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. 2: Period typical racism and sexism. The horrors of warfare. Mentioned minor character death. Childbirth.
July 1917
"Tom, don't take this the wrong way, but you're a fool."
"It's hard not to take that the wrong way, Midori."
The driver grinned as he accepted the tin of cookies and watched her balanced the little boy on her hip.
"What're you doing up here without Lady Edith, anyway?"
"I brought some makeup and things for the ladies." Midori gestured to her basket. "I don't know how it happened, but Mama's making it for Lady Grantham now, as well as the others."
"Well, you wouldn't."
"I didn't have time!" Midori protested. "Also, I'm developing suspicions."
"Of?"
"Lady Grantham isn't looking at me like I'm plotting behind her back anymore and O'Brian is avoiding me like the plague."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
Branson snickered at everything packed into that single syllable. Then he reached out one hand and chuckled the little boy under the chin. For his part, the little fellow squirmed to get down.
"How's Johnny doing today?"
"John!"
Tom grinned brightly at the little boy's scowl and indignant correction.
"John, then. How was Cornwall? Weren't you supposed to stay longer?"
"We just couldn't find anyone proper to deliver the baby." Midori explained. "Sir Anthony has a friend who's an obstetrician who delivered Pip in London, but she's gone off to help with the war effort somehow, so we decided to come back to Loxley. Ama will help, of course, and Mrs. Walsh, and I'm sure Lady Grantham will want to be there."
"Will she be invited?"
"Unless she keeps picking fights."
At the other man's surprised look Midori relaxed.
"She really hasn't been, things are just tense."
"Why?"
"That is none of my business." Midori declared firmly, not the least bit embarrassed to lie.
She and Edith had talked about it. If for no other reason, Edith needed to know that her mother and Ama had visited. Midori could have been knocked over with a feather when she found out the Great Lady Grantham had had tea at their cottage, but she also knew not to put anything past her mother.
It was also a simple matter of fact that her mother, for all of her many, many modern ideals, was still decidedly Chinese. For all that her mother and father had been a match that had driven her father from his own family, Suyin was of the firm opinion that a child owed their parent a great deal of respect and obedience. In most circumstances, Midori agreed with her mother – wise people did – but she also recognized that her mother might try and help Lady Grantham while essentially speaking a different language. Culturally, at least. Lady Grantham might hear, "your daughter owes you forgiveness", where Suyin really meant, "I am sympathetic, now stop picking on my daughter".
"She and the earl are doing well enough."
"It's easier to forgive a father than a mother, when you're a daughter." Midori shook her head. "There's more distance and less expectation. It's just like a son can forgive a mother for more."
"That's not very progressive."
"Neither is patting yourself on the head and telling yourself that the Bolsheviks are going to release the Tzar and his family." Midori countered. "As long as they're alive the Whites have a cause. If they are dead, who do their opposition rally around? Besides, communism is an unsupportable idea."
"And why is that?"
"Remind me to loan you my copy of The Leviathan."
"I've read it, thanks."
John had wandered about the garage, but with his usual natural caution, was leaving the grease and the tools alone. Midori would not have been able to release Pip into the wilds of the garage with anything near as much confidence. He'd have had his fingers in every gear, every dangerous bit of equipment, and been covered in grease in about ten-seconds flat. Mind you, he'd have been giggling all the while and happy to come back when called, but the fact remains that he'd have sweetly found all the trouble you could desire.
John was generally trustworthy around things. Midori had the terrible feeling that he'd been taught, as harshly as possible, to keep his hands to himself from a young age. The only time you really saw him act like a proper little three-year-old was when he was pelting around outside. Of course, that's why he was currently sporting an array of fading bruises.
"You want to make a bet?"
"About what?" Midori asked, turning. "John, come along now, it's time to go up to the house!"
Obediently, John turned around and trundled back, his arms already out to be picked up. He hadn't liked to be touched when he'd arrived from Canada. Now, Midori was happy to say, he'd reach out and ask to be picked up. Occasionally, he'd even stuff himself in beside you and cuddle with you of an evening. He was still awfully quiet compared to Pip's chatter.
"About the Tsar. I say Lenin tries Nicholas for incompetence, but that he lets the ladies and children exile here, in Britain." Tom Branson grinned at her, cocky and Irish and not the least bit attracted to her in the most refreshing way. Midori had really only gotten to know him well because he tended to be who brought Lady Sybil around visiting, even after she'd learned to drive. "If I'm right, you owe me a proper picnic basket, like the one you made for Lady Sybil a couple of weeks ago."
