Author's Notes: final chapter in Part 1 of Cantata. Part 2 will see more of Matthew, Anthony, and Stewart at the front. We'll touch on episodes of season 2.
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. 4: Mentions of past emotional abuse. Adults with childhood emotional disorders processing the damage done by them; to themselves and others. General bad family dynamics being sorted out. Lots of feels. Separation from loved ones via war.
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The Earl of Grantham was beside himself. First his wayward daughter continued to be utterly intractable. Then his mother specifically slighted and stirred up trouble with his wife until Cora left and fled, of all place, to Loxley! The very heart of enemy territory, as it were, where that wolf in sheep's clothing had turned his own flesh and blood against him and led Edith entirely astray! What's more, his mother had refused to apologize. If anything, she'd been more caustic than usual, dismissing his concerns and Cora's feelings utterly!
"She even had the gall to tell me about having gone to tea there again today, Bates, today!"
His valet looked at him with all the proper sympathy and Robert accepted it with the silent righteousness that was appropriate to the situation.
"How did, erm, Lady Grantham take this visit?"
"How would I know? She wouldn't give me any kind of straight answer. My own mother, Bates!"
He shrugged into his jacket. It wasn't his most formal, of course, that would be ridiculous. It wasn't a shooting jacket, either. Nor was it the usual attire for a day out on the estate he'd put on if planning to head in that direction. Three years ago, well, he'd hardly visited Loxley often but over his life Robert had harbored a secret enjoyment of the relaxed dress code there. He never totally succumbed to it, but there was a pleasure in knowing that a visit to Loxley meant a more casual greeting, no need to starch one's collar quite so harshly, and the assurance of being the best dressed fellow in the room. So instead, he opted to dress modestly. Right in the middle, he'd told Bates. Let everyone be aware of who he was but don't rub it in. Just a reminder.
Bates finished brushing off the settled jacket across the shoulders and stepped back, leaning on his stick. Robert checked his reflection. He nodded once, decisively.
"Very good, thank you, Bates." Robert cleared his throat. "I shouldn't be back before dinner, all going well. Which it will."
"Of course, my lord."
"And you should let Carson and Mrs. Hughes know that Lady Grantham shall be returning, and so however that pigeon found its way into O'Brian's room while she was gone, it needs to be tidied up by then as well."
"I'll handle it directly." He handed him his watch and fobs.
"Thank you, Bates." Robert realized he was repeating himself and cleared his throat. For a moment, both men stared at each other in mutual understanding, then the high-dive plunge was taken and he took his first firm step in the direction of fixing the broken mess his family had fallen into.
As the earl strode confidently across the Great Hall and out the front door William opened smartly for him, his two unmarried daughters shared a telling glance as they watched from the mezzanine overlooking the scene.
"Want to bet me that Mrs. Walsh throws him out again?"
Mary considered Sybil's words for a long moment, weighing them against her loyalty to her father.
"What kind of odds are you offering?"
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Edith hadn't thought it would mean so much, or – if it did – it would be so twisted up in fear and regret that she couldn't enjoy it. At best, she'd assumed such a moment was months away. She'd been wrong.
"This is Phillip, my son. Sunshine, can you say, 'hello', to your Grandmama?"
"Oh, he's precious!" Cora's soft, breathless words came out as a whine so delighted it was pained. "Oh, hello, my darling boy, how are you? Do you want to come sit with Granny?"
Phillip, proving once and for all he was a true Strallan and very much his father's son, promptly went all shy and buried his face in his mother's bosom as he sat on her lap in the library. Then, because even shy, he had decent manners for a toddling lad of fourteen months, Phillip mumbled against the cotton blouse he was currently buried in.
"Hwewo."
Cora cooed wordlessly and beamed at her daughter. Edith beamed back. It was… really quite wonderful. Yes, even if it took a half-hour's concerted effort and a peppermint milk bribe to get him into his grandmother's lap.
"It's better than Granny Violet." Edith laughed as Phillip consented to being cuddled by his grandmama as long as it involved a little cup of sweetened milk he could sip at in the countess' free hand, his own little hands wrapped around her fingers as he tried to help.
"Oh?"
"I don't know what Granny said at dinner, but my little darling here refuses to sit in her lap." Edith confessed. "He'll play happily enough at her feet and give her a smile, but for some reason Pip just doesn't want her to hold him."
Cora beamed smugly, deciding at once to ignore that her grandson had been bribed to cuddle with her. It would, by mutual and silent consent, be left out of every future retelling of the narrative.
Edith was distracted by a knock at the door, but unsurprised to find Midori venturing up quietly with a handful of papers. The door between her small office and the library didn't quite block the sounds of the younger woman dutifully going about her job, filing papers and typing away at various documents that required it. The deference Midori showed in disturbing them showed that Lady Grantham had, in the space of sixty hours, done much to soften the rather unfavorable view that the greater Loxley community had spent two years building regarding their lady's kin.
