A/N: With this story I've decided to try a bit harder (if that makes sense) with my writing style. Example: more descriptive. I hope it works out and isn't too confusing.

I know Susan isn't a very likable character (okay, she's probably on most of your 'top-10-worst-Downton-characters' lists), and I was team Rose for the whole of her strained relationship with Susan throughout the series, but I always felt like there's more to Susan than meets the eye. So yeah, she's in this a lot.

Anyway, enjoy the story! I'll try to post as often as possible.

—1—

Lady Rosamund Crawley woke to sunlight streaming through her window. The familiar warmth the sun brought was welcome as she lay in a state of grogginess. She desperately wanted to stay in bed, her covers pulled tightly around her, for a little while longer; but alas, this was not to be, for that day was the christening of her first and only niece, Mary.

The product of a two-and-a-half-year marriage between Rosamund's brother Robert and his American wife Cora, little baby Mary was nearly a month old. She was already proving to be quite ambitious in her demands, demands her mother and father happily agreed to without a second thought. The new parents were so taken with their precious daughter that everything else in their lives seemed to have disappeared completely: Cora stopped writing to her mother on a daily basis. Robert canceled his afternoons spent drinking tea with his. Cora hadn't been to a dress fitting in weeks, not since she'd reached the final month of pregnancy. Robert barely spoke to his sister.

This last statement, Rosamund acknowledged with some dismay, wasn't just because of the new baby. Robert was becoming more and more like his and Rosamund's mama every day, in the sense that he too saw Rosamund as an object, not a person. In his eyes, she was an object with no possessor. An object that needed one, badly. And that possessor would be her husband, whenever she might find one.

If Rosamund's mama, Lady Violet Crawley, had her way, Rosamund would've been married off the moment she turned sixteen, if not sooner. But her papa, Lord Patrick, the sixth Earl of Grantham, had a rather controlling effect on his wife, and so far had managed to assist his daughter in stalling the marriage process. Rosamund knew he couldn't contain the Countess forever, but it consoled her to know he was able to at present.

As she'd yet to be married, Rosamund hadn't a lady's maid, and thus had to prepare herself for breakfast. In theory, she was supposed to have a simple housemaid to attend to her, but she preferred to do things for herself and told her mama she could manage. Violet had been dubious at first, but, seeing as Rosamund successfully made herself look presentable each morning, she let the subject fade until it was no longer a topic of discussion.

Rosamund brushed out her hair, de-tangling the thick copper curls. How so many knots formed overnight, she hadn't the slightest idea. And, while her hair was a wild mess that needed to be tamed every morning, her sister-in-law's was perfect, in Rosamund's opinion, as was everything else about her appearance. Cora, though she herself was too humble to ever boast about it, was undeniably beautiful. It was evident to anyone who took one look at her, gazing upon her blue eyes and rosy complexion. Brunette locks framed her face, falling to just past her shoulders.

As Rosamund descended the grand stairway for breakfast, she could hear the distant voices of her papa and brother coming from the dining room. She realized with a twinge of vexation that they were discussing her—or rather, her marriage to Lord Tatem of the nearby estate.

She'd met him only once, and remembered him being an arrogant man twice her age. Keeping this in mind, she noted that he must be a little over fifty now, and therefore would be all the more eager to make her his wife. His previous wife had died of mysterious circumstances the previous month. Rosamund, a few days after word of Lady Tatem's death got out, overheard her parents talking about it late in the evening. Violet suspected Lord Tatem had murdered her, to break off any ties with her family but still keep her considerable fortune. Patrick, however, had much more reasonable theories.

"Lady Tatem was always a sickly thing," he would say whenever the subject was brought up. Then he'd swiftly change the topic, deterring any further speculation. He was that type of man: he didn't like gossip, or rumors, unlike his wife.

Breakfast that morning was simple: eggs and bacon. Downton Abbey's new cook, Beryl Patmore, was just a few years younger than Rosamund herself; and although she was much more knowledgeable in the kitchen than Rosamund, Beryl still couldn't quite get used to the size of the Abbey's spacious kitchen.

"Good morning, Rosamund darling," Patrick greeted her, as she took her seat at the dining room table. Her brother sat across from her, silently reading the newspaper. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very." Rosamund took the napkin in front of her in one swift motion and spread it out on her lap. "And yourself?"

