Author's Notes: Part 3 is going to bridge episodes 2-3 of Series 2, so it will run between April and July of 1917. Six months have passed since Anthony returned to the front and closer to seven for Matthew.

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. 1: Period typical racism and sexism. The horrors of warfare. Mentioned minor character death.

April 1917

"Now, Miss Mi-."

"Miss Chen."

"Up at the house everyone-."

"What occurs up at Loxley is none of your concern, Lieutenant." Midori inserted every bit of frost she was capable of into her voice and did her best to flatten the familiar lilt from her English into something sharp, crystalline, and proper the way that she'd heard Edith do when she was less than pleased. "You called saying that there was a situation requiring the household's attention. You have been sent someone to assist. Shall we get on with it?"

"The Colonel called asking for Lady Strallan.'

"Well, Lady Strallan isn't feeling quite the thing, so you're going to deal with me instead." Midori met the pinched, wandering, eyes of the man across from her and didn't give an inch, though part of her wanted to back out of the room with her hands up. "Perhaps I could speak to the colonel and ascertain how the household may be of assistance?"

"Colonel Fletcher's a busy man."

"Then let us resolve this before he begins to wonder why things are not getting done, yes?"

Lieutenant Winslow was the sort of fellow who would get under Midori's nerves even if he was safe in taxis. As it was, she doubted he'd be safe in anything less than a crowded hallway. Gritting her teeth beneath her close-lipped smile she stared him right in the eye. Growing up, Midori had always been considered a tall woman, like her mother before her, though she was a little less-son in England at five inches over five feet.

In her tallest boots with two inches of heel underneath her she could look Lieutenant Winslow dead in the eye, not that this was any comment on his quality as a man. Stewart was only about five-nine. Colonel Fletcher was around six feet, but – for all his enviable intelligence – didn't have the sense that had been apportioned to the common field sparrow.

"The food here's not fit for dogs." Winslow, who made entirely too much out of his public school education considering his father was little better than a knacker, lost all patience and glared at her the way he always did when she'd have nothing to do with him.

"I believe that's a common complaint in the Army."

"We're not on the front, and we're sitting in the middle of what we were told was one of the best run estates in the country."

"Is there some compliant about the quality of goods being supplied the kitchen? I assure you, that you are receiving precisely what Loxley itself does from the kitchen gardens."

"We need a proper cook."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Lietuenant, but the Army requested only housing for the gentlemen it was sending here." Midori used the term loosely to describe the young officers who'd been billeted at the dower house some four months previously. "They also supplied you with cooks and servants."

"We've got a fisherman's son from Sussex!"

"And I'm sure he's giving the same stout service all of Britain's sons are giving in these dreadful times."

Winslow's look could have boiled water. Midori remained serene and cultivated a look so far above him that he couldn't have leapt to touch her toes if his life depended on it. She'd learned a lot around the Crawelys, and most of it was in how not to raise your children, but more than a touch of it was in how to insult a man without actually insulting him. Before she'd mostly relied on ignoring them or keeping her distance if possible. You couldn't afford to insult people you relied upon for your income, or who could get you fired. With a steady job, however, the Dowager Countess didn't give half-bad advice to a girl with her particular burdens.

"The Colonel would appreciate more invitations to dinner up at Loxley, if convenient, Miss Chen."

"You may tell the Colonel that we shall be happy to offer them." Midori smiled brightly, jarringly, and watched the man blink in surprise at the full effect. "Now, will that be all?"

"Ah, well, the fish boy's tea isn't half bad, if you'd like to come in for a cup. You did bring that contraption all this way in the mud…"

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I'd hate to miss a chance to enjoy such fine English weather on the return trip."

Midori stepped back, returned her hat to her head, damp as it was, and allowed the sergeant serving as door guard and footman to help her into her coat while Winslow sulked noisily down the hallway. Though the tall, doughty man winked at her as he settled her coat onto her shoulders, Midori didn't mind. She shot a quick look about to make sure nobody was watching and blew the enlisted man as kiss. He waggled his eyebrows at her, but she was perfectly safe: Sergeant Humes was happily married, and his wife had moved to Yorkshire to be with him. He was just bored with his babysitting job.

It was a slog up the muddy gravel road that led between the Dower House and Loxley itself. Showing the family's innate good sense where financial matters were concerned, the Dower House wasn't a particular purchase or a little jewel box of a residence like the Grantham Dower House. Instead, located in a broad patch of woods where a good-sized stream ran between two fields, the Dower House had originally been a hunting lodge belonging to the first house built in the property back in the 14th century. Having burned down in a fire around the time of the Glorious Revolution, the current Loxley House had replaced it.

The Dower House was, in Midori's opinion, just a bit magical. With its thick stone walls and slate roof, to her eyes it really did look like something out of Grimm's, nestled as it was amidst old watchful oaks in the burgeoning green of spring. It wasn't an overly large house by the nobility's standards, having just five bedrooms, and only three rooms on the main floor. It was, however, a thing of exposed stone walls and heavy wooden paneling, and enormous fireplaces.

