A/N: Thank you all again for your responses to the last chapter. I know I left you hanging a bit with the end of that last chapter, so here is the next one! With some developments I am sure you are interested to read. Let me know what you think!

Secret

Marigold slept fitfully, tossing and turning for what felt like hours, before she finally fell asleep.

It seemed only a blink before the new day.

"Miss Marigold," Baxter said, while gently tapping the edge of the bed. She placed a tray of breakfast on the bedside table. "Your parents will be arriving soon. Her ladyship sent me to help you while Nanny Coates gets the boys sorted."

Surprised to see how high the sun was and how long Granny had allowed her to sleep in, Marigold hurried to get dressed. She'd missed family breakfast already and ran the risk of not being ready for her parents arrival.

Baxter was very nice and helped Marigold with her hair, where Nanny Atkins (or at Downton, Nanny Coates) normally would. She did the brushing and then, instead of doing the normal plait down the back that the nannies might, her nimble fingers separated out the strands to quickly fashion two dutch braids down the sides of Marigold's head.

She tried to protest, knowing that it was Baxter's job to look after Granny Cora, who usually took her breakfasts in bed and that it was unusual to have to do anything for Marigold at all. The maid had already helped her the previous evening as well.

"It's not an imposition. It has been a good while since I did a young girl's hair," the soft spoken ladies maid replied, smiling at her in the mirror. "I think you'll look very pretty. Sometimes it feels nice to put in a good show for no particular occasion."

Marigold sat up straight, and despite all her disquiet (for Baxter could not possibly know her discovery the previous day, could she?), she smiled back.

As it was, Marigold made it downstairs in good time for the arrival of her parents. From the bottom of the stairs, she could hear her brothers and cousins loudly from the study, heeding no mind the words of Nanny Coates.

Donk, per usual, was at the center of it all, displaying some Egyptian artifact he'd received as a gift.

Marigold stood in the the small library, unwilling to cross the threshold into the larger one with her family. Barrow slid into position beside her. She looked up to his keen eyes. She didn't have to lift her head as high as when she was small to do so.

"Chin up, Miss Marigold," he encouraged. "If I may say, whatever it is that's getting you low, it will pass. Trust me. We can all mend, even from the hardest of things."

Looking at him, offering no reply, Marigold found herself wondering what it would have been like if she had been able to stay with her first parents.

Would her blood father be like the perceptive butler? Was her natural mother as kind as her grandmother's ladies maid? Could she cook like Mrs. Mason? Would she have an aunt less like Aunt Mary and more like Nanny Atkins?

She knew well from her friends that school that the class of her family was not typical for most of her countrymen. There was no doubt that the people she came from would be of a very different station to her family now.

Was her original family like the Doxfords? The Hulls?

It occurred to her that if someone like Baxter or Barrow or any of them were her parents, it wouldn't be the same way she knew them now. Barrow worked day and night at Downton Abbey, keeping everything organized and ready to help her family at a moments notice. Baxter certainly didn't have time to do a daughter's hair each day if every morning she did Granny Cora's hair. The Parker boys down at their farm likely didn't often enjoy the meals Mrs. Parker cooked, far less than George and Caroline.

What would it have been like to grow up on Yew Tree Farm?

Then again, her own Papa often worked long hours as well. As did Bessie's father. Marigold's Mama had to go to London or meet with Ms. Edmunds for the magazine. So too did Louisa Antonia's Mama have to visit suppliers for the store throughout the county. Johnny Bates, the Parker boys, Bessie and Louisa Antonia were all proof that work didn't deter closeness.

Marigold herself still saw her parents at Brancaster, even though they were busy.

She supposed that some things might be the same with her natural family as they were with her family now. Other things would certainly be different.

Money for one thing. She had no delusions that money set her family apart from those of her friends.

And of course, there was the problem of the word.

Bastard.

Class didn't erase what being illegitimate meant. There was a whole word just to shame it. Her natural family probably would be most different, not only due to money or station, but because they would be ashamed of her. The Pelham's had to have known her origins. And took her in anyway.