Patrick let out an almost inaudible sigh. Robert looked up from the paper he was seemingly so engrossed in to give Rosamund a glance; his eyes seem to flash the word "Mama." Rosamund nodded sadly, understanding all too well what he meant. Their parents had lost their love for one another some years ago, and it was just starting to dawn on them now.

Rosamund decided to switch to talking about something else. Politely clearing her throat (although there was no need, seeing as the room was dead silent), she said, "I wonder if Cousin Susan will bring the new baby by. I should love to see the little Annabelle she talks so fondly of, and precious James. It's been much too long."

"Indeed," replied Patrick, who then took a generous sip from his cup. "Whether she'll remain civil on her own, or join forces with your mama to disrupt the party we shall have to see."

Robert emitted what sounded like a chuckle that he'd tried to cover up. Rosamund produced no similar noise. She didn't like it when others spoke badly of her cousin, Lady Susan MacClare. Though the woman was known for her lack of control over her temper and sharp tongue, one could hardly blame her. She was, in short, taking after Violet and Violet's eldest sister Beatrice, both women of icy wit and passionate opinions.

The rest of breakfast was eaten in silence, as the three of them had nothing left to say to each other. Every so often Robert caused a small sound when he turned the page of his newspaper, but nobody began another discussion. Rosamund finished her breakfast, replaced the napkin on the table, and rose to her feet.

"I think I'll be going now. Cora will need my help in the nursery, I'm sure."

Rosamund left her father and brother to do whatever it was they planned on doing, and quickly proceeded to walk back upstairs, down the hallway, and into the nursery. As she'd suspected, her sister-in-law was awake and busying herself cooing at her new daughter. She rocked Mary back and forth in her arms, humming softly, seemingly unaware that Rosamund was watching from the doorway. The baby in Cora's arms, Mary Josephine Crawley, had inherited her mother's brunette tresses and soft blue eyes. Although she was merely a baby, not even one month old, Mary's gentle features made it clear that she'd be a beauty when she was grown.

Rosamund savored the moment, smiling happily from her perch by the door as Cora spun the baby round and round. Mary giggled in her mother's arms, pleased by the sensation of twirling.

When at last Cora did notice the redhead watching her, she stopped spinning, slightly out of breath, and handed the infant to Rosamund with a "Here's your auntie Rosamund, my darling." Rosamund balanced Mary on her hip while Cora crossed the room, flung open a door, and started searching for something with great speed.

"I can't… find it…" Cora mumbled under her breath. Rosamund watched her fling various items of baby clothes behind her.

"What can't you find?"

"The christening gown," Cora answered, without stopping her movements. Her fingers dug into the garments, separating piles of neatly-folded clothing in her haste to find the sacred dress.

Mary tugged gently on Rosamund's hair with her tiny hands, as if begging for attention. Rosamund shifted the baby a little higher on her hip, pulling her closer. Mary let go of her aunt's hair and instead stuck her hand in her mouth, as infants were known to do.

Rosamund, although she was nearly five-and-twenty, hadn't yet followed in her brother's footsteps of marriage. He was one year her senior, but had married at the age of twenty-three to Cora, an heiress from across the ocean. Violet had disapproved of the marriage greatly, but in marrying Cora Robert had saved the entirety of the estate, so she couldn't argue too much. Patrick, on the other hand, supported the match; he did however force Cora to sign a document tying all her money to the estate. He was convinced the couple would produce a male child, an heir, who would inherit the estate when Robert eventually passed.

At the moment, Cora seemed to have no concerns over whether or not she'd ever give birth to a son. But why should she? She was young, just a year younger than Rosamund, and perfectly fit for conceiving more children. Cora seemed extremely fond of children, unlike some women expected to still have them whether they liked babies or not. This was evident to Rosamund, her attention fixed on the new mother anxiously trying to make sure everything was perfect for little baby Mary. She'd often wondered how motherhood came so easily to Cora; from the moment Mary was born Cora seemed to go straight into action, nursing the infant and knowing just what to do to stop her crying.

"Perhaps one of the maids took it for cleaning? I can go and check if you'd like."

Cora's head snapped up from the closet. "Cleaning? A maid took a two hundred year old gown for cleaning?"

Mary gurgled happily, not recognizing the dread in her mother's voice. Rosamund quickly tried to calm Cora, saying, "Or, Cora, did you by any chance move it last night? I know how you like to keep track of things. Could you've moved it and forgotten?"