It was also, sadly, a bit in need of modernization in a way that none of the rest of the estate was. Sir Anthony's mother had, sadly, passed after the sort of tragic accident that could happen to anyone, regardless of rank. Midori felt her heart go out to the solemn-faced man in the portraits upstairs, for she'd overheard Sir Anthony telling Edith once that his father had been devastated; he'd never expected to outlive a wife twenty-years his junior.

Likewise, there was Lady Maud Strallan, whose death in childbirth had haunted her own husband. Midori, considered the whole thing and decided it was very justifiable superstition. She had been raised with a healthy fear of gaining the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of place and had millennium of tradition to back up the fact that this outlook was a perfectly good idea. If Sir Anthony felt it would be bad luck to update the dower house, well, she wasn't going to say a word about it.

Unfortunately, a few months before the British Government had decided that the Dower House was an excellent place to secret a mathematician. Midori was still trying to figure out whether this had come about because Sir Anthony was in the Intelligence service, because he personally knew Colonel Fletcher, or if there was just a list of country houses that could be used in case of emergency in Whitehall.

However, it played out, Colonel Fletcher had arrived. With him had come five young officers snatched directly out of university and hand-picked by Fletcher. Then, of course, came the handlers.

Captain Thomas worked in intelligence and was not a problem. Strictly speaking he should have been invalided out, considering he was missing his left foot. That said, he was more than capable of keeping operational security intact around whatever Fletcher was doing, and that was his job. He'd brought along and was in charge of the enlisted chaps who kept a constant eye on the place. Lieutenant Winslow was the annoyance. In charge of paperwork, the fellow was regular army, and a general pest. He also was a bad influence on the behavior of the young men who Fletcher had chosen to assist in his work, and the Colonel himself was too involved in whatever it was he was doing to notice.

"Well, now, what does that pest want now?"

Mrs. Bernard's fretful, softly accented, speech filled the kitchen as much as the range's warmth did. As Charris helped Midori pull off her sodden coat and hat, the younger woman grinned at the sight before her. She'd almost miss this when the men all came back…

Mrs. Walsh's tall, broad frame sat, queenly, at the table where she was assisting by peeling potatoes with a deft, quick hand. Beside her, Madeline and Anita knitted socks with the focus of ladies on a mission. Charris, who possessed all of her mother's size and a quiet nature all her own, assayed a brief smile at Midori before returning to the scullery nook and the washing up from breakfast going on there. Mrs. Bernard was going over a notebook with a pencil, muttering to herself, and no-doubt halfway through her weekly menus.

Midori recalled Edith's fretting over changing that. How she'd disliked sitting down daily to go over menus. How her organized employer and friend liked to set things in order right away and then have more time because you knew where things were going in advance for more than a day. She'd met Edith when she was six months into her marriage, and she'd only just gotten up the courage to sort out and establish the new pattern of arranging all of the weekly meals on Monday morning and leaving the details in Mrs. Bernard's capable hands.

A slender woman with a nose and cheekbone slightly crooked from old injuries, Mrs. Bernard was nothing like the stereotype of the harried and tempestuous French cook you heard about. Quiet and generous by nature, the small, slender woman was all softness. It was a rather hilarious contradiction to her current annoyed tone.

"Winslow doesn't like Army cooking." Midori drawled as she allowed herself to settle at the table and get warm for a few minutes. Really, one thing she'd never adapted to after all these years was the weather. "Apparently having a fisherman's son from Sussex serving him three hot meals a day with us supplementing what the Army already gives them isn't good enough for a man whose father tins horsemeat for dogs and calls it business."

"I'd love to say I was surprised, but I doubt any of us are." Mrs. Walsh's terse response, rolling like waves with displeasure thanks to her Welsh Accent, said it all. "I suppose he wants to be up here more often, then?"

"The Colonel would appreciate more invitations, apparently."

"The Colonel's a dear man and has been since the master knew him in university, but he couldn't give a fig what he's eating if he remembers at all."

"I restrained myself from making a similar observation, Mrs. Walsh."

"Hmph."

The tall woman got up, turning to tuck a stray brown curl behind her daughter's ear as Charris continued her washing up.

"Still, it is only polite." Mrs. Bernard fretted. "And the Colonel is a friend of Sir Anthony's."

"And if it were only him, he could be up here every evening and none unhappy for it, Mrs. Bernard." Walsh agreed, looking over the two knitting maids' work critically. "Count your stitches, Anita."

Mrs. Bernard repeated the instruction, though with a touch more civility, in French for their two new maids. They'd lost their last maid to a factory job a week before, but they were in no way suffering for it. Anita and Madeline had come to them already for other reasons, and were all too happy to take up positions in the household itself. They came with room and board, after all, and the safety of their all-female household. A relief for two refugee girls who'd crossed France with no protection except each other.

