Author's Notes: Moving on to Part 2! Life goes on. Save when it doesn't. Story touches on events in Series 2, Episode 1.

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

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and plot in this work belongs to the 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.

Warnings Ch. 3: Mentions of past sexual assault. Mentions of extensive child abuse and neglect in 19th century Indian Schools in Canada. Period typical racism and sexism. The horrors of warfare. GREVIOUS BODILY HARM featured as war injuries. Mentioned minor character death.

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"Well, dinner upstairs won't be half-tense, will it?" Midori asked as she spread her makeup things across the table. "I wish I'd been upstairs for the concert. If I'd known those dreadful women were going to show up with their feathers, I would have been."

"I think they may be getting better. William says that nobody's walking on eggshells around each other, the way the family was back in spring." Anna settled the mirror on the table, propping up the rectangle with the wooden wedge at the back, and adjusting the direction as she sat down so that she could see. "What could you have done?"

"What should have been done as soon as they showed up; hit them."

Anna shot her a surprised look and Midori shook her head.

"Women like that think they're being so brave calling out men too kind to harm them. They should remember that people who don't fight die first. Who's to protect useless baggage like them if all the men leave?"

Anna processed that with surprise, but she had met Mrs. Chen. Anna didn't need a broad education in terms of history and geography to know what might have influenced the young woman's upbringing on that front. Bates had told her a lot of about the Boxers' Rebellion. He wasn't there, of course, but he knew a lot about things like that.

"Mark my words, women like that are only useful to men in the war effort if they're in a brothel." Midori huffed. "Ask them why they aren't doing their service, slap them once or twice. They'll run and cry and show exactly what kind of bravery they really have."

"I'll keep it in mind." Anna didn't laugh. It sounded silly, but Midori thought she was being serious, and Anna had heard rumors about how she'd gotten her job with Lady Edith.

"Hm… your complexion and Edith's complexion don't really match." Midori explained, perfectly happy and rather cheered by the kind blonde's warm reception and interest in everything. Anna Smith had been one of the first to warm up to her, when she'd begun to show up Downstairs and she was happy to give something back.

"And you make the makeup just for her?"

"My mother's father was an apothecary – which is a bit broader than what you think of here. He didn't just make traditional medicines; he also did a lot of different things in terms of treatment. If you're curious, you should talk to my mother about it. She can explain far further."

"I overheard Mrs. Crawley talking about it to Lady Grantham a few days ago. She says there are a lot of traditional beauty treatments?"

"Yes, some are silly, but a lot are very effective." Midori grinned. "We have better lotions and oils and things for our hair, I think. The makeup comes from that tradition, though I use a lot of modern things as well. I worked at Selfridges for a few months, nearly three years ago."

"But you're only eighteen!"

"Nineteen earlier this month!" Midori teased, grinning as she turned Anna's face in the light. "Sometimes the way we're – people from the east – are seen is useful. Everyone assumes we'll look young, so I was able to lie about my age very well. It made getting jobs easier after Baba passed."

"Why aren't you working at the beauty counter anymore?"

"They just hired me because they had this big shipment of things they were trying to sell from Japan. Once the push was over, they didn't want an Oriental behind the counter." Midori pulled a stool over and sat down, adjusting things and looking at Anna's face this way and that, spying the figure that had slipped into the room with deceptive quietness. "Hello, Mr. Bates. My deepest sympathies for your loss."

Midori meant it. Her heart hurt just thinking of anything happening to her Ama. She'd already lost Baba, and life without a father was difficult. Life without a mother was unimaginable. Quite besides that, she liked Mr. Bates. He'd been another who'd been welcoming from the start.

"Thank you, Miss Midori." He nodded towards Anna, his expression composed but his eyes more playful than she'd ever seen them, and more open. "I should warn you, however, that you're about to fail."

"At what?"

"Attempting to improve upon perfection."

Anna blushed violently and turned her head, shooting the older man an old-fashioned look. It was, however, a tiger without any teeth. Midori stifled her amusement. They were adorable. It was really unfortunate that he was married, though Anna had said there was some hope in ending that.

"Mr. Bates," Midori decided to be a bit playful and fluttered her own eyelashes at the man, hamming it up far past the vamp act she used to get under other womens' skin, and offered an overly alluring pout. "you're going to make me jealous."

"That is a power far beyond anything a washed-up old soldier like I could muster, Lady Midori."

