the master and Mrs Crawley gone to return Mrs Crawley's friend's car, the task had fallen on her alone. Not that Molly minded; with Mrs Dale ill, everyone, from the master down, had to pull their weight, even if this was the most unpleasant task she had on her list for the day.
It wasn't the tray making it unpleasant, after all. If only it were! Molly glanced up from the milk jug, unable to suppress the slick of unease that was settling like grease over her skin - that settled there every time she was asked to be in any sort of proximity to Mr Everington. Too charming by half, as her mum would have said. Even now, his dark eyes were roving over her in the way a fox looked at an young, plump hen. He stood from the desk and came towards her, almost as if he were about to relieve her of her burden. "Thank you, my dear."
He was much too close, and broad enough that he was completely blocking her route to the desk. The tray quivered in her hands and the sugar tongs slipped, the handles grating a metallic screech around the rim of the jug. "Um… the tray's very heavy, sir…" Molly tried, but Everington only smiled.
"Of course, my dear. Just… one… moment…" His hand reached out and lingeringly stroked away a dark curl that had slipped down from under her cap. A rather smug smirk spreading across his mouth, he let his thumb brush against the very corner of her mouth. Molly's stomach rolled. "There. Wouldn't want you to go back downstairs untidy, would we?" The smirk deepened. "Mrs Cox might think you've been… up to no good in here…"
"Sir… the tray really is - "
"Mr Everington, the afternoon post has - " Mr Stewart rounded the half-open door and a sudden flood of relief rushed through Molly, making her knees momentarily weak. As quickly as she could, she ducked around Mr Everington and set the heavy tray down on the desk, her wrists tingling with relief as she did so.
"Oh. Thank you, Mr Stewart." There was a tinge of frustration in Mr Everington's voice and Molly shuddered inwardly at it as she ducked out into the library passage again, feeling Mr Stewart's concerned eyes on her back as she went.
"Is everything all right?" Stewart asked Everington. "Molly seemed… out of sorts."
Everington shrugged and leant back against the desk. "Just a bit shy, isn't she? Pretty little thing, though. Very pretty."
Stewart drew himself up coldly. "I should tell you - the master doesn't approve of goings-on between the staff, Everington."
"Really?" He chuckled. "I'd have thought… what's sauce for the goose, y'know?"
"I've no idea what you're talking about."
"Really?" Everington said, smirking. "I'm talking about him and Mrs Crawley, as she calls herself. Anyone with eyes can tell what's going on there. Bit unsporting of him not to extend the same courtesy to everyone else, isn't it?"
Stewart shut the door with a hard snap and advanced forward. "Mrs Crawley is a lady, and under this roof, she is treated as such. The master has never behaved other than honourably towards her - "
"You can spare all of that, Mr Stewart - an idiot might believe it, but I don't. This trip to Wolverhampton, or wherever they've gone, for one thing. Overnight, isn't it? Alone in a hotel together, in a place no one knows them? You're telling me she won't be getting a knock at her door tonight?"
"I think you should stop talking, Mr Everington," Stewart said quietly. "Before you say something you'll be made to regret."
Everington shook his head. "Didn't take you for a prude, Mr Stewart. Getting worked up over a bit of harmless gossip?" Thoughtfully, he whistled. "Well, he's a lucky beggar, anyway. These buttoned-up, spinsterish sorts are all the same - mad for it once you've got them out of their - arggh!"
Stewart's fist had just connected hard with his nose. There was a horrid, crunching sound. Through eyes blurred with tears and a faceful of blood, Everington squinted up at him. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?!"
"Teaching you a lesson," Stewart snapped savagely. "You were given fair warning. Keep your bile to yourself, Everington."
"You've broken my damned nose!" Everington almost howled.
Very calmly, Stewart turned for the door. "Yes," he agreed. "I very probably have. Make sure you don't bleed on the carpet - it'll be the devil to get out."
"Mrs Cox?"
"Yes, Mr - my Lord, whatever's happened to your hand?" Mrs Cox's eyes widened at the hand being cradled against Stewart's chest, and the bruises blooming across his swollen knuckles.
"Mr Everington and I… had a slight disagreement. Got a cold cloth?"
"Of course. And get some ice from the ice-house, too, for goodness' sake." She watched as Stewart soaked a cloth with cold water at the sink and wrapped it around the hand, then said, off-hand, "Not like you to lose your temper, Mr Stewart."
"Let's just say that Everington proved all our suspicions correct. He was being… rude… about the master and Mrs Crawley." Stewart lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table. "And… more than rude to Molly. Is she about?"