"Is Edith back yet?" Midori asked, restraining her own fretting. "Lady Sybil went with her, didn't she?"

"She did not, and I wish the Lady would rest a bit more." Mrs. Walsh sighed and Midori raised her eyebrows as the other woman sighed. "She hasn't returned yet, either."

"She didn't go alone, did she?"

"She did not." Mrs. Walsh frowned. "Lord Grantham offered to help her."

Midori frowned as well and nodded.

"I'll wait up in the office, then."

"Likely for the best, Miss Midori, but do trot up and visit your mother first."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Thank you for coming, Papa, I truly appreciate it."

Edith meant every word and found it almost strange how easy it had gotten to say them. How easy it had gotten to speak to someone who she'd spent so long wishing cared, then been so angry at, and so hurt by, and… just everything else. Now?

"I'm just glad to be of use to anyone." The Earl of Grantham huffed, then immediately softened his words. "I am, of course, especially happy to help you. Are you sure you should be out and about like this? Your mother – I always made sure she rested properly, when she was in a – a delicate condition."

"Well, Mama never had quite the same circumstances we find ourselves in right now."

Edith rested a hand on her belly and tried not to feel self-conscious. She had been so happy about the baby when she'd realized that, despite the precautions he insisted on, Anthony had left her in the family way during his medical leave. Feeling his child inside her, knowing that she was giving him more of the family they both craved, it was wonderful. It was just also very different, and very difficult, doing it without him.

It didn't help that his letters were now a blizzard of concern, admonition, and advice, begging her to take proper care of herself and rest. Edith knew how he feared pregnancy and childbirth after his and Maud's struggles and how he'd lost his first wife. While she'd carried Pip he'd been a constant source of hovering concern, and he'd been beside himself during her delivery. Stewart had all but had to sit on him to keep him down in the library while she labored! Now Edith was desperately afraid that his fear for her would turn into a distraction when he least needed it.

"Still, at least we both get to practice our French together." Edith rallied enough to tease her father as she let him help her into the back of his car. Branson, who was holding an umbrella over both of them, ventured a small smile in her direction before he shut them both in and got in himself. "And I do thank you for loaning me Tom so often lately. Anthony's last letter absolutely forbade me from driving any longer, and while I might have ignored it, Midori is the worst tattletale imaginable."

"Good! I heartly approve of anyone who'll look after someone as stubborn as you."

"Because you have no idea where I got it from."

"Obviously your mother's side of the family."

Edith was still in something of a state of shock that she and her father now teased each other. Then again, she'd never have believed she'd spend so much time with him before. That said, who could have predicted this?

"You had a fine idea, Edith, to do this." Robert added, his tone soft as he turned over the notebook in his hands and opened it to check her notes along with his own. "It's as right as anything I've seen."

Edith flushed.

"There was really nothing else to do, Papa. We had the room, you know."

"Yes, yes, the mechanization means you've got empty cottages."

"And our yields have barely gone down even with the war."

"And that too, yes." He shot her a sideways look. "Let's leave off talk of tractors and threshers and such for now, though, shall we? I think you're right about getting them to work, though."

"I've got Mrs. Maes and Mrs. Jansen working up at Loxley during the day, of course, and is it nice to have sufficient maids again." Edith allowed, feeling her lips turn up. "Though we've gone to having Anita and Madeline stand in as footmen as often as not, at least when we need them."

"Girls as footmen, I can't imagine." Robert huffed, then tilted his head to the side. "I may have to, however. Did I tell you William's gotten his letter? He's off to spend the next few days with his father, of course. Carson's beside himself, but none of us are to know that."

"If there's anyone Downstairs who speaks French Mrs. Jansen's got a fourteen-year-old son." Edith offered. "He does a bit of spare farm work when he's not in school – and bless the school for childcare, really!"

"But you were saying?"

"I'm sorry, the baby's got me so scatterbrained Papa. I can never think properly once I'm half-gone." Edith complained, rubbing a hand soothingly in apology over the curve of her belly and the squirmy bundle therein. She winced. "Baby Strallan heard that. That was a proper kick."

Hesitating only briefly, and with his daughter's nod of permission, Robert Crawley settled a gentle hand over the curve of his daughter's stomach beneath the light wool of her dress and petted at his grandchild.

"Now, listen here, you need to be kind to your Mama. She's doing a great deal of work which she shouldn't be because there's a war on. We've all got to do our part – or at least whatever they'll let us."

Edith swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. Strangely enough, things with her father had been getting steadily better in a way that she had never anticipated. It was as if, even if he didn't fully grasp how wrong he'd been, once he'd accepted he was wrong? Lord Grantham had the easiest time moving forward with it. Edith had expected more posturing from him. She'd expected him to try and interfere more, but – other than a few false starts during planting – he'd accepted things more readily than anyone else in her family, save Sybil, and even Sybil was likely to be so determined to help that her ability to listen was sometimes affected.

