Author's Notes: I wanted to explore a few ideas in this story. First, I just love Andith and wanted to see how Anthony and Edith's story would play out if they were to marry back in 1914. However, first I needed a reason WHY they would marry before I got into the effects.

Then I realized there was a bigger thing that dictates so much of what goes on in Downton Abbey. I cheerfully loathe Mary Crawley's character through the series. She's protected and cosseted while she does wretched things and treats people terribly, yet others turn around and are furious at other characters for equally rotten things. Like Thomas, she often gets a pass because she's pretty, but unlike Thomas there is no possible canonical reason for this. He lived his life in fear and in the face of horrendous discrimination and a fear of not only prison and homelessness, but actual damnation.

I wanted a reason for Mary to be the way she is. I wanted a reason why an otherwise good mother like Cora and a decent human being like Lord Grantham would fall into such a horrendous pattern with their second daughter.

General Warnings: Because this story is set during the early part of the 20th century, be prepared to occasionally run into period typical ableism, lack of good mental health care or even understanding of the concept, childcare concept we would find appalling, classism, sexism, and victim blaming. Not to mention different concepts of things like consent. I will try to post specific warnings per chapter.

Disclaimer: All recognizable works belong to BBC, Julian Fellows, the wonderful actors and actresses who brought Downton Abbey to life, and a number of other people. This work is produced for entertainment only and no profit is made from it.

Warnings Ch. 1: Bullying and victim blaming.

Late May 1914

"You think you're so happy with that useless, boring old man. Do you think even Strallan could love you if he knew you?"

It wasn't the greater revenge percolating in the back of Mary's mind, though Lady Mary Crawley had already decided that if Edith was going to deny her a future marriage and happiness she would do the same to her somehow. It was just a passing comment. Had Edith not left her book in the library, had Mary spared a moment less time to adjust her riding habit before going downstairs, had anything that happened in that instance not happened to prompt Mary towards that minor accustomed cruelty that she flung at her sister, things would have been different.

That day, however, in that particular Downton, conspired so that Mary Crawley did say precisely that to Edith. Likewise, her younger sister froze for a moment, and then went on walking towards the library. Mary fumed a bit, but otherwise preceded down the stairs. She had a ride to attend, and if she happened to pass near where Matthew would be taking his bicycle back from the train station and they talked… why not? They were courting and Edith couldn't spoil everything. Oh, she tried, but Mary would always remind her of her place.

Edith, however, did not go to the library. She did not finish her book. She paced about a bit and then, disturbed, did something she should have known better than to attempt. She went to her mother for advice.

"Oh, I don't feel well, Edith, do try not to be upset over little things. You know how Mary is."

Beautiful and composed even when pale, she found her mother reclining on a settee. Wearing a silk wrapper and seeming to fade into the tasteful decorations of her boudoir, Cora offered up a smile as she spoke, then she went back to her magazine. The Countess was as helpful as she ever was to her second born child.

Looking for Sybil, as her father was never to be bothered, Edith was not growing less upset.

"Do you think even Strallan could love you if he knew you?"

"Lady Edith, may I help you?"

Edith startled as she realized she'd paused on the servant's stairs on her way down to check and see if Sybil had gone downstairs. Realizing she was standing there and blocking the servants, because her presence would surely be enough to stop traffic, Edith flushed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes, I - I was looking for Sybil. Is she downstairs?"

"I don't believe so, Lady Edith."

Edith looked around, suddenly unsure of where to go next. It was not an unusual situation in her life or in Downton itself. Normally, however, she'd collect her drawing things or her writing box and go outside on the grounds. Now, with Mary out riding and likely to pop up at any of her usual haunts just to torment her, Edith didn't want to go out.

"Lady Edith, is everything quite alright?"

Edith had never had someone special on Downton's staff. At least never anyone who was employed long term. Edith knew that Mrs. Hughes was just doing her job and had better manners than her employers. The woman would always be concerned, and she was eternally polite.