Midori's urge to take it further – because Bates did have a playful side and would ham it up with her a bit as long as it didn't upset Anna – was stopped by the sharp slap to her shoulder that the smaller woman delivered.

"Now, don't you start!" Anna gestured. "I don't have forever, you know. Show me!"

Midori told her to keep her undies on in Cantonese, then called her a spoilsport in her father's broad Okinawan accent. Tossing both comments aside at Anna's rolled eyes, she settled her brushes out as well as the various makeups she'd brought with her, and her own small makeup bag for touch ups.

"Notice how my makeup is all different shades." Midori showed Anna, who leaned forward curiously. "My skin is as pale as Edith's, but she's got a pink undertone and mine's more golden. Edith doesn't tan, but you do a bit, so you're almost in-between. We'll use a bit of mine and a bit of Edith's to get the right colors, but preferably the ladies should have their own sets mixed up."

"And you can do that?"

"Most good beauty counters will, but some use really harsh chemicals so make sure you know what's going into theirs." Midori fell into the explanation happily as she began to pass brushes and tiny boxes and compacts back and forth with the slightly older woman, cheerfully explaining and offering to stand in as a guinea pig so that Anna could have someone besides herself to practice on a bit.

Discussion ranged wildly. Mica powders, made from crushed minerals, were safe and had been used in cosmetics to give a glow since Ancient Egypt. Anything with lead should, of course, be avoided.

"That's what ruins Geisha complexions." Midori explained. "Underneath the beautiful white makeup, many of the older women have skin like a chickens – yellow and bumpy."

"Geisha?" Anna's eyes widened and she shot a look at where Bates was polishing a pair of the Earl's shoes, but really watching the lesson. Anna dropped her voice. "You mean courtesans?"

"No!"

"No?"

"No." Midori shook her head and perked up as she realized that the two people present would listen. "I don't know where the mistake happened, but Geisha are not prostitutes. They're artists."

"Really?" Bates asked, sounding doubtful and Midori shot him a sharp look.

"Geisha own the art of conversation and entertainment. They are also musicians, dancers, and storytellers." She considered for a moment. "They are paid for their work, but their work is to bring culture to parties and to put everyone at ease. If you has business to be done, if you have a client to woo, you hire geisha for a meal or a long party."

Midori had never lived in Japan, but her father had not wanted her to forget where she'd come from. She tried to think of the best way to explain it. She seldom had such open minded people to speak to as she did in Anna and Bates.

"Their presence brings beauty to the occasion and their conversation puts people at ease. Their music and knowledge of Japan's culture and history mean that there is never doubt or hurt or anger, because they smooth things over and provide entertainment without devolving into farce or uncivilized behavior." Midori tilted her head to the side in acknowledgement. "That's what you hire the other ladies for, and it's a different sort of party they would attend."

Bates huffed out a breath, and cleared his throat, hiding a laugh.

"But don't men keep them as mistresses?" Anna wanted to know and Midori shrugged.

"Geisha are independent, or at least their houses are." Midori warmed up to the subject, smiling. "Geisha live in a world of women, Anna. A woman will own a house and train young girls to be geisha and pass it down to her blood daughter or adopt one of the geisha she's trained. They run their businesses. They make their rules. If a man becomes their sponsor, he had no more right to impose on them than the Pope would have to offer such bother to Michelangelo when he was painting for him. If a Geisha takes a lover, well, that's her own business."

"That isn't what I expected at all." Anna reflected, then smiled. "Sounds nice, though."

"Midori, may I ask you a question?" Bates asked after the conversation had drifted back to cosmetics for several more minutes, and began to move on to lotions, creams, and ointments for the skin.

"Yes."

"If your father was Japanese, why is your last name Chen?"

"Baba's father disowned him for marrying a Chinese woman."

"It was very painful for him, but my mother's parents were very accepting." Midori felt the awkwardness seep in and shrugged to put the older man at ease. "Had things not gotten so bad for Christians – Ama's grandfather had converted – we would all likely still live in Beijing."

"I didn't know you were Christian, Midori, I've never seen you in Church." Anna looked at her in surprise. "Are you Methodist."

Midori grinned at that. There were only three denominations of Christianity in the area around Downton and Loxley. There were plenty of small parishes of the Church of England. There was a single small Catholic congregation. Then there was the slightly larger Methodist Church on the other side of Grantham Village. Assumptions were made.