She now deeply regretted every time she'd ever said anything impertinent, or back chatted, or protested being sent to bed.

Marigold reached her hand out, aimlessly running her fingers on the rows of leather books in the library.

"Ah," Donk's voice made her jump and he came to join her in the small room. He pulled the last book she touched from the library shelf. He grinned at her, but Marigold could see something else, something sad in his concerned gaze.

"Shakespeare's Sonnets, a bold choice!"

Shoulders hunched, Marigold only shrugged. That was simply the last book she'd touched. Hardly a decision. Still, the old man was undeterred, putting the book in her hands and resting his atop hers for a moment.

"Though, for someone as clever as you, perhaps not so bold. How about you take it with you? You can tell me what you make of it the next time you come down."

Marigold crossed her arms to hold the book firmly to her chest. Normally, the prospect of taking a book would thrill her. The very elderly librarian, Mr. Pattinson was quite unyielding when it came to removing pieces from the collection, even just for borrowing.

Yet, today the idea brought her no joy.

Her grandfather looked almost distraught, "My darling girl. I only ever wish for you to be happy."

The sound from the doorway startled both of them. Mrs. Mason stood before them. Not often seen upstairs, but often willing to spot any of the children a secret biscuit downstairs.

"Daisy!" Donk exclaimed. "What brings you upstairs?"

Mrs. Mason blinked in confusion, "Sir, you said I could have a word with Lord Hexham before they all leave?"

Marigold always loved the sound of Mrs. Mason's voice. It reminded her a bit of singing and at times felt familiar, but she couldn't place why. Today, she was struck to wonder whether that voice was anything like the voice of her natural mother.

Donk's eyebrows furrowed and he paused before speaking, seeming almost to restrain himself from asking for more detail.

"Of course, I did," he settled to say. "They'll be arriving shortly."

And so it was, Marigold found herself standing catercorner to the cook for her parents arrival as they all lined up outside to greet the car.

She kept her face still forward as Nanny Coates advised, she couldn't help that her eyes darted to left. Mrs. Mason stood with her head held high, in a way Marigold had never really felt up too. Even less so, now that she had learned enough about her background.

Now it seemed impossible.

Papa was the first out of the car, greeting Granny Cora and Donk before turning to beam at Oliver, who was already kicking up a fuss. He took the towheaded baby into his arms and grinned knowingly at Nanny Coates.

"My apologies if he's been running you ragged," he stated affably. "I expect you'll be glad to be back to looking after just George and Caroline."

"I don't know that I'd quite say that, my lord," the nanny demurred, but from the way she hastily smoothed out her disheveled outfit, Marigold suspected there was more than a little truth to her father's words.

Nigel went straight for Mama, bouncing in a circle around her impatiently, eagerly trying to tell her about some invented game he had played with his cousins.

Marigold stood frozen, rooted to her spot, still clutching the book from Donk and now only able to look at her shoes. Granny Cora and Aunt Mary immediately took Mama into the house, faces serious as they spoke.

It wasn't hard to imagine what they needed to speak to her about so urgently.

"Marigold?"

Yet again she was startled from her malaise by a voice. This time, her Papa, ready to help her into the car.

The Pelham's train ride back to Brancaster, was a somber affair. Edith had seemed uneasy ever since speaking with Granny and Aunt Mary, while Bertie did his level best to fill the dead air. Soon, Nigel tucked in next to Papa and Oliver in Mama's lap and the train departed.

The boys both fell asleep rather quickly.

Marigold tried to appear as though she was reading. The sonnets were open in her lap, but she started out the window, only occasionally hearing her parents conversation. She chewed at her nails, but her parents didn't scold her.

Their voices flitted in and out, rather like trying to understand someone speaking under water. Mama seemed as downcast as Marigold herself, which was worrying. She curled into herself even more. What if Mama regretted taking on the shame of adopting an illegitimate child?

"Did you know, Daisy wished to speak with me before we left?"

"Mmm," Edith hummed listlessly.

Marigold turned away from the window and watched her parents with mild curiosity.