Midori restrained her eyebrows at that. She thought the man was sweet on the lady, but it was hardly her place to pry. She and Branson weren't quite friends, but they were the next best thing. She also liked Lady Sybil. It wasn't her place to muck about in others' romantic lives, especially not given that hers was frozen in stasis and she couldn't for the life of her figure out how to get it out. That said, Midori had found Edith's sister's fondness for Chinese and Japanese cooking both a pleasant surprise and rather fun. Onigiri, generic leftover noodle soup, and some pickled salads weren't hard to throw together.
"Alright, you can buy me a pint at the Arms if I'm right."
"What's your bet, then?"
Midori hefted John back up against her hip and smirked, turning away from the Irishman and towards the door.
"That they're all murdered in the dead of the night and dumped in a hole."
Midori excused herself without clarifying that it wasn't actually what she thought the Reds would do in Russia. She didn't know much about the situation. She was only active in politics in the sense that her father had liked to read political philosophy and she had a good memory. Midori was fairly sure that murder was exactly how it would resolve itself in Russia, however, and for a very good reason.
Three days before, when Sir Anthony had arrived home, that's what he said was going to happen.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Oh, my darling girl, you're a vision."
"I'm an overinflated zeppelin." His wife laughed, but cuddled backwards, pulling his arms around her. "Oh, tell me you get to stay."
"Only a few days, sweet one." He breathed out, the smell of her hair barely real after so long away, and in such places. "Are you sure it-."
"Oh, I'm fine and I could deliver any day so it wouldn't matter if you did hurry things a bit, darling, so stop worrying. If you'll recall, I'm the one who started something."
Anthony raised an eyebrow and got an elbow beneath him to lever himself up a bit. Edith turned, as well as she could, to look back at him over her shoulder. Unable to resist, he dropped down and kissed her. The peck against her lips was extended as she curled a hand through his hair and held him in place, tongues sliding over each other, and lips tangled until, sighing, they pulled apart and he lowered himself down to hold her again. It was the height of indulgence. Contentment.
"You knew I was a worrier when you married me."
"Well, you knew I was stubborn and independent when you married me."
"Seems we're at an impasse."
"I'm sure we can resolve it with more diplomacy." Edith took one of his hands and pulled it to her breast; heavy with the last days of her pregnancy, Anthony couldn't resist a hum of pleasure and weighing her curves in his hands, curling his body behind her and fitting himself against her bottom.
Not that it mattered. They'd already, well… The morning was well spent. So, for that matter, was the Master of Loxley. Kissing at her jaw beside her ear, he held his wife close and just savored it. The soft sheets, the enormous bed, the safety that felt jittery and insubstantial all around the edges.
"Just so you know, in the future, your choice of euphemism may make things awkward with the actual diplomats in the family, Edie."
"I'm sure a master of languages such as yourself can work your way around it."
Anthony huffed out a laugh and opened his eyes, just taking a moment to convince himself it was all real. Then, after one more lingering kiss and a bit more good use of his hands, he heaved himself up with a groan. Sitting fully, he turned so his feet touched the floor, and stretched until his back and neck cracked.
"Ooh, if we're getting up, help me then. You can spare Mrs. Walsh's back. She'd had to haul me up for the last month."
"Poor old girl."
"Her or me?"
Diplomatically, Anthony stole a kiss rather than answering.
"We're not going up to Downton today." Anthony went on, hoping he wasn't about to get himself into hot water, but also willing to stand it if he did.
"No, we're not."
"You're due any day now, Edith, and while their choice to become a convalescent home is admirable, it's not your responsibility – oh. Wait, yes?"
Anthony was aware he likely looked an idiot. He was standing, naked, in front of his wife with his dressing gown over one arm, staring. Edith, standing and holding onto one of the trunk-like posts of the bed, looked like a pagan fertility goddess, of course. At least she was smiling at him, if a bit tensely.
"Mama and Cousin Isobel can work that out for themselves, and I am well shot of it." Edith paused and Anthony shrugged his robe on more fully and helped her into hers, taking a moment to slide his arms around her and just hold her. She melted against him, and went on. "I hate to say it but… you're right. We're taking on more refugees next week, and these are from the city so they'll not know at all how to manage. There's Colonel Fletcher's responsibilities and men at the Dower House to consider. No matter how well-intentioned Cousin Isobel is, we're not becoming an annex to the convalescent home at Downton, or offering supplies and staff or whatever she comes up with next."
"Very good."
"And I flatly refuse to get drawn into whatever's going on with her and Mama." Edith complained, burying her face against his collarbone and clutching at him with deceptive strength.
"Midori said that you and Lady Grantham had a fight before you left for Cornwall."
"Mama just got under my skin complaining that I don't leave her alone with Pip. That I don't trust her with my children."
"Well, if it shall make things easier for you, sweet one, I can tell Lady Grantham that I don't trust any of them with anyone under the age of twenty and they can be angry at me for a change?"
"I told Mama that forgiving and trusting are entirely different animals."