Edith had a well-trained and lifelong suspicion when it came to staff, based on hard earned experience. She was best off if she ignored them and they ignored her and everyone went on with their lives. That said, in that moment, when she looked up into the dusty blue eyes of the housekeeper, she felt compelled by the kindness there. Even if she knew, intimately, that it wasn't truly available to her.

"Mrs. Hughes, how - how can you be sure you know someone or - or they know you?" Edith swallowed. "Before marriage, I mean?"

The Scotswoman looked up at Edith in surprise and Edith took a step back, pasting a smile across her face. Instinct and good sense prevailed. This was not a situation to get herself into. It would creep back upstairs quickly. She would regret it.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Hughes. That was a silly question."

"I don't believe so, Lady Edith." The Housekeeper surprised her by answering, her voice quiet and kind enough to still the blonde, who was half-turned and ready for flight. "I am hardly an expert on the subject of matrimony myself."

Edith allowed a small smile back at the woman, and the older woman took a step up, so that they were on level as much as their differing heights allowed. Somehow, Edith still felt small next to the tiny woman. Perhaps it the experience inherent in her posture that lent Mrs. Hughes such presence. The few times Mr. Carson had erred enough to gain the diminutive woman's ire in Edith's memory had been amusing simply for the sense of the tall man being spiritually towered over by his counterpart and knowing it.

"I know, it's just… please, forget I said anything."

"I'm afraid I'm not a particularly forgetful person, Lady Edith, and while I don't wish to overstep my place… perhaps you'd like to come down to my sitting room for a cup of tea?"

Edith stood there, hovering for a moment, as that kindness - usually offered only to Sybil and less and less as they all aged - hovered between them. Edith only felt a trap descending, however, and shook her head firmly.

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I won't take up your time. I know how busy you are. I'm sorry to have disturbed anyone."

"Of course, my lady." Mrs. Hughes's blue eyes were vaguely sad, but her voice was as softly firm as it ever was as she got in the final word. "I would say, on the matter of knowing someone, that time is the most important thing."

"Of course, thank you."

As Edith made her escape, Mrs. Hughes frowned at the odd exchange, and then sighed, sadly. She'd known Lady Edith since she was a young woman and meetings like this did happen occasionally. Each time Mrs. Hughes was left watching the young woman go with a vague regret, and the uncomfortable feeling that somewhere along the chain of years she'd missed a link or two it was her job to put in place, along with many other failures above her. For her part, Edith carried the housekeeper's words with her as she went back up the stairs to pace in her room.

It was an impulsive thing, and Sir Anthony Strallan wasn't often an impulsive man. As such, when he found himself turning the Rolls down the long drive towards the Abbey instead of Loxley, he reigned himself in sternly. It wouldn't do to take impulse too far.

"Right, keep that box in your pocket." Anthony muttered to himself as he depressed the brake smoothly and reached for the stick. "The party's the proper time for it. Not too soon, and you've still got to give the girl some warning. Just in case you've… you're mistaken."

Though he did not believe he was. Anthony knew he was not always the most social of men, and any man could easily misunderstand a lady. How else could it be when propriety dictated so many distances and such care? All of which he approved of, but Anthony was not capable of the sort of self-deception it took to dismiss the impracticality and absurdity of social convention just because he agreed with it. Truth was not a matter of opinion, even if perception colored it.

Still, there was no mistaking the enthusiasm that Lady Edith had shown his company. She'd positively glowed when he'd taken her to the concert. It was an evening that stood out in his mind for so many reasons. Not simply the pleasure of the music and the company. Certainly not because he'd attended one of the Jervis' parties: he did that fairly often. No, for Anthony the whole thing stood out because of the great sense of comfort and success and happiness that it had brought him, and how Edith seemed to share his feelings on the matter.

We enjoy each other. Yes, the great gulf in our ages remains. Yes, she is quite above you in every way that matters. However, who can blame a chap for wanting something so fine when life offers it? You seem to make her happy. What's not to celebrate about that?

Edith wasn't waiting for him on the front steps, as she often did, but Anthony assumed it was because of the impulsivity of his arrival. He hadn't telephoned ahead as he usually did. Then again, he'd dropped by without warning once before and she'd been out to meet him that time. She'd even, charmingly, confessed to having bribed the footmen to tell her first when he visited.