"Mama's Catholic. Papa was Shinto, and I'm free on Sundays."

Both girls were laughing when the butler's phone rang. Bates, smiling tolerantly, rose to get it and Midori turned back to the genuine pleasure of talking to Anna about something they both enjoyed. Anna took it a shade more seriously, as it was her career, but Midori had loved makeup since the first time her mother had let her put dried beetroot and cornstarch into the mortar together, and wield the pestle all by herself.

They were just discussing new hairstyles when Bates poked his head back into the room.

"It's Mrs. Walsh, Miss Midori, and she would like a word with you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Of course it is horrid, but when heroes are giving their lives every day, it's hard to watch healthy young men do nothing."*

As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, Edith felt horrid. Then again, she also felt angry. It had nothing to do with William, however.

"I'm sorry. That was dreadful." She apologized, catching the footman's eye as he served. "You've done nothing wrong, I just miss my husband dreadfully and it's turning me into a shrew. This entire war was just a – a worldwide failure in governance!"

"Well, it's hardly our government's fault that the Kaiser and his lapdogs wouldn't be reasonable, Edith." Robert's sharp rebuke just pinched at her temper and Edith glared at her father.

"I didn't say it was, Papa. Nothing this horrible and immense comes from one person or one government's failure. It's – it's -." Edith struggled to find the words and her mind fell back to one evening, three months after they'd moved to London, when she and Anthony had been curled up in bed talking. "It's a catastrophic failure."

"Pardon?"

Edith turned and looked at Matthew, who had turned away from the tense… whatever… was going on with Mary and Lavinia and everyone else. Edith was glad she didn't have to sit at that end of the table. Even if she and Papa were apparently about to get into a fight about politics.

"It's an engineering term. A catastrophic failure is like - like the Titanic."

"The Titanic sunk because it hit an iceberg. I think it can be safely said that it was the iceberg's fault, Edith." Robert shot back and Edith put her chin up.

"Yes, but the Olympia survived a worse head-on collision without sinking, Papa." She pointed out with the same ruthless logic that her husband had shown her when she'd taken offense to the emotionally loaded analogy when he had made it. "Think about it. The iceberg was struck. Then it became clear that the bulkheads built in to stop water from flooding the ship weren't sealed. Only so many compartments could fill before they sank, and without sealed compartments, it became inevitable that each would fill after the other."

"Leading to a cascade of failure." Matthew interrupted. "Likewise, even if the ship had sunk and that was inevitable, White Star could have provided sufficient lifeboats, jackets, and engineered the ship with easier egress from steerage, where most of those poor souls were trapped."

"And it's just a tragedy, no matter how you look at it." Edith sunk a fork aggressively into her fish and refused to look at anyone. "History is going to ask us how this happened. Our children are going to ask us how this happened. I have no idea what I'm going to tell them."

"A question no doubt asked by every generation in the history of mankind."

Granny's tired, and approving, censure distracted Edith and gave her a moment to compose herself. The girls with their sneering contempt when they had sacrificed nothing. The tensions and responsibilities and fear Edith worked with every day just seemed to be writhing under her skin at that moment. It was a terrible time to want a fight and she was a little disturbed to realize she did.

"Well, I think history will understand that everyone is doing their best in Britain, at least."

Lavinia's words, spoken with the tone of a natural peacemaker and the genuine goodness of her nature fell hard on the table in light of the seriousness of the past discussion. Edith didn't hear what her Granny said in response, but she saw Lavinia and Isobel wince. Cutting her eyes towards Matthew she saw his own discomfort and reflected that dinner at Downton hadn't changed that much in the last three years.

"Lady Strallan."

Edith nearly jumped out of her skin as Carson's whisper carried awkwardly to her from where he'd bent down to her seat. His expression was apologetic as he cleared his throat.

"There's been a telephone call from Loxley."

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Anthony heard the tires on the gravel, the front door open, and looked up to the most beautiful sight he could imagine. After what felt like an eternity of privation, a vision appeared. His heart turned over.

"Mama!"

Anthony had gone through a bit of a wrench when he'd arrived at Loxley. Not because his wife was absent. He'd intended to surprise her and known there'd been a risk she might be out at dinner when he came. His wife wasn't deeply social, but her family was, and whatever his thoughts on the Crawleys, it was Edith's right to decided whether she was going to reconcile or not.