"Sorry to disturb you, Lady Strallan, but I've paired it down. These are all that should need your attention today."
"What are they?"
"The War Refugees Committee sent the expected letter, and I've got the reply you sketched out typed here, amended a bit to take in a few new details. If you like it, I can send it off with a signature. Then there's the lists we put together for Nichols, and I've done a breakdown of the numbers for Mr. Bradley regarding our coming guests."
"Guests, darling?"
When Edith had stood up, she hadn't quite been able to stop herself from scooping her son back up and balancing him against her hip. While he was happy to quit Cora's lap as she'd run out of sweetened milk to offer him, he'd consented to press a sticky kiss to her cheek on parting that had somewhat ameliorated the loss. With the skill of long practice, Edith accepted the letters and passed her son to the younger woman.
Midori, for her part, beamed and promptly lifted the little boy up over her head, then lowered him down to press several exaggeratedly loud kisses to the little blond's face. In between each kiss, a torrent of cheerful, musical speech was offered up. Edith barely registered the fact that her son, who was as much a little mynah bird as any his age, cheerfully repeated back some of the foreign syllables. Her mother, however, noted the exchange with a touch of jealousy and quite a bit of cautious surprise.
"Belgian refugees, Mama." Edith explained, carefully scanning the papers and rummaging in her long dark green skirt's pockets until she found the pencil stub she'd settled there earlier. "Midori, what if we made a change…"
The younger woman turned and looked, nodding slowly. Cora watched closely, frowning at the fairly equal exchange between the Lady Strallan and her servant. Midori's hyperawareness of those staring at her also didn't often extend to other women, so she was oblivious as she transferred Phillip to her own hip and studied Edith's changes.
"That would be better, my lady. Shall I redraft the letter to Mr. Bradley, then?"
"Yes, just with these changes, everything else is good." Edith nodded decisively and shuffled the papers back into order, taking her son back and passing them over. "Thank you for staying over this week and putting all this extra work in. I appreciate it. I hope your mother wasn't put out?"
"It's my pleasure, Edith." The younger woman, concentrating on the papers, absentmindedly forgot to use her employer's title and Edith, equally used to it, didn't notice. "And Ama's fine. She offered to come up at the house and help with Phillip any time you need, as well."
"Tell her thank you, and I'll probably take her up on that!" Edith enthused and then sat back down on the sofa and released her squirming son back onto the quilt spread in front of it and the wooden blocks piled there for his amusement.
"Phillip just loves building things." Edith smiled warmly, happy to turn the conversation back to her favorite subject and giddy that it had been so easy to bring her son to meet her mother properly. "Mrs. Walsh says Anthony was just the same way. Were blocks my favorite at Pip's age?"
"We… had a strict policy against hard toys in the nursery until Sybil was born, darling. Out of necessity."
"Ah." Edith replied weakly and Cora shook her head mournfully.
"It was mostly for your safety, though not just for that, Edith. Mary hurt herself far more often than anyone else. You know that scar she has on her elbow and the little one beneath her chin?"
"Yes?"
"Mary threw herself headfirst at the nursery hearth when you were about this darling boy's age." Cora reached out and Phillip allowed her to stroke his hair as he sat, mumbling to himself in a mix of baby nonsense and tapping blocks together, stacking them unevenly and picking them up to repair the damage when they fell down or the whim of destruction overtook him. "She took the brunt of it on her chin and knocked out two of her baby teeth. Dr. Clarkson said we were lucky she didn't bite her tongue off!"
Edith bit her own tongue gently to prevent herself from commenting about Mary's lack of a tongue likely being an improvement.
"Then the elbow was… three weeks later? That was when it was at its worst and your sister just – just seemed so overwhelmed all the time. She tried to throw the rocking horse and pulled it over on top of herself."
Edith copied her mother's wince. She remembered that rocking horse fondly, but it was enormous and solid polished oak. A part of her was outraged at the idea of feeling sympathy for Mary, but another part- the part that had carried and birthed a child of her own – was horrified at the idea of any child in such a condition. Did Mary, the adolescent and adult who'd tormented her even when told not to, deserve compassion? No. Did the tiny child she'd been? Edith… didn't feel qualified to judge that.
"Wherever did you hire Miss Chen, though?" Cora changed the subject. "I had thought she was your maid… but O'Brian said everyone addresses her as your secretary downstairs?"
"Yes, she said O'Brian had tried to pull rank on her." Edith snorted, amused at the mere idea. "You're going to have some ruffled feathers to soothe there. She usually prefers to go by her given name, as well. Apparently there's something about how you pronounce Chen that changes what it means and doing it correctly doesn't come naturally to the English tongue."