Speaking of, it was the dark fellow - Thomas - who met him at the door with a smirk.

"Lady Edith begs you to wait just a moment and she'll be down. Unless you want to go in and pay your respects?"

Anthony hesitated. Good manners dictated going in, and he hated to be rude. On the other hand, hanging about while Lady Grantham was welcoming, warm, and utterly dismissive of his presence wasn't his favorite activity, either. The Earl was only a shade better, as they could at least discuss matters of estate management and light politics, though they'd never be more than friendly neighbors given their disparate interests. He knew nothing of the other two young ladies, beyond Lady Mary's rather changeful nature and Lady Sybil's youth. Not beyond Edith's descriptions, and the lady in question preferred not to discuss her family overmuch.

"Who's down at the moment?"

"No-one, actually, Sir Anthony. Lady Sybil is taking the air on the grounds, Lady Mary is riding, the Countess has retired, and the Earl is out on Estate business."

"Then, ah, I'll wait with the car. Thank you, Thomas."

"My pleasure, sir."

Anthony was left only a few moments to stand awkwardly by his motor. Edith appeared, dressed for a drive very charmingly in a brown coat over a pale green frock. If her hat was a little askew, who was he to judge? The train from London had left his tweeds a bit rumpled, after all. Stewart would no doubt give him quite a frown for going to pick up a lady smelling of his pipe and without putting on a properly pressed jacket.

"Lady Edith, you're looking lovely today."

She beamed at him as she always did with even the smallest compliment, but Anthony frowned as he noted a slight redness to her eyes and the brittle way she held her mouth. A quick glance showed her shoulders were bowed. More oddly, her fingers were also white-knuckled where they gripped a sturdy canvas bag she'd brought along.

"Books?" He asked, curiously, noting the shape and weight of the bag as he reached for it. Perking up automatically at their shared interest in reading anything they could get their hands on. "New purchases, I take it. Is it anything we've discussed?"

"Not exactly, though it is some-something I would like to share." Edith's smile trembled a little. "Perhaps after we've driven a bit? It is a lovely day and I see you have the top down."

"Ah, well, I know how you enjoy the fresh air." Anthony offered up, wondering what was wrong even as he helped her inside and shut the door, settling her into the passenger's seat with her bag as he moved around to the driver's side door Thomas was politely holding open for him. "Thank you, Thomas."

He started the ignition as he tugged on his gloves and settled in.

"Where shall we go today?"

"Oh, anywhere but here!"

Anthony stifled a frown as he settled in and released the brake, mystified and worried by the lady's tone.

"Your diaries, Lady Edith?"

"Yes, you see…"

It was as terribly difficult as she'd supposed it would be when she'd impulsively dug the bag out of where she kept it, beneath the false bottom of her bureau. It wasn't much of a hiding place. Mary had found out about it years ago. It was, however, not one that had been shared with their parents, and it wasn't as if Mary could get very far with the books even had she revisited her old habits where the journals were concerned. She hadn't gone into the bottom of her bureau since Edith had hidden a garden snake in there after they'd all gotten separate rooms.

"Lady Edith?"

"I want… Give me a moment, I had it all arranged in my head, how I would say it, and now it's gone quite to pieces." Edith bit her lip and smoothed her skirt.

They were sitting on the running board of Anthony's car. The lovely silver-gray paint reflecting the blue sky above them and the chrome sending sparks of green and golden light from the leaves in every direction. They'd stopped in one of the drives that led onto a field at the far edge of Loxley, where it bordered a broad stretch of forest. It was on the opposite side of the property's borders from Downton.

Sitting as they were on a road of packed earth, in a verdant tunnel of arched branches, and with columns of gray and sienna bordering them, the drive had a cloistered feel to it. Like a the nave of some gothic church. Edith's mind, always thinking in five directions at once when she was nervous, threw a random thought at her and it popped out of her mouth in place of what she'd meant to say.