When he'd slipped into the nursery, he'd found his son asleep in his crib and his heart had lurched. His little chap had grown. He was in short pants, now, if not out of napkins. The tighter baby curls he'd had were lengthening into waves and his limbs were longer.

Phillip Strallan had also, briefly, found the uniformed man leaning over his crib unrecognizable when he'd woken up. Being presented with a stranger in the middle of the night was a bit much. It hadn't helped that Anthony, so preoccupied with his own feelings at having made it home, had scooped him up precipitously. Thankfully, the heartbreaking fear on his son's face and the noise of a very unhappy toddler had passed within a few minutes. Pip had believed Anthony's assertion that Daddy was home.

The minutes in between, with his own son frightened of him, had been excruciating.

Now, however? Anthony had been seated on the sofa in his own library. The fire was roaring. The incessant damp and chill of the trenches was being driven from his bones. He'd doffed his jacket and tunic and was just standing in his shirtsleeve and trousers, and Phillip was cuddling in his lap, his arms around his father's neck, and the only missing piece of paradise was standing in the doorway.

"What, no kiss for your poor husband?" Anthony rallied enough to shoot Edith a wounded look and suddenly he found himself carefully depositing his son on the ground as he had an armful of wife to contend with.

"Oh, you wretched man!" Edith pressed a kiss to his lips that was going to leave them both with bruises, gripping him so tightly around the neck he nearly fell over as he bent to meet her. "Not a word of warning! How could you let me go sit through one of Mama's awful dinners when I could have had you instead?"

"Mama, Dadda!" Phillip tugged hard on trousers and dress; one hand on each. "Mamama, Dadda, Daddy! Up, up, up!"

He wasn't willing to let go of his wife, but he was hardly going to refuse his son's request. It required some juggling, but in the end, they managed it. Mind you, they managed it in the most delightful way possible. Anthony Strallan found himself seated on the sofa with his wife in his lap, his son in hers, and everyone's arms tanged around everyone else as the two most precious people in Creation peppered him with kisses.

"Daddy's home." He murmured, kissing Edith in return and closing his eyes against the tears that threatened as he felt Pip doing everything in his power to burrow between them. "Daddy's home."

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"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

It was ten o'clock and Midori hadn't wanted to spend the night at Loxley. Her mother would worry, and they weren't of the class to bother with the expense of a telephone. Nor was she of a nature that would shrug at traveling over country roads at night. "It's hardly the West End, Mr. Stewart, or have you forgotten where I grew up again?"

She looked beautiful, of course, but she always did. That was, Stewart was honest enough to admit, the thing that first drew his attention. It was hard not to notice when a woman had the face and body of a goddess. That hadn't, however, been what had attracted him to the younger woman.

Despite her habit of playing with men and women, usually the latter, with her looks, Midori Chen was an honest person. She seldom constrained her opinions. When she asked you something, or told you anything, you could take her at her word. So, Nicholas Stewart knew that when she asked him if he wanted to tell her what was wrong, he could tell her no.

"I'm not sure."

Midori nodded thoughtfully and continued to push her bicycle down the side of the road. It was a bit over two miles from Loxley House to the Chen cottage, as it was closer to Downton Village than not. Stewart had offered to push the bicycle several times, when good manners and caution had him insisting on showing her home. When she'd, honestly, said she didn't care to give up control over something that represented escape, weapon, and shield all at once, he'd gotten his first taste of that honesty. He'd also stopped asking if she wanted him to walk the bicycle. He had not stopped walking her home in the dark.

The silence was close and comfortable. In front of them, the Chen's drive just came into view. Their cottage sat on nearly a full acre, and it had a good stone fence holding the property bound. The small front garden was shaded by a massive oak. The back, he knew, contained a small greenhouse sunk into the ground, an exceedingly large kitchen garden, and a henhouse. They kept ducks as well.

The mire of indecision hovering around Stewart bled when Midori stopped in her tracks and let out a frustrated exclamation in what he thought was Japanese. It was her preferred language for obscenity. Apparently, her father hadn't been nearly as strict and circumspect about his speech around his daughter as Mrs. Chen was.

"Miss Midori?"

"You can just call me Midori, you know, Stewart." She shot back, her tone irritated. "I left Edith's curling iron at Downton. I'm going to have to go over there and get it tomorrow."

"Would you like company?"

"And what about our employers?"

"I imagine they will be well occupied with other matters tomorrow."