"We talked a bit about unexpected elevation," Bertie ventured, trying to engage in conversation with at least one of the conscious passengers in their carriage. "She's been elected to the county council..."

At this, Mama did seem mildly impressed. "Really?"

"Yes, and an abrupt departure has left her poised to take over a role on the committee for highway development. If she accepts, Mrs. Mason and the rest of that committee would directly liaise with the Ministry of Transport, on the implementation of 30 mph speed limits for the rural roads of Yorkshire."

"Mary will be pleased," Mama's reply was flat, as could be at times, when it came to her sister. "Too many thrill seekers on too small of country roads."

"As it happens," Papa continued. "I've met the Secretary State for Transport and have seen him present in the House of Lords. I don't claim to know the man well, but I told her what he was like, as best I could."

Mama nodded, absently rocking Ollie. Marigold thought of Mrs. Mason standing proudly in front of her grandparents house.

Papa grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially casting his eyes between his wife and daughter, "Perhaps your parents will lose Mrs. Mason to the lure of politics..."

Neither Marigold, nor Edith replied.

The train continued it's ambling journey north. Oliver slept. Nigel snored. Papa valiantly continued his attempts at conversation. Mama rested her head on the door to the carriage. Marigold leaned her head against the cool window glass.

Not long after luncheon arrived, Papa asked hesitantly, "What was it your mother and Mary needed to speak with you about so urgently?"

Marigold stole a glance to Mama. Edith's eyes were wide and she'd never looked so pale.

Bertie's brow furrowed. His wife's breath seemed unsteady. They seemed to converse without words, pointedly avoiding Marigold's eyes.

Marigold bit her lip, for the carriage felt suddenly divided. She could not really explain to herself why she felt such a distance from her family. They knew what she was all this time, only she herself had been left in the dark.

But perhaps that was the part that was worst.

When she missed half of school term in Hexham, Bessie and Louisa Antonia had some secrets Marigold was not privy (by logistical necessity) but upon her return, it still hurt to be left out. Though fairy circles, pretty feathers and stolen biscuits paled in comparison to the knowledge of Marigold's true origin.

A look of knowing passed over Papa's face then and he reached out to rest his hands on his both wife and daughter's knees, squeezing gently. Marigold's stomach dropped.

At length, Mama rubbed Ollie's back and rested her chin on his head, as though to smell his baby sweetness.

Edith cast her gaze from Bertie directly to Marigold, "I will explain when we get home."

Upon arrival at Brancaster, the boys were settled into the nursery under Nanny Atkins care, and Marigold found herself sat between her mother and father in the study. She'd spent plenty an afternoon in a not dissimilar position, indeed she vaguely recalled sitting somewhat like this the day her parents told her of her adoption.

Once it was comfortable, but today it felt ominous.

They all sat in an awkward silence. Papa's attention rested expectantly on Mama, but she seemed to be at a total loss for words. She kept tight hold of Marigold's hand. Her husband's arm snaked across the back of the sofa, behind Marigold's back, coming to rest on Mama's shoulder.

Bertie cleared his throat a little, as though urging Edith to speak.

Shakily, she began, "Granny says that you saw George get into a bit of a scuffle with a man, who used a word-"

Unable to stand waiting anymore, Marigold interrupted, blurting out, "I know."

Mama's eyes were glassy. Her fingers twitched around Marigold's hand.

"What is it that you know, darling?"

"That my blood family couldn't keep me because I am..."

She faltered then, mouth feeling suddenly full of wool. Marigold squared her shoulders and cleared her throat.

"I'm-That swear word with a B."

Better get used it, she concluded. Swear or not.

"I'm a bastard," Marigold continued haltingly. "So you took me in and adopted me. Which was very kind of you both and I am truly sorry if I have been trouble and have not been sufficiently grateful..."

Mama gasped, "Oh, Marigold-"

"It's a horrid word," Papa's voice caught in his throat as he interrupted softly. He gently turned her shoulders to face him. "I certainly do not want you to refer to yourself in that way."

"But it's true by definition," Marigold countered. "Isn't it?"