"Oh." Anthony stood very still, processing that. A mix of chagrin, a sense of awkwardness, and a fierce rush of pride ran through him. He kissed his wife's hair and petted at her. "How, well, how did your Mama take that?"
"She didn't say anything, and then the next time I saw her we pretended like nothing happened."
"Ah."
"Sybil's mostly been visiting me here anyway, with the baby so close." Edith summarized. "So I'm actually imagining it's the best possible outcome. It's not like I think they would hurt Pip or the baby intentionally, you understand."
"Oh, I understand very well, Edith." Anthony kissed his wife slowly, gently, and reached down to curl a hand over where a little elbow or knee was pressed up against the smooth, glowing, skin of his wife's belly beneath the robe. "I also agree."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Did you look like him, at his age?"
"I have no idea."
It was the only honest response he could give and it should have put him out. Stewart had been doing nothing but wrestling with a past that was all half-remembered misery since he'd found what was left of his brother in France. It should have made him sick, or angry, or something to speak of it. Instead? It was rather hard not to smile.
"What happened?" Stewart asked, gesturing to his face as he watched the boys play. "The bruises, I mean. Not that I'm saying you and your mother weren't watching. Or that something dreadful happened. Little boys are forever intent on injuring themselves, I mean."
"Oh, you're not wrong." Midori laughed, and it was a wonderful sound, clear and without the slightest hint of artifice. "I was letting them both have a good little kick about – Lady Sybil found this tiny little football somewhere – and they were just being adorable, falling all over each other."
"And someone caught an elbow to the face and it turned into a right scrum?"
"No, I assumed the football would keep their attention and turned for just two minutes to check on something." Midori complained. "When I turned back around John – and he's the good one – was about six feet up that apple tree there."
"No!"
"Yes!"
"But the lowest branches are well out of reach."
"Not if he's standing on Pip's shoulders." Midori shook her head. "We didn't figure it out until the second time they did it, the rascals. Edith was there that time and caught them at it. It was just that, the first time, John hadn't managed to pull Pip up after him. The second time, they managed it, and the holdup was what got them caught."
Nicholas couldn't help it, he burst out laughing at the picture it painted in his mind. His nephew, small for his age but sturdy, standing atop lanky little Pip's shoulders, and then pulling him up into the tree.
"There aren't even any apples worth picking this time of year, let alone in May."
"I know. I suppose that if you have a tree, and you're a boy, you simply must climb it. It's been all we can do to keep them out of any tree they come across, since, and – oh, there they are!"
Pip and John had been playing a game known only to them. It involved sticks, though thankfully not hitting each other with them. It also involved hopping and making croaking noises. Now, however, the game-that-might-have-had-something-to-do-with-frogs had been abandoned and in its place? Pip was sitting down, pulling his little leather boots and socks off awkwardly, while the more coordinated John was already stripped down to his skin and bolting towards the pond.
Nicholas was on his feet in an instant. They were only a few feet distant from the boys, maybe ten yards. It wasn't so far that a man in good fitness couldn't make it in a flash.
"John Nicholas Monture!"
His nephew went stiff at the quiet scold and turned, his brown eyes huge, to face his uncle. Nicholas' heart lurched as he watched the boy shiver in place and saw the liquid running down his thigh. The boy hadn't ever seen him until the night before, and had been cautious, but he'd warmed up enough to run and play around him with Midori present. After his own childhood, Nicholas felt that was progress aplenty.
"Here, now, it's alright." Nicholas soothed, not touching, not rushing anymore, just kneeling down nearby. Within arm's reach, just in case. "Nobody's angry. I was just scared. That water's deep."
John stood still, staring at him, and after a moment's thought, Nicholas sat down on the grass and tugged at his own boots. He'd worry about doing something over the sudden nudity later. The boy was three. These things happened.
"Do you want to go in the water, John? Can I go with you?"
John just stared; his hand jammed into his mouth. Behind him, he heard Midori cajoling Pip back into his own shoes and socks. A glance showed she was taking him up towards the house. So… he was alone with his nephew.
Pulling off his shoes and socks slowly, John rolled his trouser legs up to the knee. Slowly and carefully, he stood and walked over to the little boy. Then, gently as he could, he got his hands under his nephew's arms and picked him up. He ignored the fact that the lad had wet himself and carried him over, gently setting him in the shallow, sun warmed water with the reeds at the edge of the pond.
"Here now, just a little wading." He soothed. "Isn't that nice?"
John looked up at him, and very slowly settled back against his uncle's leg, reaching down to tap and pat at the water's surface cautiously. The wild happiness, the innocence he'd shown in his wild rush towards the water was abandoned. Lost in his very real fear of an angry adult.