She shot him a surprised look. Stewart said nothing. He kept his face straight, but Midori was slowly dimpling at him, her expression playful. She knew as well as he did that neither the baronet nor his wife had any problems in the bedroom. After so many months apart, he doubted they'd get out of bed before noon. At least not if Mrs. Walsh had young master Phillip in hand, and he would have been willing to bet good money that Charris Walsh, their youngest maid and Housekeeper's daughter, would be sent up to handle things sharp-fast to prevent such a distraction. A soft silence stretched between them.

"I had a brother."

Midori paused and looked at him as Stewart let the words out into the quiet safety of the dark. They weren't yet to the white gate. He slowed his pace and she matched him.

"I didn't know I did. Let's be honest, I don't know my name." Stewart swallowed. He didn't speak of his origins, where he came from, but something about the way that Midori and her mother were so unabashed and proud of their mixed and mingled family drew it out of him. He'd told them he was from Canada when Mrs. Chen had insisted he come over for dinner the fourth time. "I don't know my parents' names. I don't know what I am."

Midori had stopped altogether, a look of confused trepidation painting her face.

"What do you mean?"

"Indian schools, they're… they're not schools, really. Just places to send the people that nobody in Canada or America wants to deal with." Stewart cleared his throat and turned, looking up at the moon overhead. Waxing gibbous. "More children die in them than learn anything. At least the ones I went to."

"And… you went to a lot?"

"I think I was about five or six when I went to the first one. They beat us there, and I got sick enough they sent me away." Steward could still smell the fever sweat, the fear sweat, and hear the voices sobbing for their mothers. Even in his memory, he couldn't understand the words. "Typhoid. We went to a kind of makeshift hospital, but there wasn't much healing going on. When I survived, they sent me to a different school."

"There are some missionary schools like that, in China." Midori's voice was hesitant, careful, and she leaned the bike against the corner of the wall, inching closer. "You don't know your name?"

"I do. I'm Nicholas Stewart, and have been since I was six-fifteen." He corrected. He had to remember; he was still twenty-nine. On the plus side, he was now only ten years older than her. He'd been surprised to hear she was so young; it had given him pause he wasn't entirely free of. "I just don't know the name my parents gave me, or the language they gave it to me in. Between the typhoid and the other schools, I just… blocked it out."

"But you found a brother? In France?"

"I found about half of him." The words came out in a rush and Stewart stumbled, leaning against the wall near the bicycle.

Reaching up he tugged at his tie, realizing too late what this was. It hadn't happened in years. Not since South Africa. He'd genuinely thought he was going to die that night and the only person, the only soul who'd cared to listen, to ask who he was… Well, Anthony Strallan had asked. It had all poured out that night, the anger, the hate, the pain, the vitriol.

And now it came again, though Thank God it was only France. Stewart didn't know if he could look into those blue-green eyes ever again if he talked about some of the other. Something inside him might die that he needed if she looked back at him in disgust, but he was fairly sure that he'd be hung for murder if she turned her eyes on him and he saw the perfect understanding he was afraid might be there.

"He'd been blown all to hell. One arm left. No legs. Emasculated." Stewart pressed his knuckles into his eyes. "I'd never seen anyone survive that. I don't know why the surgeon sewed him up! There are worse things than bleeding out, and…"

"And?"

If he'd managed to dam the river, she tore it all down with that softly spoken word. Not too kind. Not too weak. Just a word.

"We had to be twins. We were identical. Completely – he was Iroquois, and I don't know where he was from originally, but he lived in Montreal when they called him up. His wife's dead, but he's got a two-year-old son he's paying a woman to watch back in Quebec. Sir Anthony insist – he let – I wrote and they'll be sending my nephew here, now. If he makes it through the blockade."

"Good!"

Stewart swept his gaze up, looking up at his companion in shock.

"How can you possibly say good? The boy's father is dead, I know nothing of him. I barely know his name. I don't know his culture; I don't know his language. I don't know his people, and what's worse, I don't want to!" Stewart pushed off the wall, his breathing heavy and things starting to list and spin worryingly. "I've spent better than a decade building this life, being Nicholas Stewart and making him a man I can respect and-."

Falling to his knees, heedless of Yorkshire's endless supply of mud and his clean uniform, Stewart began to vomit up everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. As he shook, a slim, cool hand slid beneath his forehead, supporting him. Human warmth pressed against his side.

"Nicholas Stewart is a good man, and he will be a good uncle. A child needs family. They need history."