Bertie's eyes shone with emotion, but he didn't deny it. Instead he he held her gaze steadily.

"Please," he implored, voice wavering ever so slightly. "Don't call yourself that."

Marigold huffed and turned back to Edith, "I'm illegitimate."

Neither of them argued with that.

Though not a swear, illegitimate wasn't much better a word in Marigold's opinion. Illegitimate made it sound like you weren't allowed.

Like it wasn't right to exist.

"Marigold," Mama said thickly, features twitching with the effort of holding back tears. Her hands moved to cup Marigold's face. They stared at each other for a long moment, Marigold half expecting to be chastised for using the proper word for her status, as well as the swear.

But it was better to face it full on and go from there, than stay with one's head in the sand.

"You're my daughter."

For an instant, Marigold's brow furrowed in confusion, she tried to shake her head and turn away. That couldn't be. That made no sense. But Mama's hands held firm, keeping her in place.

"Yes," she replied to Marigold's silence. Then she smiled faintly, "You've always been my baby."

And suddenly time itself seemed to snap.

Once again, everything Marigold thought she knew was turned upside down. Being adopted was something different, but something she was used to. Being illegitimate was another thing, a very difficult thing. She'd been trying to get used to it too, in her mind. It had never occurred to her that she was the illegitimate child of her own adopted parents.

She reeled, feeling completely off balance, like a fish out of water. Her jaw hung and open.

"I'm yours?" she asked tearfully.

Marigold glanced back to Papa in disbelief.

"You are my natural daughter," Edith confirmed again, quite specifically. Her thumbs wiped tears from Marigold's cheeks.

Marigold kept her eyes on Bertie, trying to find new footing in this topsy-turvey world.

"And you?"

"I am your father in the eyes of law," Papa answered, clasping her other hand carefully. "And most importantly, in my heart."

Marigold leaned back against the couch, still stunned and breathless.

"But not by blood."

It wasn't a question.

So, she was the illegitimate child of one of her adopted parents, that is.

Mama.

Her Mama had birthed her out of wedlock. That sinful scandalous thing that there was a whole swear word to describe it. To shame it, according to the Grannies and Aunt Mary.

Unbelievable.

Mama was the Marchioness of Hexham. A magazine publisher. Patron of Hillcroft College, the Hexham Literacy League, and many other good works. The one who loved Papa and her children so well.

The most clever person Marigold knew and so wanted to emulate.

She'd spent the morning wondering what her natural mother might be really be like, and here she was all along.

Only Marigold wasn't so sure now that she knew exactly who Mama really was.

Edith sighed, "We planned to tell you when you were older and could understand more but-"

"I understand enough," she snapped.

Mama balked at her tone, blinking rapidly. She took a deep breath and offered, "You may ask me whatever it is you wish to know."

Feeling a twinge of guilt, Marigold sighed and tried to collect her thoughts.

"How-" she struggled to phrase her question. "How did it happen?"

Everyone knew that people were meant to be married when they had children. The vicar in Hexham said so. Everyone she knew had married parents. Excepting Aunt Lucy.

"Before I met your Papa," Mama explained carefully. "There was someone else and I had you."

Marigold took a shaky breath, trying to keep air moving through her lungs, mind still dizzy.

"Did you love him, my...father? Like you love Papa?"

She winced, unable to turn around to gauge the impact of her words on Bertie. She worried for him, though of course he had likely known all of this long ago, before signing any paper to adopt her. Marigold was afraid to make him sad, if Mama had loved someone else.

Yet her curiosity compelled her to ask. However, she wasn't sure how much the question of love mattered in the end. With illegitimacy, society didn't seem to take that into account.

"Yes, I did," Mama answered without hesitation. "Not exactly alike, but I did. I loved him very much."

"Did he love you?"

"Yes."

Unable to help herself, Marigold next countered with the logical question. After all, the world had an institution ready to go for two people who loved each other. Right?

"Why didn't you marry him?"

The question seemed painfully obvious to Marigold, but seemed to throw her mother completely.

Mama stammered, "We-we couldn't."