"What does it mean the English way?"
"She won't say."
"Oh, dear."
Edith was surprised and pleased when her mother smiled at her, not like a child needing support, but… one woman to another. Pip tapped her knee and she looked down.
"Bock!" Her son beamed and held it out to her. "Mama!"
"Thank you, Sunshine!"
Edith accepted the block with a big beaming smile and watched as her son hefted himself onto his feet, bottom first, and then reached out and demanded a hug and a kiss. Agreeably, he received his gift back at that point and plopped back down on his well-padded behind to continue in his play at their feet. Occasionally he babbled as he went, and if there were words in more than one language spread through the mostly nonsensical chatter, Cora was too emotionally churned up to notice and Edith too used to it to think it was odd.
"Still, your secretary is a very lovely young woman, Edith. Rather more than one usually sees around a married lady's house."
Edith looked over, amused at the hinting in a way she couldn't be by Mary's. She might have been offended, she could feel it lurking beneath the surface with her temper, ready and waiting… but it was hard to be so very angry when her mother was so clearly and carefully trying. Besides… she had heard it before. When it didn't come from her grandmother or her sister it was… easier to find it funny.
"I had decided not to advertise for a maid." Edith explained, finding herself eager to share one of her favorite stories from her first year of marriage. "But, well, it was a little overwhelming at times without one. Being ready, you know."
"Oh, I do, you know how I rely on O'Brian, and you saw how she was there for me after – after our loss."
Edith felt a well of guilt of her own and swallowed.
"Mama – I'm sorry. I want to apologize to you as well. I – I did not choose the best time to make a break of things. You'd just suffered a loss and I know it must have hurt you further…" Cora's firm refusal stopped her.
"No, darling. You had a right to be angry, and if it did add to the hurt, I was feeling, you didn't choose the timing of my accident anymore than we chose for the war to start that day. Let's put it behind us." Cora took acceptance as a given and plowed on. "Now, tell me how you decided not to hire a maid and ended up with a secretary?"
"Anthony hired her, actually."
"Obviously your grandfather never raised us to believe any nonsense about this or that kind of people, Edith dear, but weren't you… concerned when a young lady of her charms appeared to interview with your husband? Secretaries have a certain reputation."
Cora's eyes widened and she tilted her head to the side as she took in her daughter's silently shaking shoulders and the way her brown eyes turned up at the corners with laughter.
"Matthew found her for us. You see, she'd hit him in the face with a book of caselaw that morning."
"What?"
"And he felt terrible for getting her fired."
"After she assaulted him?"
"It was a case of friendly fire."
"What?"
"It's a military term." Edith replied and all humor fled at the harsh reality of it. Of where Anthony was. "It's what happens when there's a mistake and – and two groups of soldiers on the same side attack each other. It… I'm told it happens a lot… with artillery."
Into the sudden, painful silence, the forceful, staccato, footfalls of Mrs. Walsh drummed in from the hallway. A sharp rap at the door and then Edith bid her housekeeper enter. The towering woman, with her graying auburn hair and sharp brown eyes, was clearly disapproving of something.
"Lord Grantham is at the door, Lady Strallan, shall I see him on his way then?"
Though Edith would later be embarrassed about doing so in her own home, she immediately turned to her mother. Cora, for her part, cleared her throat and smoothed her hands down her skirt. Then she patted Edith's hand.
"I think anything I have to say to my husband would have to depend on what he has to say to you, darling. So… if you want to speak to your Papa… why don't I take Phillip out for a wander in the garden?"
Edith twisted her rings around on her hand and then looked down at them. Earlier, her mother had cooed over the engagement and wedding rings. The engagement ring itself was six carat sapphire, Asscher cut, and bezel set within intricate, intersecting geometric patterns of diamonds and platinum. New and so very dramatic, Edith had been taken with it the moment he'd slipped it on her finger on the way north to Gretna.
Her wedding ring, in contrast, was a simple band of gold. Small and delicate it had fitted neatly against the large engagement ring by dint of its low profile. It had been belonged to Anthony's mother.
If Anthony were here, Edith knew, he'd be right beside her. He'd support her no matter what. She closed her eyes and stood, refusing to be anything but brave. Her husband had faith in her, and she wouldn't squander it.
"Midori?"
"Yes, Lady Strallan?" The office door immediately slid open, and Edith reached down, picked up her son, planted a kiss on his pale curls, and then handed him off.
"Take Master Phillip and Lady Grantham out and show her that walk by the pond? If there are any frogs out, I'm sure Pip will enjoy them."
"Of course."