"I don't have any to offer."

"You have yours." She shot back, sharply, and he found his head turned and, before he could protest, a delicate handkerchief was dabbing at his mouth as she continued to support his head as he knelt there and shook. "Perhaps it only starts in the Boer War – I'm assuming that's what you meant?"

"I – I enlisted under a false name." Stewart agreed, as he fought against an onslaught of dry heaves. "I'd gone through – gone through - three different in – in the - in schools. What was one more in the King's Army?"

"Well, considering you got a Distinguished Conduct Medal out of whatever you did against the Boers, I'd say Britain hasn't regretted taking a son off of Canada, even if they didn't ask for him."

Stewart wasn't sure the sound he made was a laugh.

"What's your nephew's name?"

"John Monture – like his – like my brother."

"A good name, then." She nodded. "Add to it. Let him be John Nicholas Monture. Let him belong. If my father can take my mother's name, you can give him yours, can't you?"

"Just like that?"

"It's how families are made."

Nicholas Stewart stared at the woman kneeling beside him in the mud in her nice dinner dress. He'd known he was sweet on her for over a year now. He'd been attracted to her since the start. However, as he listened to the way she said those words as if they were fact and not misplaced hope, the sheer nonchalance she greeted his grief and misery and mess with… Stewart realized that he'd have loved her then, just for that.

Behind them a door opened. The hinge didn't creak, it didn't need to. The shaft of light falling across the small front garden, behind the short stone wall they were kneeling behind, announced it well enough. A moment later a voice, more heavily accented than the soft touch Midori had, filled the air.

"Midori? What has happened? Did you trip?"

"No, Ama!" Midori turned, and, with the air of a cat about to share her mouse, raised her voice. "Stewart did!"

An hour later and, over his significant protests, Nicholas Stewart was safely tucked into the guest room bed. Under Mrs. Chen's gimlet eye, he'd eaten a bowl of broth and vegetables, then consumed two small cups of herbal tea concocted under her own hand. He'd been peeled out of his uniform and tucked into bed in his shorts and vest after spending that hour wrapped in a quilt. His uniform, along with Midori's dress, had seen the mud washed out and were drying in the kitchen near the range.

With the Chen's large and visibly pregnant brown tabby cat purring away at the small of his back, Stewart slept more peacefully than he had in months until the cockerel decided to sing them all awake.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Lavinia said something odd about Miss Chen yesterday at dinner, Isobel, and I was wondering if you know anything about it."

Isobel looked up from her tea at Lady Grantham's curious face and restrained a sigh. Things at Downton were a bit hectic. Matthew had just left, leaving Isobel to carry on despite a mother's considerable fear. She could keep busy but just the thought…

"Well, I'm not entirely surprised. Lavinia's a rather sheltered girl." Isobel sipped her tea and cleared her throat. "Miss Midori hasn't had the same privilege, Cora."

"Of course, I'm just concerned." Cora Crawley looked Isobel directly in the eye and with all of the level honesty of her American soul, pushed on bluntly. Isobel, who was often wrong-footed around the noblewomen who seemed to surround her night and day sometimes, appreciated it. "After all, she has Edith's unstinting trust. Something that would worry any mother, given the relationship is hardly what you'd expect between a lady and a servant."

"Well, yes, but Midori isn't a servant, precisely. She's an employee, and Edith's quite old enough to make up her own mind. Not to mention that I rather think she's a bit overdue for a friend. With this dreadful war and her husband off fighting Edith is rather overwhelmed, don't you think?"

"That's precisely why it's so important that those supporting her are trustworthy, Isobel."

Isobel pursed her lips. It really wasn't her place. Besides, gossip, even well-intentioned gossip, on the subject could only do harm.

"Besides, you have to understand my fear, Isobel. She has such unrestricted access to Phillip and he's at such a vulnerable age. I trusted servants where I should not have and look at the grief its brought my children."

"It's really a terrible misunderstanding." Isobel caved and cleared her throat. "Miss Midori was working as a secretary at Mr. Swire's office. It's actually a fairly large firm, you understand, and he has made a habit of employing and mentoring young solicitors."

"That doesn't seem a bad thing."

"He doesn't watch them very closely." Isobel pursed her lips in disapproval, then availed herself of the tea to stop the unattractive habit. She hadn't realized she did it until she'd watched the Dowager do it so often. Now she was working to break the habit. Thus far, she'd had limited success.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, Lady Grantham, is that several of the young men in his employ were making a nuisance of themselves where the young lady was concerned. She did everything she could to put them off, but one in particular was extremely persisted and determinedly vulgar about it."