"Why?" Marigold demanded petulantly.

A marriage would have rendered her life entirely normal, though perhaps of a different station, if this man was not the same class as the Crawley family. But she knew well enough from Grandmother Pelham that Papa had not always been so high up in aristocracy himself and Mama had still been engaged to him regardless.

Not that she wanted to think too hard about a life without Papa and her little brothers, but it was strange to her that something so shameful could have been easily avoided. If they had loved each other, Mama and this man, and kissed, and done...whatever else there was to do to have a child, then why not have a wedding?

It was so confusing.

"He had a wife who was very ill in her mind, so he couldn't divorce her in Britain so he-"

Scandalized properly, Marigold felt her face and ears flush with heat, "You are not supposed to have babies with someone who is married to somebody else!"

Eyes wide, for the second time in under an hour, she began to see her mother in yet another entirely different light.

Mama shook her head, distraught and urgent, "It wasn't as clear and easy as that. We planned to get married and he was trying so hard to find a way and-"

Her voice caught, "And then he died, Marigold. Before either of us even knew about you."

A part of Marigold saw the distress in her Mama and ached to comfort her. Indeed, in normal order in her life, she would have. But now she was still too shocked and she couldn't connect to that feeling as before. Fortunately, she could feel Papa's arm behind her back as he reached to hold onto Mama's shoulder.

Marigold then spoke her thoughts aloud, not to either parent in particular. She was still trying to work it all out. She chewed the corner of her pinkie's nail.

"I remember, well not really, but I know was with other people. Wasn't I?" she babbled. "I thought they were my real parents. I know I was somewhere before Downton. George says Sybbie can even remember before I came. I wasn't with you."

"You did live with others, very generous families," Mama nodded. "I didn't know what to do."

"You gave me up."

From yesterday to today, Marigold had been right about one thing. Being illegitimate was shameful enough to be given away over. Adopted perhaps twice over? Or more?

She didn't know.

"But then," Mama's voice seemed desperate and she squeezed both Marigold's hands. She leaned forward, trying desperately to look into Marigold's eyes. "I loved you so much, I couldn't leave you be. I found a way for us to be together."

Refusing to hold her mother's gaze, Marigold instead focused on her knees.

"So, you lied."

It wasn't as generous as it appeared to adopt a child, when in truth that child was already your own. The family she did not remember (and Papa) were generous in the way Marigold had imagined her family to be.

"I kept it secret," Mama seemed to be very intent on this correction, but it seemed a rather suspect distinction.

Marigold and Bessie and Louisa Antonia shared secrets at school. About games and toys and dreams. Not about a person's life.

"Because if you didn't," she reasoned, remembering the words of the delivery boy in in the hospital and the changes Cousin Maud's will. "Everyone would know what you did. There'd be a scandal."

Grandmother Pelham's greatest fear. Scandal. Far more serious than a children's tea. The old woman's peculiarities and fears had some basis in reality it seemed.

"What matters is that we're together now. And we're happy."

It wasn't clear who her mother was trying to convince, herself or Marigold.

"But people do know, don't they? There are people who know who I am?"

Granny Cora certainly. And Aunt Mary, given yesterday. The delivery boy at the hospital knew somehow, as well as his aunt.

"Only the family," Bertie finally spoke again, having remained largely silent to allow his wife and daughter to have the space they needed.

"The family?" Marigold squeaked.

Her heart raced, but not quite so fast as her thoughts. Her mind whirled, trying to parse through past interactions and conversations.

Had she been the only one left out?

"Only some of them," Papa tried to comfort, sensitive to her agitation but she felt no relief. "None of the children."

Marigold wondered if 'some' included Aunt Lucy. And, despite Bertie's assurances, she wasn't sure about Sybbie.

Still stunned, Marigold looked down at her hands, clasped by Mama's shaking fingers. For the first time, she noticed things she didn't see before. Her hands looked like her mother's. Long fingers, knobby knuckles, delicate wrists. Belatedly, she realized that her and Nigel's resemblance was not mere coincidence at all.

How had she missed it?