"Mrs. Janseon's son, Jules, is a likely chap, even if his English needs a great deal of work." Edith offered. "He's been chopping wood for us as well as a number of the other cottagers, and isn't above any kind of work."

"Well, you'd said his father joined up with the French to fight. I imagine he's being a proper man of the house."

"He is." Edith agreed. "But, what I was saying, is that we could spare him to help Carson at dinner at the Abbey ever now and then, but he'd need a great deal of training. His manners are sweet, but they are a bit rough."

"Well, I'll see what Carson thinks of it. Thank you, Edith."

"You're welcome."

Edith filched her notebook back from her father, but didn't complain when he read over her shoulder. She ran down everything they'd taken into account that morning. Loxley was currently housing twenty-five Belgian refugees, though thankfully they weren't feeding them as well. It had taken a bit of work, but with Granny and her Papa helping her, she'd found some kind of work for all of the adults and no few of the older children. The others they'd gotten settled in the village school, and Edith blessed the current headmaster for being fluent in French and willing to step back into the classroom.

As for the work, most of it was piecemeal and would vanish after the war. Hopefully, however, by then the women and children who'd come into her care would be able to go home and rebuild their lives. For now, they were doing everything from saddlery to walking through the dark hours of the morning to Ripon for the uniform factory there.

"How are things at the Dower House?"

"I'm really not allowed to know, Papa."

"Right, yes, of course."

Edith felt a pang at the flash of defeat overtaking her father's expression. He wasn't allowed to serve on the Front. He was reduced to morale building at home. Yet less than four miles from Downton there were men doing something with codes none were allowed to speak about, something useful, and he wasn't wanted there, either.

"Lieutenant Winslow handles the paperwork there, and he's a terrible pest." Edith finally offered. "The Colonel is of course a lovely man, but he lives for his work and doesn't see much beyond it. Captain Thomas effectively runs things, as he should, but the Lieutenant is entirely above himself."

"Has he been bothering you?"

Her father sat up straighter and Edith restrained a smile. She'd given him something to do. Well, at least something to fret about he felt he had some place and power in. That was something. Maybe her Mama would stop fretting about things that weren't her concern and they could have some progress as well.

"No, but he makes a nuisance of himself to Midori." Edith complained. "He started the way they always do, of course."

"Yes. That I understand."

Edith didn't have to specify. While her Mama still chafed at Edith's need to have someone she trusted intrinsically, someone from her household, around Pip her Papa had accepted it entirely. Edith was warmed by this trust, not quite grasping it had more to do with the fact that Robert Crawley's upbringing made him assume most children came with a hovering female servant all hours of the day and night. As it was, the tensions surrounding Edith's unmoving boundaries for her son had increased on other fronts.

Meanwhile, Robert got on fine with Edith's secretary. After some initial awkwardness due to the fact that Midori was herself and he wasn't blind, things had normalized. For all of the prejudices that came with his class, Robert was himself strangely openminded in unexpected ways. Midori was very provably loyal to her employers, and to Robert Crawley, that counted for a great deal. As he usually did once making his mind up; he gave it no more thought. For once, this habit had served him well with his second child.

"Well, Midori made her lack of interest clear, the way she does, and he's been a bitter little insect about it since, looking for ways to bother us." Edith complained. "I know the Dower House hasn't had the plumbing looked at since Queen Victoria was alive, but it all functions. It's not like we're unaware it's a bit damp and chilly there – the building's been there since the Plantagenets sat the throne. Then there's his complaints about the staff!"

"I thought everyone in the building was Army."

"They are, that's his complaint!" Edith pulled a face. "He wants a normal servant staff."

"Well, that's rubbish. The place is a secure facility." Robert was properly annoyed. "I'm not allowed in past the kitchen or the parlor, and my loyalty to king and country is hardly suspect. I fail to see how bringing maids in would be anything but utter disaster."

"Yes, and Captain Thomas would never stand for it, but Winslow knows that someone from the house simply has to go up to listen to him whenever he complains, so he does it at least twice weekly. It's not about changing anything, it's about his need to whine."

"Well, I'll put a stop to that." Grimly Lord Grantham tapped his chest. "This uniform might not be good for much, but I outrank the mushroom. Not to mention, I've still got a few ears who aren't closed to me. For all it won't do me any good, I doubt the Winslow dogfood canning factory can stand up to my displeasure when it comes to seeing the lad reposted if he carries on."

"Just – not the front, please."

Robert frowned.

"It'd probably be the making of the spoiled-."

"Or he'd end up dead and it would be my doing." Edith swallowed hard and found herself helplessly fumbling for her handkerchief. "Ignore me, it's the baby. Makes me a watering pot. You wouldn't believe what I put poor Anthony through with Pip the last month or two and I've still got three to go at least, if this one isn't late like his brother."

"So, you think it will be a boy?"

"I couldn't guess. I was sure Pip was a girl, Mama was sure I was a boy, and Granny still complains that you and Lady Rosalind deceived her on purpose."