Cora's eyes flashed remembrance, and all worry vanished from her face. "Oh, Rosamund, you're brilliant! I hung it in Robert and my closet last night so I didn't lose it. I thought I'd remember, but I suppose I didn't. Thank you!"

Cora raced out of the room to fetch the gown, while Rosamund hung back, her infant niece still in her arms. Mary smelled of lavender, most likely from the many creams Cora used on both the baby and herself. Rosamund bounced the baby a little bit while she waited for Cora, and she surveyed the nursery, realizing she'd never stopped to do so before after it'd been redone.

The walls were covered in cream-colored wallpaper, decorated with pink flowers. Against one wall was a small bed, the perfect size for Mary when she became a toddler, and by the other was her current cot, a wooden crib. Sunlight shone in from the nearby window, where the curtains had been pulled back so that any inhabitants could see the magnificent grounds outside. Rosamund remembered the room being darker, from her own time as a child. Dark and dreary. That was before Cora came along, decided no baby could grow up in a room fit for only a corpse, and used her fortune to redecorate it.

"I'm baaack!" sang Cora, reemerging into the nursery. Draped carefully over her left arm was the old christening gown.

Mary's face lit up at the sight of her mama. She squirmed in Rosamund's arms and reached out for Cora, making tiny little grunting noises. Cora set the gown down on the rocking chair behind her, and gingerly took her baby girl from Rosamund, hefting Mary onto her own hip.

"It was in our closet all along," Cora informed Rosamund, when Mary was situated in her mother's arms. She then spoke to the baby, "Can you believe that? Your mommy was so silly; she forgot where she'd placed your gown!"

The sound of Cora's voice, high-pitched and bubbly like it was whenever one spoke to an infant, caused Mary to produce a squeal of delight. She wrapped her arms around her mother's neck in what seemed to Rosamund her way of showing affection. Cora beamed like she'd found out Violet stopped speaking ill of her. (Which, by the way, was never going to happen, as both women knew very well.)

"How do you know…" Rosamund started to ask, but then stopped. Cora glanced at her questioningly.

"How do I know what?" she pressed.

Rosamund shook her head. "Nothing; it's not important." She forced herself to smile. It wasn't incredibly hard to do, since she felt happy enough. She'd wanted to ask, "How do you know what to do with Mary?" but felt like it was one of those questions she'd been taught not to ask. One of those questions her mama spent her life teaching Rosamund not to ask; for it was an unnecessary question and, in Violet's words, made Rosamund seem "overly curious and nosy."

"What time is the ceremony?" she asked instead.

"It's scheduled for two but I think we should be there a quarter to, so we'll have time to set up."

With a bit of resentment, Rosamund noted how perfectly organized Cora was—well, save for the whole forgetting-the-gown-scenario. She had every little detail planned out. She even knew what time they should arrive: early enough so that they could be there to greet the first guests that always arrived a few minutes before most others, but not too early that they ended up waiting forever and ever.

Oh, why did Cora always have to be so perfect?

Susan MacClare was best known for being sharp-tongued, disagreeable, and a downright pain to be around. She didn't mind too much; she never minded what others called her. It was all the same to her, and there was only so much pain she could take before she blocked it out completely.

Her first woe, of course, was being forced into marriage. She remembered her mother Beatrice's words perfectly, spoken the morning of her wedding:

"Hugh will make a wonderful match for you. You will live happily ever after, outranking us all."

Her reply was just as memorable, for she'd repeated the question over and over in her mind for weeks after: "And if we don't? Live happily ever after?"

That's when Beatrice had fallen silent, and Susan had been ushered toward the marriage hall, the final details of her appearance complete. She'd worn an exquisite white gown, and thought herself a beautiful bride, but Hugh had made no such remark when she'd met him at the altar. Instead, he'd kept his gaze steady and fixed on the vicar, leaving her to do the same or look foolish. Her pride prevented her from succumbing to the latter, so she'd lifted her chin and waited patiently for the time when she'd lie in front of the whole church.

"Lady Susan Edwards, do you take Lord Hugh MacClare, the Marquess of Flintshire, to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

And she'd said yes. And everyone believed her.