Cora's expression, which had been fishing for information a moment before, had changed completely. The suspicion with which she viewed the young woman had not vanished. That said, Lady Grantham was a fair woman. She was also a realist. A young lady who possessed Midori's appearance and her origins was likely to not only gain a great deal of attention, but likely to have it be of a distinctly ungentlemanly sort. Outside the safety of home and hearth? Her comfort would largely depend on the gentleman around her.

"I take it Miss Swire heard the gentleman's view of the matter?"

"Well, actually, it was all rather confused. Matthew told me all about it, but I'm still rather unclear on a few details."

"Such as?"

"I'm not quite sure why Matthew was visiting Mr. Swire's office."

"But he did, and met my daughter's secretary there."

"Well, for whatever reason, he was going down to the records room and as he opened the door he saw Miss Midori shoving one of the young solicitors off of her person."

Cora's expression was dark, unsurprised, and thunderous. Isobel hastened towards the specifics.

"I understand it hadn't got further then him grabbing her and attempting to kiss her, but she'd just shoved him off of her and he'd stood back up. Matthew, of course, rushed forward to help."

"Of course, he would! Whatever else Matthew is, he is a gentleman."

"Thank you, Cora." Isobel was quite sure she could have lit a surgery with the pride in her smile. "Unfortunately, Miss Midori had pulled a large book of caselaw off of the shelf at the same time and thrown it at the cad. Of course, Matthew had just rushed forward and in the scuffle he got hit in the face with the book instead, and the other man ran straight to Mr. Swire to get the first word in."

"Dreadful." The countess leaned forward, now looking less than thrilled. "I take it that Mr. Swire believed his employee without question."

"No, Matthew defended her very ably, but Mr. Swire decided that her presence was causing too much disruption and fired her anyway. Matthew ended up inviting Miss Midori out to lunch as an apology, which turned into a visit to Strallan house, and now it's all rather ancient history." Isobel set her teacup down decisively, her feathers still ruffled as she thought of the incident. "Mr. Swire did dismiss the young man, but he didn't do it properly and handled the matter with Lavinia just dreadfully, in my opinion."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Lavinia sometimes handles records and bookkeeping for her father and had gotten on well with Miss Midori before. Then, after the incident, Mr. Swire told his daughter that Miss Midori had been tempting and distracting the young solicitors and her 'flagrant charms' had caused the whole thing. Which may not be an uncommon opinion, but I don't have to agree with it."

"On that we are in complete agreement, Cousin."

"Good."

"I'm just surprised that someone who seems to see the best in people could be so easily turned against her friends."

"Lavinia is a lovely girl, but she's got a great deal of respect for authority, and she trusts her father." Isobel cleared her throat. "Neither of these are bad things."

"Of course not."

As Cora turned the conversation towards matters at the hospital Isobel was uncomfortably aware that those three words had sounded like agreement, but they had not felt that way at all. Worse? Isobel was fairly sure that she was more on the countess' side than she liked to be in this particular case.

"I heard that Bates has left? I do hope Lord Grantham is alright." Isobel chose to change the subject and listened to the younger woman sigh across from her.

"It was a terrible disappointment, of course, but I'm beginning to think that there's some kind of sickness in war that spreads grief and no-one is immune to it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His soaked shirt and trousers had been cast onto the floor, his hair was plastered to his head, and there was a terrible ruckus going on in the bathroom. Anthony Strallan was so visibly happy he glowed. Edith, of course, wasn't far behind.

"Come now, you two, stop playing with your toys!" Edith's scold failed to take flight and she smiled so hard her face ached as she entered their private bathroom with the largest and fluffiest of towels in her arms. "You're both prunes, and the water's going to be absolutely frigid in moments. I won't have either of you catching cold!"

Surrounded by wooden bath toys, Anthony sat in their tub, having filled the water up rather high, and perched his son in his lap as they both soaked. Somewhere amidst fleet movements involving tiny, simplistic, battleships, Anthony had managed to get them both scrubbed behind the ears and their hair washed properly. Two identical crooked smiles appeared. One was directed sheepishly at her, and the other down at a pair of boats currently engaged in a clacking battle clenched in a pair of chubby toddler fists. Edith leant down and pressed a kiss to her husband's cheek, utterly captivated by the light in those blue, blue, eyes as he played with their baby.