"Ah…" Awkwardly looking out the window as Edith composed herself, he cleared his throat and spoke with unusual gentleness. "When was the last time you got a letter from your husband?"

"Two weeks, but that doesn't mean anything. They – they usually come in bursts, rather. Given his, well, I don't know what his business is and can't but…" Edith mopped her face. "Don't give it another thought, Papa. Don't give it another thought."

Silence reigned as Tom wound down the narrow road that led to Loxley.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had been Lady Grantham's intent to speak with Dr. Clarkson about Thomas coming to serve at the hospital and then leave, but was distracted by a sudden spike of fear as she saw a familiar figure leading a little tow-headed boy into an examination room. Without thinking, she crossed the hallway and entered the room before the door could close.

"Miss Chen? What is my grandson doing in the hosp-ital… Oh!"

Midori Chen was the same height as Edith and, as it went, the same height as Cora. The woman who turned to face her was oriental, but she was perhaps two inches shorter than the countess. She also was not hovering in the golden and indeterminate youth of beauty that Miss Chen occupied, though at one point in time she'd been beautiful indeed.

The woman standing across from her was still lovely. A perfect oval face with even and delicate features had been gifted to the woman by God or heredity, depending on your perspective. Her hair was still inky black, without a trace of gray, and her brown eyes were lively and intelligent. She was still slender and had beautiful posture. Her age was hard to predict; she could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty. The thin fan of lines around her eyes and the barest laugh lines around her mouth being her only wrinkles.

If you only looked at the right side of her face, she was still an exceedingly handsome woman. If you looked at the left, however? It told a different story.

Pitted, burned skin ran in a broad fan starting not far from the corner of her mouth and spreading upwards near the corner of her eye, which bent slightly upwards as a result, and down over her neck. Her hair, swept into a folded mass at the back of her neck, hid her ear but there was something about the shape beneath the black lacquer curtain that looked wrong. This woman had gifted her daughter with the fullness of her lips and the perfect, fined grained ivory of her complexion, but no-one would ever mistake her for a beauty again.

"Nana!"

With nearly a year to have gotten to know his grandmother, it was Phillip's enthusiasm that saved her. Now firmly two-years-old, wearing short pants and having made enormous progress in toilet training – to Edith's intense relief – Phillip Edward Anthony Strallan was as sturdy and sweet a little boy as anyone could want. Still towheaded and possessing the bluest eyes imaginable, the little boy happily ran the few short feet required to get to his mother's mother and held both arms up in a clear request to be picked up.

Cora always felt self-conscious doing it in front of her usual guard, as she's come to think of her daughter's secretary. Those blue-green eyes in that serene, too-perfect face always seemed to judge her. It left her unsettled and angry, and it didn't help that O'Brian had heard so many disturbing things about the girls conduct and Edith just would not listen. To her surprise, this woman turned away with a small smile and a nod as soon as Pip spoke.

"There's my little man!" Cora cooed, smiling, as she gathered her grandson up into her arms, pretending to struggle. "Ooh, someone is getting so big."

It wasn't quite an exaggeration. At two, well, Phillip Strallan was lanky but far closer in height to what she'd expect out of a three or four-year-old. She knew his father was tall, but it was a bit ridiculous.

"Nana!" Pip, not quite able to say Granny reliably when they'd first become acquainted, had bested upon and kept a new name for his grandmother. Cora had greedily accepted it as her own and allowed Violet to keep the other title at present. It felt special, as did the kisses he peppered her cheek with. "Nana, I a biscuit!"

"Yes, we shall all have biscuits after John sees Dr. Clarkson." The unfamiliar woman, though she could really only be one person, spoke in clear but heavily accented English, her brown eyes warm.

That was when Cora noticed the other little lad present. He was perhaps a few months older than Pip, but a shade smaller. Still, looking him over, Lady Grantham felt a flare of maternal satisfaction and pride. Edith had done so well by both of the children now in her nursery.

"Cora, how lovely to see you!" Isobel, who was already in the room with an apron over her clothing, smiled happily at her. "Do come in. We're just giving John a little check up."

"Then biscuits." A quiet, solemn little voice insisted.

"Yes, John, then biscuits." Isobel chuckled.

John Monture had arrived at Loxley only two months before. There had been some struggle and confusion in getting custody of him from the older woman that his father had paid to care for him. She had wanted, instead, to be given the man's Army pension and permanent custody of his son. Not something she was entitled to, but an altogether messy affair to handle across the ocean. Edith had finally imposed on Harold to find a Canadian solicitor to handle it.

Cora wasn't entirely sure about the whole matter. She'd thought Sir Anthony's valet was English, even if his parents had been Greek, but apparently, he was Canadian. He'd also had a brother with a different name, who'd died in France. There'd been some confusion over that. Not to mention how Stewart had come into custody of his nephew as a result. Beyond that, Edith hadn't wished to discuss it, claiming it a private family matter. The countess wasn't about to argue out of prurient interest, but it had been just another example of how her daughter had refused to share her concerns and her life with her.