"Have you ever wondered if the druids worshipped in places like this?"

"With the trees and the bird song?"

Sir Anthony accepted the statement gamely, not a hint of complaint. Then, he'd always seemed to enjoy her random comments and questions. It was, perhaps, the first extraordinary thing that had drawn Edith to him. That ability to make all of her oddities feel welcome.

He looked around them at the edge of his family's lands and smiled. The golden summer light played off his graying blonde hair and the shadows smoothed the lines around his eyes, which were lit nearly glowing, brighter than blue gems, in his face. Saxon or Norse, Edith suddenly had a strong image of the Strallan ancestors in just such a place and had to blink away the idea of Anthony with a sword balanced across his folded knees.

"You know, I have?" The baronet offered, sounding pleased by the idea. "Thought of druids at moments like this, I mean. There's something about England on a summer day, in places like this, that makes me understand our distant ancestors. Well, not the bog mummies"

"Oh, I don't know, after an afternoon with Mary I begin to understand the desire to strangle someone and dump them in a muddy swamp rather well." Edith joked weakly and got a sideways look, knowing and amused and she wondered if he really understood. That it wasn't like him and his sister. That the jokes… weren't all humor.

"I mean the idea that not all holiness can be found in churches, or even should be found there. It makes… less out of our homes. All the work we've put into the land, I mean, and all it's given us back over all the generations before and to come. Don't you think?"

"I hadn't, but I do now." Edith agreed, the little burbling fountain of warmth in her chest that always seemed to bubble around him temporarily overflowing. "Or, what I mean is, I hadn't thought of it as in estates and inheritance as a way of - of worshipping the land. Most just want to wring whatever money they can out of them or use them as party pieces. I can rather feel it here, though? This didn't just happen and… I suppose you need to stop and appreciate that."

He looked back at her and nudged her gently with his shoulder, stretching his legs out a bit further and clearing his throat. His tone gentle. His prompting kind. It was a wonderful, and yet unfamiliar feeling. The idea of losing it was terrifying.

"Your… diaries, though, Edith? I would think those are very private."

"They are." Edith let out a little laugh. "I even… write them in code, you see?"

His pale eyebrows jumped up towards the slightly unruly fluff of hair underneath his cap. Edith carried on quickly, words tumbling out. She had to beat her nerves or they'd overtake her intentions; it was a deadly sort of race and she feared there was no winner. Good intentions made a poor roadmap.

"It's why I was so curious when you talked about it. Encryption, I mean. About the brief time you were in the Army. You never did tell me how you ended up - anyway." Edith reached into the bag and pulled out one of the five simple leather bound books, offering it up to him. "This is the oldest one. I started writing in it five years ago. You see, I only started - restarted writing in journals then. I'd found a book on writing codes and I thought that Mary would never have enough patience to work that out. For once I was right."

"Your sister was reading your diaries?"

"Our governess gave us each a journal when I was ten. Mary read mine aloud at in the drawing room in front of guests two days later."

She wished she hadn't said it as soon as it came out of her mouth. Who would want to marry her if they knew? That's what Mary said, isn't it? That if they really knew you they'd never… Edith found she couldn't stop, however. Not when, after their months of courtship, for the first time in her life she felt as if she had someone who did see her and want her and…

And what if she was wrong? What if Mary was right? The universe loved her sister. It was not so fond of Edith.

"Surely your parents did something?"

"Oh, yes, I got in quite a bit of trouble for writing such things about my family." Edith laughed by rote, as she had to every time someone looked over because Mary had done something or her parents had said something. It's a joke, just look away, stop staring at me like I'm a beast in the zoo. "But that's not… that was a long time ago. This is… this is who I am now."

"And… that is why you want me to read them?" Anthony was still frowning, hard enough this time that he forgot propriety. "Edith, this is a… it means a great deal, but you're entitled to your privacy. These must be incredibly private to you if you've gone to this trouble…"

At that point he flipped open the book, scanning it with his eyebrows raised as he looked it over. Edith knew what he'd see when he opened it. Long lines of random symbols, some vaguely resembling hieroglyphics, others utterly unfamiliar. Moreover, it was all written in vertical lines.