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Being kept standing on the doorstep like some kind of suspect tradesman did not help Lord Grantham's nerves or his temper. Both things were rather intrinsically connected. Robert Crawley was not a man who was overly prone to self-examination, and many of his emotions were shy. His temper, generous thing that it was, happily offered all those other feelings a place to hide.
Walking into Loxley, however, the back of his mind couldn't help noticing differences. Oh, not many. Edith had hardly gone on a great remodeling, or even redecorating campaign. The housekeeper answering the door was just one of the results of the dreadful war; nothing else for it. They were all short on footmen. The polished paneling and marble tile of the Hall hadn't changed. The bust of Admiral Tremaine Strallan was still in its accustomed corner.
The changes were all small, but somehow leapt out at you. Robert's eye caught sight of where the small corner shelf built into the bottom of the stairwell no longer contained books and old tobacco tins as it had since Maud's death. Instead, the books remained, but in the gaps there was a pair of Mexican marble bookends like the ones Martha had sent him for Christmas. A table that was usually cluttered with masculine odds and ends now featured a marquetry box and an iridescent glass vase containing freshly cut flowers.
He expected to be led to the library or the saloon, depending on where Edith had settled. The library seemed like her, but Strallan may have kept that space for himself. To Robert's eye the man hadn't allowed his daughter much, if any influence over his home. The place looked to him precisely as it always had and it reinforced his idea that Edith had been made into a meek young wife under her husband's thumb.
Robert's idea of how things were jumped to its death out of the window as soon as he was lead into his daughter's presence.
"Where's all the oriental nonsense?"
"Pardon?"
The Earl of Grantham's face reddened at his blurted question, but unable to back down, he gestured stiffly around himself.
"Anthony's grandmother she – this was the China Room."
He couldn't think of what else to say. He was used to the little room beside the Library being a cluttered mess. A miniature museum dedicated to eclectic bits of the orient, usually in the form of small statuary, ceramics, or lacquer. Now?
"It's my office now." Edith cleared her throat. "I redecorated."
"Yes, quite… ah, em, very modern?"
Robert looked around the room, which was a testament to rich, dark blue paint and lovingly fitted geometric wooden paneling and flooring, and then took in the two desks. While he wouldn't have dismissed them instantly as masculine, they also weren't at all feminine. Modern was the correct word, and for Downton's Lord and Master, it wasn't really a good word.
"Thank you."
Helplessly, Robert examined his daughter. Edith stood tall before him, dressed in a matching skirt and waistcoat of dark green wool over a cotton blouse. Neither was as complicated as many of the fashions he'd seen her wear before, but they became her very nicely. A gleaming square of blue winked and glinted from her hands and a golden locket hung at her neck on a sturdy chain. The fat heart shaped locket was older, and familiar, and Robert realized it had belonged to Anthony's mother. He recalled it from that day in the orchard after their little scuffle at the Garden party. Edith looked… like a woman grown. Cool and suspicious and golden as she stood in the light pouring through the tall windows off the terrace.
"Papa, what do you want?"
"Obviously, I want to speak to you and your mother." Robert scowled at the unpardonably rude "greeting" and swallowed the scold that instantly came to mind. "Edith, this rift in the family is foolish and embarrassing and it has to end now."
"Why?"
"Why?" Robert spluttered. "I thought I made that clear?"
"You said it was foolish." Edith replied, standing there, framed by the windows and that plain-but-massive desk. "Refusing to be belittled does not make me feel like a fool, and if you're embarrassed, perhaps you should ask yourself what you've done to make yourself feel that way."
"Well, one of my daughters ended up with a dead Turk in her bed and the other eloped with a man as old as I am, Edith, what do you think?"
"I think that if this is about you, then you can turn around and go back to Downton Abbey."
"You would be so stubborn, Edith-."
"That's rich, Papa, I wonder where I got it from!"
This was not going the way that Robert had pictured it. He'd thought she would be upset. She'd surely be overwhelmed, however. Her husband had gone to war. She had no mother or father-in-law to help her as his parents – as difficult as his mother could be – had helped Cora when he'd been in South Africa. Even Strallan's sister was off in Africa at her husband's diplomatic posting. Surely he'd arrive and find Edith holding onto her pride in true Crawley fashion, but in need of support. He'd assumed Cora would have also, well, softened things considerably with their second daughter! Of course, he'd owe both women his deepest apology but – but he…
"Where's your mother?"
"Taking a walk with her grandson." He'd never let his daughters muck about with weaponry or in the kitchen, but they certainly knew how to cut to the quick.
"Speaking of, am I ever to meet the lad?" Robert grasped at his temper and looked down at Edith, trying to convey his disapproval and the parental neglect and alienation he was feeling.
"I don't know, shall you abandon him the second Mary reproduces or use him as a weapon against his parents to satisfy your need to be right all the time?"