"And when she's been so warm to Lord Grantham after he never properly apologized. Not the way you did, my lady."

O'Brian was such a support to her. She had been there for her and truly helped her since she'd lost her baby. Before, Cora had sometimes wondered if Robert wasn't right and her maid didn't stir up trouble, but now… well, even Robert had to appreciate that kind of loyalty, didn't he? And O'Brian came from a large, difficult family herself. She understood how these things happened.

"Someone's not on your side, my lady, and it wouldn't surprise me if it wasn't exactly who we think it is."

"You can write to Mr. Stewart and tell him that John is doing ever so much better now." Isobel was saying as she tugged off the little boy's clothes, until he was sitting naked before her. Being not-quite-three, the little fellow wasn't the least bit bothered, and quietly followed orders as he was bid to take deep breaths or push on her hands with his own or a number of other medical things Cora didn't know the significance of, right up until Isobel was looking in at his teeth. "And not a sign of infection now that we've gotten that rotten tooth out. Someone is a very strong and healthy young man, isn't he?"

The little boy smiled, and Cora filed away her other thoughts on Nicholas' Stewart's origins. They weren't important. Just as Robert said; the man was loyal, decorated, and honorable. If his family back in Canada were a bit difficult, well, it was likely why he'd left. The little bronze-skinned boy with his big brown eyes and shy smile was hardy to blame, and terribly sweet.

"Thank you, we will."

"Nana, biscuits?"

"We have plenty of biscuits back at Downton, if that's what you're interested in, Pip."

Cora smiled and bounced him in her arms, glorying in his happy giggle and the way he rested his head on her shoulder, unafraid and ever happy to see her. She glanced at where the scarred woman had dressed and settled John back on the floor, to fidget and look around the room with a toddler's curiosity. She also made a very calculated gamble.

"You must be Mrs. Chen. Isobel's told me so much about you!" Cora gave her most gracious smile.

"I am, Lady Grantham. It is an honor to meet you." The woman gave a small nod, almost bowing at the neck, and smiled back. "You must be very proud of Lady Strallan."

"I'm proud of all of my children." Cora responded instantly, then slanted her eyes at Isobel. "However, you both must be so busy now. If you'd like, I could take Pip back to Downton and you could catch up?"

Isobel's look suggested she knew exactly what Cora was doing and did not think it wise. The older woman's lips had already parted, no doubt to insert herself where she didn't belong, when the unexpected happened.

"I have promised not to let the children out of my sight, and must keep my word, Lady Grantham." Mrs. Chen's voice was calm but her dark eyes fairly danced with amusement. "Perhaps you could come with me, instead?"

Cora blinked and Isobel smiled as if in on some sort of joke.

"I think that's a lovely idea."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Lady Strallan is not respectful to you as her mother." Mrs. Chen had never been one to water the stones when the garden was thirsty, and didn't see why she should start now.

Lady Grantham had obviously not had tea in a cottage in a while, but Suyin noted with admiration that she adapted perfectly. Their parlor was a perfectly good room, if a bit eclectic as it contained things from her homeland, her husband's, as well as English furniture. It was still a good room, bright and harmoniously organized, and there was certainly nothing wrong with her tea!

The Countess seemed perfectly happy once she was seated, both boys sitting in cushions at the small table by their feet, happy to be supplied with cups of sweetened milk and plates of shortbread. Mrs. Chen wasn't endlessly fond of all western cooking by any means, but she'd gained a fondness for their baking. Everything had been quite comfortable until she's spoken, but that wasn't unusual.

"Pardon?" The blue-eyed woman held her teacup and just stared for a moment.

"A child owes their parents a certain respect, even if things are difficult." Mrs. Chen sipped her own tea and set a plate featuring a greater range of treats between them, nudging it slightly towards her guest. "There are limits, as in all things, but I wished to apologize if my daughter makes you uncomfortable doing her duty."

"Oh, I – that is…" Lady Grantham observed her for a moment, then her lips twitched. "You know, when Cousin Isobel called you refreshingly honest I really should have made a few assumptions, shouldn't I have?"

"I didn't survive the Boxers to waste time now, your ladyship."

Unable to help herself, Suyin glanced at the beautiful bronze cruxifix that stood over the small corner table. The little candles stood there peacefully unlit in the bright light of day. The incense beside them unlit. Over it all, a small ceramic statue of the Virgin presided; queen of the corner. How much their convictions had cost them…

"That is where…" Lady Grantham cleared her throat and Suyin nodded, unbothered after so many years to get used to it.

"Yes. A shotgun, thankfully they'd had almost no shot. It was mostly powder." Suyin tilted her head to the side and smiled up at the photograph on the mantle. In the only silver frame present, he had pride of place. "My husband did not care. Who else mattered?"