"I brought a key along. To the codes, I mean. I made it this morning." Edith swallowed, and tried to be playful. "Though I'm tempted not to give it to you. After all, if you were in Intelligence this might be a nice challenge. Granny says a man should have to - to work a bit for a lady's…"

She wasn't even sure how to finish it and flushed at her failed flirtation. He looked up as she looked away and Edith stifled a gasp as she felt his hand come up to cup her chin. The gesture was gentle and his hand was dry and just barely calloused, but he'd taken off his driving glove and it was his bare skin against hers. His hand was so large that his thumb settled on her neck, over her accelerating pulse, and his longest fingers brushed along the hair behind her ear. Unable to stop herself, she shivered. No-one, let alone a man, had ever touched her like that.

"While I would hope to have earned your regard somewhat in these past months, Lady Edith, I am by no means entitled to that or anything else that is yours. That includes your thoughts and secrets." Sir Anthony's voice was low and kind. "I want you to know that."

"I want you to know me." Edith countered. "I - I think you know how I feel about you but… but courtship has to be done a certain way and I find… perhaps it is horribly forward of me, but I find it's not… quite enough when I'm with you."

He stared down at her, his hand still cupping her jaw, and then his thumb swept up and brushed tenderly over her lips. His eyes dipped down and traced its path. For a long moment Edith froze, spellbound, sure she was about to be kissed.

Instead, he drew back and stood up, accepting the rest of the books and settling them with care in the back seat of the car. Then he drew her to her feet with both his hands wrapped around hers. She looked up at him, worried, until he slid one hand behind her back and nudged her towards the car.

"Then I am humbled to accept them and embarrassed I have nothing similar to offer you." Sir Anthony helped her back into her seat, but not before his eyes fixed on her, points of blue light in a sea of birdsong and whispering leaves. "Though I want you to know, there can be nothing in them that would detract from the feelings I think… I believe are now clear between us, Lady Edith."

Desperately, Edith prayed that would prove true.

It was four in the morning and Nicholas Stewart was concerned. While it was not unheard of for his employer to be so involved with a new book or academic study that his reading carried him into the night, it was a very rare event when he was up past midnight reading. Sir Anthony was, by habit, training, and inclination, an early riser. The tin alarm on his bedside table, an artifact from university, remained set to six. Breakfast at Loxley was to be on the sideboard no later than seven, and the usual rule was that, had it not appeared by six-forty-five, their cook's wrath was sure to fall upon the individual who had delayed her.

The lights in the master's study remained on, however, as they had since he'd repaired there. Sir Anthony Strallan was decidedly awake. A fact that prompted a brief meeting between butler and Valet.

Mr. Edward Morris was a stern-but-decent chap of eighty-four years of age. He had served Sir Phillip Strallan as butler before serving his son in the same capacity. He'd come into the house as a hall boy at ten years of age in 1840, a few scant years before Sir William's death left Sir Phillip the title. To say he was loyal to the family was to understate reality. To say he was invested in the safety, happiness, and continuity of the title was simple fact.

"Mr. Stewart," Always one for formality, Morris addressed the younger man with visible concern as they stood in the downstairs hall, having both chosen to "look in" on their employer at the same moment. "Have you any idea what has the master at sixes-and-sevens?"

Though spoken at a low whisper - Morris' eyesight was nowhere near what it once was, but his hearing could have impressed a bat - the words were clear and the demand in them expectant. On this occasion, Stewart's own deep respect for Sir Anthony's privacy bowed to age, authority, and mutual concern. Given he'd been Sir Anthony's Valet since circumstances had put a raw sixteen-year-old private in South Africa into "temporary" service as a young Lieutenant's batman… well. It need not be said that Morris' wasn't the only loyalty standing in that hallway.

"Lady Edith Crawley gave him something on their drive today." Stewart related.

"Books?"