Robert opened his mouth to say something. A dismissal, offered a thousand times before, perched on his tongue and then a detail wormed its way into his attention. Edith was standing up to him as she'd never done before, not raging as Mary had, not crying, but meeting him word for word as, well, as Sybil so often did… but without any inherent authority on his part.
Edith, whose ring caught the light and cent a cyan spark shooting up to catch his eye, was also standing with her left hand clenched so tightly her knuckles were bloodless and the flesh around her rings was reddening. His daughter, who stood before him and was fighting with him, and… nothing had changed. Suddenly, all Robert could see was Edith, all of five years old, tears in her eyes, crying and begging for cake too and him just sending her back to the nursery, again and not understanding her distress or trying to. After all, it was the nannies' job to handle the tantrums and day-to-day care of one's children. Then again, the image of Edith sobbing and holding a charred stuffed animal and Robert simply promising to buy her a new one even as doubts crept in. Not wanting to, not feeling able to step in because Mary was in the hallway and listening and he knew, knew how easy it was to set her off and over the last four years somehow everything had started to revolve around keeping his eldest as calm as possible.
Edith, standing before him at seventeen quietly and then leaving in defeat after asking if they were really going to let Mary wear her debut gown to the Forsythe's party, and no it wasn't just another frock, and yes, she'd already worn it once... Edith, at thirteen, her hair hanging unevenly around her ears and holding out her braid and sobbing so hard she was barely understandable. All of it, each time, Edith standing before him with her fist clenched. Edith, growing quieter every time she did it.
Robert Crawley searched his daughter's face, finally, finally, realizing what it was he looked away from when she fixed those brandy brown eyes – Isadore Levinson's searching, incisive, accusing eyes – on him. It wasn't what was there that bothered him. It was what wasn't.
Robert Crawley, standing there in the spring sunshine pouring through the windows, in a room he didn't understand – either the decoration or the purpose of – realized that after living nearly twenty-two years of life his own daughter had absolutely no faith in him at all. Not in his protection. Not in his constancy. Not in his affection. Not even his honor, and that on the short list of those who could be blamed for this destruction of all expectation, Anthony Strallan was nowhere to be found.
"No, I – no. Edith, I'm sorry."
"For what?" She scoffed. "And what does it matter if you are? Words weigh nothing measured against actions, Papa. All of the world can see that now! All of the patriotic songs and bunting in the world doesn't stop machinegun fire!"
Deep in his gut, recrimination and guilt twisted. You failed to do your duty on every level, my lord. Maybe the Army knows what it's doing in refusing you. Maybe everyone can see this but you. Wouldn't be the first time.
"Everything, but – for coming in here like I have some right to order you to do anything. For – for being an arrogant twit today. That – that I can apologize for now and surely means something."
Edith's hand unclenched and her face slackened in shock. Robert, whatever his faults were, was not a dishonest man, and he swallowed against the lump of fetid, dead, pride trying to rise in his throat and stepped forward.
"Your mother is right. I'm – I've been useless and petty. It's just been an excuse not to face the fact that I failed you as a father and," It hurt to say it, "and Strallan's done nothing wrong."
"Not even eloping without your permission?"
Robert winced at her shocked, outraged, tone.
"Well, that was… horrendously rude… However, well… not… not unwarranted given the situation." Robert had a feeling he'd be regretting the venting he'd done at his club, most publicly, about the lack of regard he'd been shown over the elopement for a few years yet. He pushed past it. "Edith, you were born into one of the greatest families and finest homes in England and I – I turned it into a prison. I am sorry and – and this hasn't made it better."
"An apology is nice, Papa but what am I to do with it?" Edith stared at him a bit further and then seemed to draw in on herself. Eventually she moved, sitting in one of the two sleek, oddly curled chairs by the fire and gesturing towards the other. "One moment you're angry, one you're sorry, Mama at least explained and I can understand. I'm appalled, but – but I have my own child now and I understand the fear you must have felt. That doesn't change the fact that I have no guarantee it won't continue. Mary's not a tiny child who doesn't understand her own emotions anymore and can't talk about them. It's the Bloody twentieth century for God's sake, surely there are professionals better suited to helping her!"
"Edith, language!"
Robert flushed at her droll look but refused to back down. He contented himself that the woman across from him at least restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Having committed himself to the thing, however, he pushed onward.
"Well, we both know that change isn't something I'm fond of but – but we already have, somewhat." Robert flailed around, looking for words to help him express the galloping masses herding discontentedly between his ears.
Edith waited expectantly and Robert tried to frame it.
"Mary's done much better. Surely, you've noticed the difference since you've spoken to her twice. I mean, she's still Mary so she's short-tempered and impatient with others, but when it bridges the gap to cruelty, we do punish her."