She was now preparing for baby Mary's christening. She'd not yet met the child, but she wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Everyone—her aunt Violet, her cousin Robert, Uncle Patrick—always seemed to hold her responsible for whatever went wrong. The one person who refrained from doing this was always Rosamund, and for that reason only Susan agreed to attend the christening. The baby was her cousin's first niece, after all. It seemed fit that Susan go, if only to congratulate Rosamund.

Susan took one last look at herself in her vanity mirror. She attempted to smile, as she'd promised Rosamund she would try and be friendly at the christening, and such feats required loads and loads of smiling. When she was satisfied with the way she looked, awkward smile and all, she rose from her seat and walked out her bedroom door.

They arrived at the exact time Cora had predicted. She, Robert, and their infant daughter sat on one end of the carriage, while Rosamund and her parents sat opposite them. Rosamund, having nothing better to do, took to observing the differences between her family and her brother's.

On one end of the carriage, Robert, his wife, and precious little Mary sat smiling lovingly at each other.

On the other, Patrick leaned against the wall, while Violet stared out the window on her side, and Rosamund sat stiffly between them.

The nature of her parents' relationship was known to Rosamund, though she had a hard time believing they'd married completely out of duty. In fact, Rosamund knew for a fact they loved each other to some degree, because of a certain incident she'd walked in on when she was twelve. When she had explained what she'd seen to Robert, he'd laughed and laughed, and then proceeded to try to catch their parents for himself night after night. He never did.

The chauffeur helped Cora, who was still clutching Mary to her chest, out of the carriage first. Rosamund heard a gentle click as Cora's heels hit the pavement, followed by a softer yet louder thump as Robert stepped out. Her own shoes made a quieter sound, but of the two before her the noise was more like Cora's.

Rosamund noticed Patrick offer his arm to his wife, who hesitated for a moment before taking it. Cora, however, was eager to slip her free arm—the one that wasn't holding Mary—through Robert's.

Susan and her husband, Hugh, were waiting for them inside, along with their two children, James and Annabelle. The former was a young, healthy boy of four, with his mother's dark hair and father's brown eyes. He wore a two-piece suit, adorned with a pink rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket. His father's hand rested on his shoulder, showing Hugh felt immensely proud of his son and heir.

Annabelle, on the other hand, was literally attached to Susan. Her arms were wrapped around her mother's leg, clinging to Susan like she was her last chance of survival. Blonde ringlets curled around her cheeks, topped with a blue bow. Her dress matched the bow, except for the white polka-dots that covered the top half.

"Hugh," Patrick clapped the younger man on the back, "we're so glad you could make it."

He said nothing of the sort to Susan. In fact, no one except Rosamund made any movement to greet her. Violet asked the children about their "Granny Beatrice", but she didn't say a word to her niece. Susan didn't seem to care one bit, though, and that half-smile of hers was as evident as ever. She often did this smile, Rosamund noticed, whenever she was making an effort at exchanging pleasantries.

"Susan, I'm so glad you could make it," said Rosamund, kissing her on the cheek.

"We shall see," was her cousin's curt reply. Susan, Rosamund knew, understood fully what the rest of her family thought of her. At six-and-twenty, Susan was knowledgeable beyond her years, in the sense that she realized from an early age that most considered her dislikable. Rosamund didn't know how she accepted it so easily, and yet she had, long ago.

The rest of the guests began to arrive a few minutes till two. Beatrice Edwards, now a widow, wouldn't be able to attend, nor would Cora's brother, Harold Levinson. He was in America, with her mother. And yet, Martha Levinson had still been able to make it, and stood before her daughter dressed in colors of crimson and gold. Her wildly-colored outfit was nothing compared to the large feather pinned into her strikingly-red hair, which only added to the crazed effect.

"Mother!" Cora exclaimed, beaming as she greeted Martha, "You came!"

"Of course I came," said Martha. "I had to see my granddaughter, didn't I? She can't grow up not knowing her grandmother."

"I doubt she needed to meet both of us," said Violet coolly, sliding up to Cora and her mother. "Especially when the other one is an exotic, pompous, mentally-unstable—"

"Here, Mother, why don't you hold Mary?" Cora sensed where her mother and mother-in-law were headed and quickly put an end to what was sure to end up in a cat fight—or, at the very least, an argument no one wanted to witness.

Martha agreed to take the baby, and held her until the final guests had arrived, when Cora took Mary back and proceeded with the christening.

So that's the first chapter. Let me know what you think! Any suggestions? I have a rough outline but I'm totally open to ideas. :)