Not a bad guess, really. Stewart was tempted to quip but stifled it. After all, there was a better chance of seeing either of those two individuals with a book than without at any given time. Of the several occasions that their employer had brought the young lady to Loxley in their courtship - unescorted, and that daring move had given Morris some pause and Stewart no little amusement - each one had eventually ended with both the gentleman and lady in the library.

"Journals, I think."

"Journals?" The butler's white eyebrows did a wonderful caterpillar impression and threatened to crawl jauntily over his bald pate. "Surely not. She's an earl's daughter."

"And that precludes the writing of journals?"

"No, but sharing them would be frightfully forward."

"Honest, though."

"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Stewart?"

The valet considered his answer carefully, as was his wont, as he turned it over in his mind. Sir Anthony was a man to whom the proprieties mattered. He was also a man of good sense. Something that ran nearly as deep in his character as his natural kindness and concern for others. All of which were qualities that encouraged the loyalty and fondness of his staff.

Stewart, however, had had a chance to know his employer under less than perfect circumstances. Of all of those present at Loxley, he was not the one who had known the man the longest; that was Morris. He was, however, the one who knew Sir Anthony the best.

"I mean that… I wouldn't hazard a guess about what things are like upstairs at the Abbey. It's hardly my place." Stewart finally responded, his words held like one carried eggs in a windstorm. "However, I would say that Lady Edith is a very clever young lady."

"She would have to be, to earn the Master's regard."

"Yes," Stewart let his brown eyes catch the other man's hazel gaze, both dark as shadows in the unlit hall. "However, I wouldn't stretch that to imagine it had earned her equal regard elsewhere."

"The earl's a solid, English, fellow. Just what one expects from his rank."

The words were spoken with perfect politeness and a hint of warning, but Stewart stifled a smile nonetheless. That statement, delivered with impeccable accent and manners also happened to be as close as a man like Morris could ever get to saying that the Earl of Grantham was not the brightest star in the heavens. Unable to resist temptation, Stewart kept going.

"The Dowager is, likewise, precisely what one would expect of a lady of her rank and upbringing."

"Just as Sir Anthony's mother has said, God rest her soul." The butler contributed automatically, then cleared his throat. "I do not know enough of the current Lady Grantham to speculate, and find such actions tawdry. If Lady Edith has seen fit to trust Sir Anthony in such a manner, I can only assume that all is proceeding well."

"He went to London to fetch the ring."

The old man, who fretted very frequently about their employer's unmarried state and lack of heir, visibly perked up.

"Well, then, if there's an understanding, that's different." Morris nodded his head firmly, glancing back up the stairs. "I'm quite for bed then. I'm entirely too old for such hours and Sir Anthony shall surely regret this in the morning."

"Quite so, Mr. Morris. Goodnight."

Bidding him goodnight as well, the old man made his slow, stately way back downstairs. Though his employer would no doubt have dismissed him for the evening hours before had he thought of it, Stewart ignored that fact as he went back up the stairs towards the study. Unlike the butler, he was very aware that the small red velvet box containing that ring was still in Sir Anthony's inside coat pocket. Likewise, he was aware that the golden locket that was to proceed the ring in terms of gift-giving had yet to be offered. That gift, previously owned by the baronet's mother, was destined for the agreed upon outing happening in two days time, to be followed with a ring after the Earl was spoken to.

No.

Something wasn't right. Perhaps it was none of Stewart's business, as a valet. However, years had forged something stronger than employment between the men. While their sense of dignity and what was proper demanded that the forms be obeyed in some manners, in others the rules were more fluid. In this case, they proceeded as they normally did: as friends coexisting happily under a thin veneer of tradition.

"Sir Anthony?"

"What?" Just as he expected, knocking lightly on the study door produced a totally shocked tone. There was a shuffle, and Stewart would bet it was his employer moving papers off of the desk clock. "Oh, pity's sake! Look at the hour."

Rotten shame that he had no-one to wager with.

"Stewart, go to bed. You should have knocked off hours ago."

Stewart looked through the now open door, insinuating himself through it as he closed it neatly behind him, and took in the scene before him.