"How?"
"We have a system that affects her allowance." Robert felt a flush or pride at Edith's surprised look, and the idea in general. "Your grandfather Levinson actually had something similar. Your Uncle Harold mentioned it in a letter to your mother during those difficult months right after the war began."
"How does it work?" Edith had cocked her head to the side and leaned forward, and Robert, who'd systematically found most subjects explained to him by his two youngest daughters since they were around twelve, perked up at the interest.
"Well, you see, I issue monthly allowances now. Infractions get different penalties and certain actions can get small bonuses. I even drew up a chart."
"But Mary didn't have anything to buy a train ticket with."
"Well, it's all issued on credit, you see. You know I think ladies carrying ready cash is an invitation to trouble." Chagrin painted the earl's face. "Quite apart from that, Sybil insists on wanting to support charities that she will not research properly, or does, and just ignores their inappropriate nature."
"Like suffragists?"
"Like our chauffer's cousin who supposedly works at a Belfast hospice of some sort." Robert countered, glowering. "Don't be droll, Edith, I won't have your sister paying for some IRA's bombmaking thinking she's buying medicine for Irish orphans."
"I've heard enough of bombs and misery and war for a lifetime, Papa, and my husband's only been gone a week." Edith's reply was tight and at the sight of her looking away, her eyes gleaming in the light from the lamps and windows, Robert's chest tightened.
I should be out there. My children are well grown. My wife stands to inherit a fortune she provided me if I pass. Why did they send Strallan of all people? Surely if his education is the greatest draw it could do more staying in London? With his wife and infant son, no less.
"I am terribly sorry, dear girl, for – for all manner of things, but always for that fear. We… really do leave the worst jobs of it to you ladies at times like these, I fear."
Silence fell over the uncomfortably modern room and Robert waited for a long moment before his impatience got the best of him. Hesitatingly, he asked a question he now realized he had neither the authority nor the right to answer.
"Where do we go from here?"
Like overheated taffy, the silence stretched. Finally, Edith stood up and nodded towards the terrace.
"For now… the garden?"
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Tired and filthy, Major Strallan ducked through the door in the subterranean chamber and sat heavily on one of the benches along one wall. A table stood off to the side, decorated with a great plethora of maps. A small folding desk was shoved in a nook that might charitably described as a corner in the oddly shaped room. Sitting atop it was a dented typewriter and beside it, a cypher. Along one wall, several cots were stretched, and four other men were already collapsed asleep. Technically this secure chamber was for intelligence briefings. Practically, being both higher and dryer than everything else, anyone who could manage it slept there.
"Letters for you, Major."
"Thank you, Corporal." Anthony pulled his helmet off and set the thing aside, reaching out and hungrily accepting the small stack of envelopes Stewart offered him.
For his part, the valet-turned-batman merely nodded, and shuffled off to his own cot without bothering to strip or change. Anthony and Stewart and three others had been on the move since they'd touched down in France, and he hadn't been able to receive mail since his arrival due to this. Letters he'd pre-written had gone out, but twenty-days into the interminable hell that was the Front felt like a lifetime.
The dark hangings of their bed in Strallan House framing them. Edith tucked beneath him, her legs locked tightly with his, and nothing between them. As close as two lives could be, lips pressed hard together as they strained to stop time, just for a little while. Trains and the war bearing them apart with only hours waiting to both hold them together and tear them apart.
Holding his son from one station to another. Unable to put Pip down. Only handing him off to Edith at that last moment at the station, then taking him back, and then… having to part anyway. Looking down into that little face, so like his own, and such a miracle. To be a father. To have this after all his losses, to have a son and a wife who loved him so and now have to that him up. To go to war. A war he and so many others who'd been ignored had warned would be far worse and far longer than the bright shining people in the government and the press thought.
Anthony shook the memory of his wife's lips away. The feeling of her skin. The fresh new smell of his son as a newborn and the high shriek of his laugh. The sight of him taking fistfuls of cake at his first birthday party. His first steps just hours before that.
Resolutely he adjusted the swinging lantern over his head, taking it down and setting the shielded thing on a nearby shelf so that he could read by it. There was shelling of course, but it was distant. The air was only vibrating a bit. Satan's heartbeat not yet close enough to cause undue alarm in the sleeping, hardened men around him, Anthony still had to fight to avoid jerking at every sound.
Instead, he ordered the pile of letters.
His aging aunt, fond though he was of her, went last. A college chum, well-meaning to continue their correspondence, was tucked away as well. Diana was better in terms of relevance and rarity given that oceans and continents divided them, but his wife took precedence over them all.
Ten letters.