Isaru's photograph, now noticed, garnered the usual attention. Suyin hid her amusement behind refreshing both the boys' plates. People who saw her sometimes thought their daughter had gotten her beauty from her mother. They were, of course, thoroughly wrong.

"Oh, my."

"Yes, he did have that effect on people."

The Countess of Grantham put her hand up and giggled, and Suyin smiled and raised her eyebrows. It was always refreshing to speak to ladies her own age. The young were so sensitive and new to everything. Her husband, tall and striking, with the sharp cheekbones and strong chin and sensual mouth that drew one's eyes to his face had always been the sort of person who got surprised glances on the street. Add in the breadth of his shoulders and his easy way of movement and Suyin had been justifiably smug at having kept him happily, uxoriously, satisfied for all the years of their marriage.

"I didn't know that Miss Chen had siblings."

"She doesn't any longer."

The other pictures inevitably drew the eye as well. The one from South Africa, taken only a few months before Ken sickened with that dreadful disease. When he was still a wild, healthy, bright six-year-old boy and the pride of his father's heart. The picture that Isaru had paid so much to have taken of their firstborn just days after his birth, in her arms, before she'd been scarred. The baby whose name she couldn't even bear to say now. It had been her fault. Had she been more careful with the blankets…

"I'm so sorry."

"We are not promised life will be kind, merely that we will have one as long as it is given." Suyin crossed herself as she spoke, silently begging not to bury another child and praying for all those this war would put in her position. "Children are always difficult."

"Yes, they are and – we do our best." The other woman swallowed. "No matter how it turns out, we do try."

"Fear doesn't think for itself, it just is." Suyin agreed, liking that this woman of such rank and power and such normal problems understood what wasn't being said. "My we speak as mothers?"

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"I can get more blunt."

The woman, who was so far above her and just the same, laughed and Suyin knew it would turn out alright. She'd been a bit unsure of herself, even as she'd decided what to do. Now? Well.

"I do not brag when I say my daughter is beautiful. She is."

Suyin weighed her words, wanting to say it correctly as she refreshed the tea. The boys had finished their snack and were now occupied with Neko. The sleek brown tabby had birthed her kittens and, thought it was some work, homes had been found for all of them. Now she would no doubt entertain another tom and the would have to go through it all again. For the moment, however, she was happy to wide her way through the boys and demand their attention. Thankfully, both had careful hands for children their age. It had been a great deal of work to teach them that, but a few hisses and a scratch or two had sorted it out.

"She is, I know. I've had the same trouble with Mary. Sometimes she's just too conscious of it."

"That is always a fear. When Midori was younger, I forever reminded her of it." Suyin sighed. "But it was more dangerous. I lost my husband and she started work at fourteen. You know what men are like."

"We all do." The other woman agreed, looking uncomfortable. Good.

"She is safe, here, though. Lady Strallan is good and so is Sir Anthony. They respect people." That should make it clear. "Loyalty is important to my daughter. To us."

"We feel the same way. I suppose everyone does, regardless of the size of their house." Lady Grantham looked at her with surprise speculation. "Since we're being blunt, you invited me to tea to tell me to stop… picking on your daughter?"

She ignored the incredulous expression.

"No," Suyin denied, "to tell you to stop listening to those who do."

The other woman frowned and Suyin smiled.

"And, I thought, this is another woman who has raised difficult daughters?" Suyin gestured. "Also, do you want more hand cream? Midori and I made more, this weekend. It will be gone by the time your maid goes to town."

The lady blinked at her twice and then, finally, truly smiled. If it was a bit wry. If there was not likely to be another time they would have tea in her parlor. If all of that was what it was, Suyin was pleased anyway. Everything that needed to be done, had been.

"I would like that! Do you have any lilac? Lord Grantham rather liked it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sir?"

Major Anthony Strallan rubbed a hand on his face and belatedly hoped he hadn't smeared himself with ink. Oh well. He'd been smeared with worse lately, hadn't he?

"I'll turn in soon, Stewart." The older man sighed and stretched his shoulders as well as he could in the cramped subterranean excuse for a room he and his valet shared with a captain and his own man. "Would you believe my last packet of letters went up with the truck it was on due to some artillery? I can't leave Lady Strallan without word. She'll fret, and I won't have it. Not in her condition."

"Very good, sir."

Anthony turned back to his letter determinedly, but another thought struck him. He had all of his letters. Including one from his sister-in-law. He could depend on Sybil for honest in regards to Edith's condition and he didn't like how tired she was. Not one bit.

Bloody irresponsible. Anthony chastised himself severely. It didn't matter that it was sometimes a little difficult to get French Letters at home. He could have very well stopped in London before he left, after he'd been debriefed, and gotten enough to do them. Instead, when the supply had run out, he'd just… well. They had kept on as if there was no need to be cautious. As if he hadn't left her home, alone, in a condition that was every bit as dangerous for a woman as war was for a man. His father would have tanned his hide for leaving his wife in the family way when he was at the Front.