"Just a few more moments, Mummy?"

Edith kissed him again, but narrowed her eyes at his tongue-in-cheek response.

"Mummy isn't having it." Edith didn't budge, holding out the towel. "Come along, Sunshine, it's story time!"

"Papa, boats!"

With eyes just as big and blue as his father's fixed on her, Phillip Strallan held up both of his little wooden ships. Whether he was showing his mother or attempting to convince her of the importance of naval warfare, she wasn't sure. What Edith was sure of was that she just had no resistance to those eyes tonight.

"Five more minutes, Daddy, and not a moment more." Edith draped the towel over the sink, in easy reach of her husband's long arms, and ruffled her son's hair before dropping a kiss on the pale, wet locks and hesitated. Anthony, of course, saw it.

"What is it, Sweet One?"

"I – I was wondering if you mightn't want to have, well, for Phillip to join us tonight." Edith stumbled a little over the sentence. "I will understand entirely if you don't. I certainly enjoyed, well, everything involved in – in having you home with me. I just thought, maybe, tonight we might… keep our little family close?"

Anthony stood up, Pip balanced against his hip still clutching one of his hips. Completely heedless of his nudity and the sheets of water sloughing off him, Edith squealed as her husband roped her into a hug and pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

"My darling girl, I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do, and I won't hear anyone say otherwise." Edith choked out, tiptoeing for another kiss as Pip began to squirm and let out a tense, suppressed squeal of the sort that could develop into tears and a toddler's full-voiced protest if left alone. She quickly pulled back and clapped her hands, widening her eyes to get her son's attention. "Who wants to sleep in the big bed with Mummy and Daddy tonight?"

His approval was instant, loud, and it was a minor miracle that the next few minutes accomplished everything it needed to. The tub was drained, both the Strallan men present were toweled off, if with some shenanigans on both sides. The proper blond got his nappy on, if only after he made a lap around Edith's boudoir as bare as nature intended. Everyone was wrestled into a pair of pajamas, though Edith's struggle into her own with Pip running about precipitated Anthony taking a moment to cross the hall and fetch a clean nappy – just in case – and a few other supplies from the nursery to calm down.

"Oh, tell me I'm not dreaming." Edith murmured.

Underneath the eiderdown, surrounded by acres of wine-colored silk and bed hangings, in the positively enormous Tudor-era public bed that Anthony had "rescued" from a barn during his university days and now took up an inordinate amount of their bedchamber, Edith was so happy she was frightened. This was how her life should be.

"No, you're not dreaming, though if you were, it would be the best sort, wouldn't it?"

Edith hummed and cuddled closer to her husband. Anthony was sprawled like a great, sleepy lion on his back against the pillows. She'd rolled against his side, casting a leg over his hips and snugging her head into his shoulder. He'd obliged by wrapping his arm around her and holding her close as, sprawled on his chest, Pip cuddled against his father with his little hands fisted in Anthony's pajama jacket, his head just barely visible beneath the covers pulled warmly over them. In the firelight, Edit's hair gleamed like red amber over her shoulders, Anthony's was the rich shadowed shade of old gold, and their son gleamed like platinum in the steady flickering.

Edith was still alarmed to feel her husband's ribs press against her as she cuddled into his side, but she was determined not to whine or moan. Her husband needed to be taken care of properly and that was what she was going to do. Over the twin voices of fear and doubt, she vowed she'd send Anthony back to the front healthy and whole and strong enough to get home again. Pip would not forget his father, not even for a moment, ever again. This? Would be normal again, and soon. Whatever the war held for them, they'd endure it. They'd survive it. They would break it long before it broke them.

"Dear God in Heaven, I love you." Edith closed her eyes as she felt her husband's lips move over her hair in a near-silent prayer. "This is the only thing worth fighting for, Sweet One."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

More Notes: There you have Part 2! Lavinia's made her first appearance. We've learned more of the appalling past of a very kind and good man. We've heard more of Midori's family and seen some of what's going on Downstairs at the Abbey. I'll likely skip episode 2.2 because I don't see its events as being much altered by Edith's current life, which is somewhat separate, and the mess with Mr. Drake won't occur at all for obvious reasons. So, next up, 2.3, in which nearly a year will have passed. We will find out more about the Belgian refugees around Loxley at that time as well.