Anthony had lived a privileged life but the varied envelopes, all labeled with his wife's name, looked like untold wealth to him. Thank God for his wife's prolific writing. Smiling for the first time in days, Anthony tore open the oldest, sent the same day they'd parted.
My Darling Husband,
Anthony, I miss you. I could say so many other things, wonderful things, supportive things. I could be very patriotic, and the sensors would surely like it. None of it would be true. I miss you, Anthony, and I want you back.
But you are doing what you must and we are proud of you, my love. So, I'll be a proper Yorkshire girl about it and ask Mrs. Walsh for some extra starch for my lip, or nip down to the laundry myself later. You are not to worry for any of us (though we know you will) while you're doing what you must. I know you're in danger and I couldn't bear the thought that it had increased because your mind was not wholly bent to your duty and to coming back to us.
On to better news. I begin to fear Pip is going to speak more Chinese and Japanese than he will English! Midori continues to speak to our son in her parents' native languages, and while I know you approve and were having her give you lessons as well, you linguistic magpie, I want you to know that your poor wife has been forced to learn how to identify a pig in seven languages now! Sometimes I wonder what my brain might take in if it weren't cluttered with so many odd things. (I can say 'bunny' in five.)
Now, onto the estate, as I know you'll want to know every detail…
Anthony read the letter hungrily. He took in every scrap written about his son and Edith herself. He beamed in pride at her description of settling what she called a "trifle" problem, but one which could have resulted in the loss of revenue from an entire field. He wasn't the least bit surprised to find his wife had been up on a tractor again. After all, he'd been there the first time she'd crawled up on one and asked if driving it was that different from a car. The answer, of course, had led them to where they were now, and wasn't that a delight.
A shell struck closer to home and Anthony grabbed the lamp, almost burning himself, as he silently threw recriminations at a country that he'd once considered the best of places on his travels. The next three letters were much the same. It was the third that raised his eyebrows.
Dear Anthony,
I love you and I miss you, and I hope you do not worry too much to hear this. I am – slowly and with caution – becoming somewhat reconciled with my family. I know you will fear that I am alone without you, and have bowed to the pressure and the harmful influence they once had over me.
Anthony bit his lip, fearing precisely that. Gritting his teeth he silently reentered the old debate he'd started with himself. You see, had he drowned the miserable prig in that pond when he was eleven, clearly Edith would not have suffered. On the other hand, had he saved the world from Robert Crawley's poor parenting by shoving a frog down his throat and letting him choke, he would have also deprived the world – and himself – of the joy that was Edith. Clearly God's sense of humor remained as incomprehensible as always. Still, he read on and relaxed slightly as the letter progressed.
Last night I attended my first dinner at Downton in years. It was not a bad experience, if a touch awkward for all involved. Mary and I were civil to each other. I think we may say that there is an official truce in effect, even if it depends heavily on regulating all avenues of contact between our populations.
Mama and Papa are truly trying. They're being supportive and they've gone so far as to say they're happy to have seen us marry, if you can believe it or not. Granny is, predictably, still a bit salty over the elopement. Somehow we should have had the sense to know she would have sided with us after presenting all of the facts – despite her having had two decades to learn them on her own – and allowed her to procure us a special license and had a small ceremony with her even if we excluded our parents.
I specifically shared with her the fact that you offered me a more normal marriage, both in terms of waiting for the banns to be read or for a special license. Papa and Mama looked entirely dyspeptic when I made certain they understood that I chose to elope and you just made the offer. Granny had more to say, of course, but she looked almost pleased. Then again, she does enjoy seeing other people in discomfort, so I can't say if that was for the sake of our happiness or Mama and Papa looking so chagrinned!
Sybil is still herself and exactly as wonderful as she always is. She's asked if she can write you as well and I've confirmed that more letters are always better. Cousin Matthew's last letter expressed his condolences on being called to the Front but his relief in knowing an officer of actual intelligence was arriving. Cousin Isobel shall likely write as well, and she's promised to send you some ginger snaps in a care package. I hope you got the peppermint candy?
Anthony paused and rooted through his mail, finding a package heftier and lumpier than the others. It was rather cracked, but it was still good, and he carried on having tucked the rest away in a small tin. Well, save for the piece he was consuming. The letter carried on in the same vein and he felt more at ease as she described her family's apparent efforts to treat her with more kindness and respect. He would write to Diana about it, and to their Aunt. If Aunt Stowborough paid a visit she'd more than be up to terrifying Robert Crawley into line and sousing out any poor intentions on the others' parts. His main concern was Mary and if she was controlling herself, it was a relief for the ages. The news that the family was actively working to provide the woman boundaries for the first time in her life was surprising, but heartening.