Unable to resist, Anthony turned his eyes to the photograph propped up next to the lamp. It had come through the mail as well. Another gift from Lady Sybil, courtesy of her hobby. She'd sent fewer, complaining that the chemist who developed her work couldn't get the things he needed. Then again, she was also busy.

Still, he treasured it. In the picture his wife was smiling, wearing a dress that appeared black but he knew to be a dark blue. His little boy, his son, was sitting beside her looking so bloody grown in short pants and a little jacket. Pip had been in gowns when he'd left for this bloody war! In the photo Edith's belly had just taken on that first ripe curve of pregnancy that he knew so well from Phillip's entry into the world. She'd made it to the halfway point and, as Sybil had agreed, Edith wasn't prone to suffering sickness or much discomfort when she carried his children. Thank God.

She still gets tired, though. She has to deal with the dizziness. Thank goodness the nosebleeds didn't make an appearance. Who's there to see she rests properly, though? Midori's as bad as she is, and Mrs. Walsh hasn't the authority, though God knows she's good at making it seem like she does. They're all burdened with what I should be there to manage, with the estate…

"Sir?"

Anthony realized he'd fallen into a brown study.

"How is John doing? I trust Midori's written?"

"Miss Midori has, yes, and her mother." Stewart's face, more solemn than ever and as drawn as his, immediately perked up. "John's doing a sight better now. They've gotten that rotten tooth worked out, and he's gained nearly half a stone. He's growing properly, according to all."

"It's about time, then."

Anthony was all too aware of the grief and frustration the fight to gain custody of his nephew had given his batman. Stewart was a good man, but his past had been a sea of horror Anthony seethed with anger and guilt over. Supplying children from an underprivileged background a good education was the foundation of assisting them. It was the best of good work, and Anthony believe that.

Turning that education, that promise of betterment, into a weapon to exterminate then was a crime against any sort of human decency. It was also a lesson in how powerless he was, as much as the bloody war, how there was nothing he could do about it. Sir Anthony Strallan could write some letters and express his doubt that the Indian Schools of Canada were being run well, but it wouldn't make a jot of difference. The best he could do was be a friend to the man, and help him secure his nephew's custody.

"Damned right, sir, begging your pardon." Stewart sat down on the rough bench and picked up one of the odds and ends about the place and began polishing it by rote. "Still, it was very good of you and Lady Strallan to – to help as you have."

"Nonsense. Pip was all alone in the nursery anyway. He could do with a playmate, and Mrs. Chen is keeping him at her place otherwise, isn't she?"

"Yes, now that she's over at Loxley every day."

"I'm just glad Edith agreed to more regular help, now that, well… our family is growing." Anthony flushed a little as he cleared his throat. "I worry that they do too much with too little help."

"Bloody war."

Stewart's deadpan, dry wit drew a snort from Anthony. It also drew him to just plain ask.

"How does Midori say my wife is doing? Is she resting properly? I fear she's not honest with herself about it, let alone me."

Stewart's answer was as prompt and honest as Anthony expected.

"The ladies are all at sixes and sevens right now, sir." The shorter man scowled. "Apparently there's a lieutenant with the code breakers who's making a pest of himself at the Dower House. He can't do much, but he can drag someone from the house up to speak to him about issues a few times a week and he won't let up."

"I'll write to Peter about it. He'll put a stop to it." Anthony gritted his teeth and blew out a breath.

"Colonel Fletcher?"

"Yes, we went to university together. Brilliant man, if he doesn't get out much beyond his work. He might not notice someone under his command making a nuisance of himself to the ladies, but if someone brings it to his attention he'll deal with it."

"Very good, sir."

"And the refugees?"

"Mostly sorted out, sir, but Midori says that it's a bit of a strain since your lady wife is the only other person at present who speaks French on the estate."

"Right."

Anthony drummed is fingers on the table. His French was perfect and fluent. Stewart's was, admittedly, very Canadian and rather rough at times. It was also wholly understandable, as he'd proven time and again. If it weren't for the damned and blasted war…

There was nothing else for it. Frustrated, exhausted, and worried Anthony took his pen back up. He'd have to write to Edith and remind her to rest, again. That she must take care of herself and their children. That it would be well, but she couldn't do everything and mustn't try.

Now if only he believed his beautiful, wonderful, perfect, stubborn wife would listen…

"Erm, not to… a few of the boys have asked if Lady Strallan's sent more of her stories."

Stewart's words jarred Anthony from his thoughts and, despite himself, he smiled.

"Sir Andreas Corbyn can't be that interesting, Stewart."

The younger man's lips turned up and the lines that had just touched his eyes in the last two years crinkled there.

"He's a sight better than what's across the barbed wire, sir, and – if it's not too bold – she's rather getting better."

"Isn't she?" Anthony ventured a soft chuckle. "Well, I suppose I could read it aloud when we're at mess. Can't leave a body unattended in the pantry. It would ruin dinner!"