Mrs Cox shook her head. "Upstairs, making the beds for me." A nasty thought struck. "Here, he didn't - "
Hastily, Stewart interrupted. "No, no. Nothing she won't recover from. Let's just… keep him away from her, till the master gets back."
Mrs Cox exhaled. "Well, that's one problem dealt with, I suppose." Standing, she brushed a fond hand through his hair and tutted as Stewart unwrapped the cloth to check his knuckles. "That'll look like a sunrise come morning, my lad. You always were a chivalrous idiot, John Stewart, from six up."
"You must," said Winifred Dalton, tucking her arm into Edith's, "tell me all about your adventure, my dear. It sounds so thrilling!" She and Sir Anthony, after delivering the car to the Daltons' home, had been immediately invited to stay and dine. Now, while Sir Anthony and Mr Dalton enjoyed port and cigars, Winifred had hauled Edith off for 'a nice cosy gossip' in her pretty drawing room.
Edith gave her hostess a faint smile. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. If I hadn't been so worried, I'd have been thoroughly bored, I'm sure. Thank you, again, for letting me borrow your car."
"Not at all!" Winifred waved away Edith's thanks. "I've told you, Charles would give away his last farthing to someone in need. Still…" She sighed as they lowered themselves onto the sofa. "He and Dora are darlings, of course, and I wouldn't be without them, but even I must admit that marriage and motherhood can be ever so slightly dull sometimes. How is your housekeeper, now?"
"Not mine," Edith reminded her hastily. "Sir Anthony's. Mrs Dale's recovering very nicely. Her doctor thinks she may be able to come home at the end of the week, if she continues to do so well. No heavy work, of course, but it'll be a relief to have her home."
"So you're staying on at Locksley, then?" At Edith's nod, Winifred leaned confidingly towards her, and, with a little giggle, said, "I must tell you, my dear, that from the way Flora described you and Sir Anthony, I quite got the impression that you were his fiancée - or at the very least, courting! I suppose I'm just an incorrigible romantic."
"Um… Sir Anthony's a… a very good employer, that's all. I… I admire and - and respect him very much," Edith managed, carefully setting aside her coffee cup.
Winifred's giggle deepened. "Really? That can't be all, surely! He's frightfully handsome." A thought struck her, and she added, "Has he got any children?"
"Yes," Edith blushed. "A son, Phillip. He's nearly thirteen."
"Gosh. Well, perhaps you've got the right idea." Winifred shook her head musingly. "The woman who takes on that kind of a circus will be brave indeed!"
"Oh, no," Edith hastened to explain. "Pip's really - "
"Darling," Charles Dalton announced at the doorway, "I was just saying to Sir Anthony that he and Miss Crawley should visit the Art Gallery tomorrow, before they go home. Don't you agree?"
"My darling husband," Winifred sighed almost comically, "is devoted to his town, Sir Anthony. I do hope he hasn't been boring you too thoroughly?"
"What's this one called?" Anthony asked Edith, peering over her shoulder at the guidebook.
"Peace and Plenty Binding the Arrows of War," Edith replied, without taking her eyes from the painting. Really, the Art Gallery had been a very good suggestion on Mr Dalton's part. She almost felt as if she were on holiday. "Exquisite," she breathed after a moment more. "You could almost reach out and touch those fabrics."
At Sir Anthony's soft huff of amusement, she twisted her head and looked up at him curiously. "What is it?"
"I simply… had no idea you were so interested in art. When Pip and I go to visit my mother this summer, you must come with us. You'll have been to the National Gallery before, of course, but we'll find something new and exciting for you."
As they turned away from the painting, Edith nodded. "I went once. A very long time ago. Miss Parkins - the governess we had after Sybil was born - took us. I was about… ten? Eleven? But Mary got bored and started to complain, so because she was Miss Parkins' favourite, we didn't stay long. And afterwards… working for… for Mr Gregson didn't give me an awful lot of time for excursions."
Cheerfully, Sir Anthony took her arm. "In that case, then, my dear, I absolutely insist." He checked his watch. "But now, we really should be making our way towards the train station. Be back home for dinner, if we're lucky."
"Mmm," Edith agreed contentedly. "Home."
AN: Wolverhampton Art Gallery is a lovely Victorian building where I spent some very happy Saturday afternoons as a teenager. The painting Edith so admires in this chapter is the star of its collection. (The way the fabrics have been painted really is gorgeous!)
Charles Dalton, his kindness and willingness to help others (not to mention his love for his hometown!) are all modelled after my maternal grandfather. We could all do with a few more Charles Daltons, in trying times like these.