Sir Anthony sat at his desk. His tweed jacket was hanging awkwardly off of the leather back of the rolling desk chair. His bow tie hung limply around his neck. The matching waistcoat was unbuttoned and the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt rolled up. A quick, searching glance showed that the cuff links were in the empty teacup at the edge of the table. The watch and fobs were in the saucer.

Paperwork once organized into neat piles held down by a variety of eclectic weights was now shoved here and there and, in one case, transferred to the floor. In its place were five leather bound journals and a number of sheets of paper, an abacus, and a selection of pencils in three different colors.

Stewart's eyebrows rose as he looked at the open book situated before his employer.

"Forgive the intrusion, sir but…" His curiosity overcame his discretion. "Are we at the Foreign Office's discretion again?."

"No, we are not, mores the pity."

"Sir?"

"The Foreign Office has yet to send me into a situation where I had the ability to put my fist into someone's teeth, to go along with the strong desire to do so. I fear my restraint may not be up to snuff at the moment and Lord Grantham is all too easily accessible."

Stewart had to take a moment to pick his jaw up off the floor at that. His employer was, by nature, a gentle man as well as a gentleman. While he knew that Sir Anthony Strallan could quite ably handle himself, despite not having had to in decades, he fancied that the last time his employer had needed to resort to violence the current object of Sir Anthony's affections was likely still learning to walk.

"They're Edith's diaries, man." Sir Anthony stood up, nearly upsetting the teacup and causing Stewart to twitch at the idea of having to chase down two wandering cuff links in the rather cluttered study. "I just… you wouldn't…"

"The lady encrypted her diaries?"

Stewart was seldom boggled, but this had done it.

"I find that I cannot blame her." Sir Anthony gestured vaguely at the table. "I've only gotten through two of them so far, but… Stewart, it is appalling."

"What is, sir?" A creeping fear hit Stewart, one that came with a childhood less sterling than his manners might lend one to believe. "Lady Edith hasn't been… misused in Downton?"

Sir Anthony's pacing in front of the paper-filled mantle stopped instantly. He turned and faced his valet. Stewart stood steadily under the scrutiny. It only lasted a bare five seconds, and it brought the taller man's eyes back to the present. The baronet was one of the few whose study he did not mind.

Stewart knew that when Sir Anthony looked at him he did not see a man of quick, wiry build and medium height. He did not see the olive skin, black hair, and coffee-colored eyes and make assumptions about the Mediterranean. He didn't ask if he'd had a "Black Irish" grandmother.

Sir Anthony knew that Stewart's cut-glass accent was pure artifice. After all, it had been the Baronet who'd played tutor. He knew that the man standing near him had been born in some forgotten part of Canada, to a woman he could not remember, with a name he'd had beaten out of him. Strallan knew that his valet had lost all of that along with with a language and an entire culture's history and traditions. All of it burned to ash in the supposed good intentions and civilizing influence of Colonialism.

Sir Anthony Strallan knew all of that, but when he looked at Nicholas Stewart, he saw a sixteen-year-old who he had taken a bullet for. He saw a young man who'd convincingly lied their way out of captivity during a sticky situation involving a great number of angry, heavily armed men, when Anthony was too feverish to do the same. In short, he saw a man worthy of his friendship and trust, and that was the only reason why Stewart didn't care that the man knew every gory, gruesome, detail of what an Indian School could do to a person. After all, it had been Stewart who'd poured it all out into his superior officer's waiting ears one venomous night when they'd both thought they were going to die. Sir Anthony Strallan had thought no less of him then, and would think no less of him now.

"No, Stewart." The older man relaxed and breathed out, shaking his head. "Not how you mean it. Thank you for putting the matter into perspective."

"May I ask what you do mean?"

"I…"

Stewart waited as the taller man frowned at the journals, clearly weighing things in his mind.

"It's a matter of privacy."

"Of course, sir."

Sir Anthony chewed his lip, nodding once to himself.

"Stewart, I'm not for bed yet. I take it you're not going to turn in before I do?"

"No, sir."

"Not even on orders."

"No, sir."