After a long silence, Mama tried uncertainly, "Marigold?"

She recoiled a bit, still beset by a mountain of thoughts and confused.

"I don't," she stumbled. "I can't-"

"Perhaps, we can leave it here for now," Papa interrupted calmly. "I am sure that whatever other questions you might have in future, Mama will be pleased to answer."

Mama swallowed hard but nodded.

"And I would like to say," Bertie continued. "That I love you both. So very much."

"You too, Papa."

"Marigold?" Edith pressed again, eyes intense and frightened.

Another wave of tears welled in Marigold's eyes. She wasn't even sure how to reply to the unspoken question her mother was asking.

"I don't know."

Suddenly, the air in the room felt too thick to be breathable. She stood and ran from the study, overwhelmed with sobs, trying to catch her breath.

Marigold was still crying when she burst into the nursery, startling Nigel and Oliver from their game of blocks. Nanny Atkins rose from her chair, putting down her sewing kit and meeting the distraught girl in the middle of the room.

She held her arms open and Marigold ran to them.

"Oh my dear, what on earth?"

Oliver seemed content once he saw that his sister was in Nanny's capable hands, and continued to play with his toys. He lifted a block to his mouth and drooled. Nigel however, radiated concern and he moved to stand beside the embracing pair.

"Marigo?" he reverted to the name he'd called her as a baby, leaning close and trying to get her to answer.

Muffled by the fabric of Nanny's blouse, Marigold sobbed, "Did you know? Did you know who I am?"

Nanny Atkins' arms stiffened at that, and she gently walked them both towards the doorway to her adjoining room.

Nigel grew more concerned, "Nanny? What wrong with Marigold? Is she still feeling ill from last night?"

"Yes," the older woman improvised expertly. "And I am going to look after her for a moment, in my room. Will you be a good boy, Nigel? Stay with your brother and look after him and come for me if he needs assistance?"

Lifting her head, briefly from the wet patch her tears had made on her caretakers clothes, Marigold could see the urgent worry in her brothers face. Unusually for Nigel, the expression reminded her so much of Mama it made her chest ache.

Eventually, the boy nodded and returned to his spot with Oliver. In her last glimpse of the pair, before Nanny ushered her into her quarters, Marigold could tell Nigel took his duty very seriously, as his hand immediately swiped the block away from his brothers mouth.

"That is not food, Ollie."

Once alone in the adjoining room, Nanny stepped back, holding Marigold's shoulders and looking at her with a worried expression.

"Do you know?" she asked again, more softly this time. "Who I really am?"

Marigold figured that no more detail was needed about the secret, if her caretaker already knew.

Sure enough, Nanny Atkins nodded.

"I suspected."

"You know that I'm-" Marigold sniffed warily. "That Mama? And you still took care of me?"

"It's not my place to judge," Atkins took her into her arms again. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Because it's just your job," Marigold concluded morosely.

"Well, I can't say that I don't like my work or my wages," Nanny answered lightly, as she nudged Marigold's back.

"But that's not all there is to it. With this, what mattered was that it seemed your mother loved you. And his lordship also. No matter how it all came to pass. There's many who aren't so lucky."

Though she could see the point her nanny was trying to make, everything still felt far too overwhelming for Marigold to fully take it all in.

"I hate secrets," she said vehemently, throwing her head deeper into the crook of Nanny Atkins neck. Hot tears fell as she began to sob in earnest, fully for the first time since the fight at the hospital.

(It went on and on, rather longer than Marigold would later want to admit.)

At some point, they'd made their way to Nanny Atkins' bed where she'd laid down, with her head in the woman's lap. Nanny let her stay, and eventually undid the lovely dutch plaits Baxter had put in that morning, humming gently.

Soon, exhaustion lulled Marigold towards sleep and she didn't resist, even though it was most impolite to fall asleep in someone else's bed. They could move her, if came to it and needed her gone. And Brancaster was a castle with hundreds of beds. Nanny would certainly not be left without a place for the evening.

At one point, Marigold thought she heard Mama come in, but kept her eyes closed and let her mind drift to a weary sleep.