His next letter prompted a beaming smile. That envelope, reinforced as it was, produced another thin warm letter of longing and love from his wife. More importantly, however, it produced a little more information. Apparently among the Lady Sybil's new hobbies – supplied by a number of combined 'good behavior' bonuses – was photography. She sent the film off to a chemist, but her Brownie was now being put to good use around Downton and, it seemed, Loxley.
In the envelope, along with the short letter, were three images. Anthony pressed his lips to the first impulsively, as he looked at the small glossy rectangle. Edith, writ small, beamed up at him from a blanket spread across fresh spring grass. One hand held a straw hat to keep it from escaping and the dress that was pale gray on the paper was, in his mind's eye, the most delicate shell pink. It must have been a very warm day in Yorkshire, for her to wear the old favorite outdoors.
The next image got the same treatment. His son was laying, curled and sleeping, on the same quilt as seen in the first photograph. Strong and healthy. Innocent. Safe. The third image was both his wife and his son, beaming at him, with Pip wrapped in his mother's arms and standing in her lap. His little right hand was blurry as he waved.
Carefully, Anthony withdrew the cigarette case from the inside pocket of his tunic. He didn't care for cigarettes and hadn't taken up the habit. The case, however, was German silver, and the photos had no writing on them very deliberately. Even if, for some reason, it behooved him to wear a uniform not his own, he could take the silver case with it's graven image of a spreading oak tree, with him. Opening it, he deposited the three new pictures with the four already within.
Finally, Anthony opened the thickest of the letters. He grinned to find his wife had written out a quick note and attached it to a thick sheaf of typewritten pages.
Dear Beloved Self-Sacrificing Husband,
Anthony, I still love you and I still miss you. I am also going to take Matthew at his word on the fact that war is a miasma of gloom and boredom punctuated by moments of raw terror. You enjoyed being distracted at night by my little stories when we were in London, so I've decided to carry on with them. Attached are the further adventures of Sir Andreas Corbyn. Despite our baronet's strong desire to do nothing more mundane than attend a cousin's wedding in Lincolnshire it seems murder is once more afoot. To make things more complicated, the daughter of a local viscount seems to be involved, and Sir Andreas can't help but find her fascinating…
Anthony settled his shoulders against the rough boards holding back the earthen wall behind him. Not comfortable, but far less uncomfortable than he had been, Anthony allowed himself to indulge in a few moments of fantasy. Thanks to his wife, he had a few precious moments of elsewhere, as the tongue-in-cheek doppelganger detective she'd cooked up one night as a lark to distract him lived a life both more excited and far less than his current misery.
Stewart, who was not as asleep as he seemed, cocked one eye open and noted that it seemed Lady Edith was sharing her writing. He also reminded himself to see if he couldn't borrow or (politely and deniably) nick the detective story later to have a read himself. If nothing else, there was a good chance the pages would smell of Miss Chen's perfume, and that was as guilty a pleasure as he would allow himself where the young woman was concerned.
All around them, Europe continued to grind its sons into nothing.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
More Notes: There you have it. Anthony and Edith reproduced successfully! Unfortunately, Anthony is off to war and Edith is running things back in Loxley with her own cast of characters. Next up, we'll see more of the Downstairs in Loxley and in Downton meeting and interacting. We'll catch up with our brave boys on the Front. This will include a much more in depth look into Stewart's backstory and information of where Midori came from and her place in the household. This is as much is currently written. Any requests for changes/additions to the season 2 storyline or cast of characters? No promises it will fit with the overall storyline, but I love to hear ideas!
On Mary specifically. I think Mary's behavior could be explained with a number of more modern diagnoses. I'm not actually sure what her emotional situation is or was as a child, but I think it's very likely she might have had DMDD (Disruptive mood dysregulation disorder). I picture Mary as someone who has legitimate and genuine trouble processing her emotions. Now, on one hand, maybe her parents just spoiled and enabled her until she can't handle her emotions as an adult. On the other, here in this story and my fanon, I imagine she has a genuine problem and due to the time an the class she was born into, she fell into the hands of the worse possible person to help her regulate it (Nurse Nelly) who taught her abusive tendencies and to project rather than process her emotions.
In this story, as an adult, Mary is struggling to relearn how to process emotions and separate her feelings from her actions towards others. It will be an uneven progress at best. I think it is a passingly good explanation for events in canon, however. Pamuk got away with so much because of not only the times, but Mary's inability to process the mix of attraction, fear, and shame that his assault wound up inside her. Mary couldn't resolve things with Matthew at the end of season 1 because of the force of her affection for him battling with the feelings tangled up in her "ruin" and, unable to process, she couldn't sit down and talk with him about her fears for their happiness if he didn't inherit. Hopefully I have not overthought this too much.
Thank you Spottedhorse, The Classist, Operamary, Kamikashi and everyone else who has reviewed and read my story!