As Stewart hoped, his laconic disobedience prompted a smile and Sir Anthony gestured to a chair as he sat down once again in his own.

"Stewart, it's nobody's secret that Edith is not particularly favored by her family, but it seems… a great deal more has gone on than I'd noticed."

"Closed systems are like that, sir." Stewart allowed, but heard the unspoken request and was happy to answer it. "Some of the footmen at the Abbey make the occasional jape about Lady Edith's looks and chances of marriage when they're at the pub."

Sir Anthony rubbed a hand over his face and worked his jaw. Stewart sat back a bit. He didn't need to add anything else. If footmen felt at ease to make public jokes at the expense of one of the ladies of the house, then it was just as likely that nastier went on upstairs. Such things trickled down. A matter that, frankly, Stewart thought a bit rich. While all of the girls in that family were lovely, beauty wasn't exactly an uncommon trait. Pretty girls could be found on every street corner in London and most other places. Usually at a bargain rate.

If marriageability was on discussion, well, none of the Grantham girls were the greatest catches in their circles. Rumor was they weren't dowered. On top of that? Who wanted the Dowager Lady Grantham for an in-law, let alone Lady Mary? Ignoring the recent rumors that she was a fast woman there were how many enemies she'd made amongst ladies she'd slighted on insulted over the years since her debut. Any idiot could also see she'd be an expensive wife.

"Hardly a surprise when their punishment for cutting off a sister's hair is to miss two days' dinner."

"Pardon?" Stewart gaped and Sir Anthony gestured angrily at the books, temper having overtaken reticence and dragged Stewart effectively from his brown study on the concept of physical beauty.

"When Lady Edith was thirteen Lady Mary grew angry that she had been teased for her youth at dinner by a visiting guest during her first public attendance at the meal and responded by cutting her sister's plait off as Edith slept."

"And Lord Grantham did what?" Stewart tried to wrap his mind around around it.

"Oh, it started out as a week with no entertainment, but then Lady Mary cried, and stamped her foot a bit, and Bob's your uncle." The baronet was rubbing a hand over his face. "It doesn't quite make sense and I know it must be biased given these are from Edith's perspective. There is likely a lot of complexity that I am missing, just… Surely it is still a father's job to see his house is a place of fair and moderate discipline? Stewart, the diaries are littered with odd responses like that and they do not make sense! I've known Grantham for years. He's a bore with a quick temper, but he's an honorable man."

"That is his reputation, sir."

"There's something here, Stewart."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"I can't quite frame it. I'm missing something."

"Hence the late night decoding."

"I'll never get through them all tonight, or tomorrow."

Really, the whole thing was boggling. One detail bothered Stweard. Which left one question to be asked.

"She didn't leave you a key to the codes, sir?"

Sir Anthony looked up, pausing, and suddenly appeared quite sheepish.

"Erm, yes, but…"

Stewart said nothing. The silence carried on in his stead. He wouldn't presume to be so rude as to suggest that Sir Anthony was perhaps letting pride and his enjoyment of a challenge override common sense. The quiet was talkative and had no such compunctions. Eventually his employer cleared his throat and nodded to himself, a splash of pink across his cheeks.

"Right… Stewart, can I trouble you for a pot of tea?"

"No trouble at all, sir, just let me fetch your watch and cufflinks."

"Erm, of course."

Stewart left Anthony settling back in, having retrieved an envelope from the canvas bag by his feet.

More Notes: Finally, I want to thank TrivialQueen, The Classicist, and all of the other Andith authors on this website. Much of their fanon and their work has influenced my mental image of this delightful pairing. So if you see something familiar but not canon, they likely deserve credit for it.

Specifically – The extended Strallan family owes much if not everything to The Classicists portrayal of Anthony's kin, and how they made him the character we all adore.

Trivial Queen – I've drawn a lot of inspiration of what will later develop into Anthony's war service from her portrayal of his PTSD and how it came about in her Detective series featuring Edith and Anthony.

Stewart – I can't figure out who invented him, but we all love him. His particular background here, however, crawled out of my own hindbrain.