Silently, Nicholas Stewart cursed war, and Indian Schools, and women who took money to raise children and cared not a whit for the child. Outwardly, he smiled warmly, and fell into a soft, warm, one-sided conversation in his crisply accented English. It never occurred to him to speak to the lad in Quebecois French. Even if it had, well, he wouldn't have.
Nicholas Stewart couldn't remember a single decent thing anyone had ever said to him in the first language he remembered. While he had no way of knowing if the same was true for his nephew, he had very little power to undo it if it was. What he could do, what he'd determined he'd do come hell or high water, was offered him a better, faster start at a second life than he'd ever gotten.
So, for a little while, they played in the water, and when their toes were twisted and pruned and Nicholas began to suspect the presence of leeches, he carried his nephew out, redressed him, and turned back to the great house behind them. Realizing he had no idea what else to do with a small child in want of companionship he tried to think of what he would have wanted when he was young, had it mattered.
"Shall we have something good to eat, John, then a nap in a nice warm bed?" Stewart asked, gently joggling the lad in his arms as he kept up a steady pace. "How does that sound?"
John said nothing, but the way he slowly, carefully relaxed to lay his head on his uncle's shoulder cheered him immensely. Not bad progress, for a day and a half. Not bad at all.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Did you hear, Anthony's back on leave. Just ten days, so it'll be something of a flying visit. He had to report to London for something, and they've given him some time."
"Doesn't it feel strange to call him by his Christian name after everything else you called him, Robert?"
Lord Grantham turned to look at his wife as he wandered into her boudoir. He didn't do so when she was dressing of course, that was the height of rudeness. He would, however, poke a head in now and then when the process hadn't gotten on very fast. This time, he poked his head right back out, hands raised, and shut the door.
He did not, however, leave. Oh, a twisty little snake of guilt in his gut worried at him. Eavesdropping was a deplorable habit under the best of circumstances. Doing it to one's lady wife was far worse. He could, after all, simply ask.
The problem was, Grantham didn't feel right asking what was on his mind. He listened to the door open. The steady, measured step that came with it was as easy to identify as his own after all of these years. Sure enough, the hiss of a drawer being pulled followed, along with the hush of fabric being laid out.
"I've found your blue skirt, just as you were asking."
"Oh, thank you, O'Brian, I don't know what I would do without you to work these things out for me. Especially with the current chaos."
"Yes, well, it strikes me that's what happens when the war takes over anyone's life, my lady."
"Quite, but one never quite expects it to take over one's home."
Robert agreed with that, but he also felt that they were a rather far cry from, say, what some of the French were going through. That was to forget Belgium as well. Pity the Jansen boy hadn't worked out. He might have given poor Carson some relief, but he'd found an job in York and the pay was better to send home to his mother. It was hard to be quite so stern over Cousin Isobel's interference when you were going out and smoothing things over with a bunch of the victims of the Kaiser's atrocities in Belgium. Poor Mrs. Jansen's parents had been burned alive in their own house…
"No, one doesn't. Especially in such a disrespectful manner."
Well, that was promising. Lord Grantham didn't necessarily want conflict in the family. He'd had enough of it for a lifetime by being born to a naturally quarrelsome mother and having a naturally ornery sister. Producing three daughters of varying levels of stubbornness and marrying an opinionated American woman had not helped reduce the naturally dramatic tendencies of his life thus far.
If he had to choose his conflict, and he couldn't be war, Robert Crawley far preferred his wife being cross with Cousin Isobel than with Edith. It wasn't something he'd anticipated happening. Not after Cora had done so much and gone so far for a reconciliation, but the more time passed, the more there was this… slow creep… towards conflict between his wife and second daughter.
The thing was, he couldn't understand it. Edith wasn't exactly treating them as if nothing had happened, but the fact was that a great deal had happened. It was expected there would be… lasting marks. Robert had certainly had nothing but progress and been… pleased with all of it. In a way he'd never anticipated being pleased with Edith, and it shamed him to admit it. He'd just never tried and certainly never thought they'd have anything to share interest in. Anything to talk about, as they never had before, but in her being mistress of Loxley with Anthony off and with the refugees, at least she understood and accepted his need to be useful.
It was a little painful. Cora telling him that it was important to keep the men's spirits up when he told her how he felt he had become a nonentity. Then, contrast that, with Edith who… asked him for help. At least in his poorly accented French and his natural authority he could be of assistance to his daughter. If nothing else, it had taken one stern conversation to put that lieutenant in his place. A good glare, a few words, and Winslow had crept away with his tail between his legs.
And now Edith and Cora were, very quietly, quarreling and pretending they weren't. Robert Crawley was determined to find out why. He was also determined not to get caught doing it.
"Anyway, enough about Isobel. We can handle that as it comes." Cora said firmly, then, her voice softer. "I had a word with my daughter's secretary when she brought the things up from Mrs. Chen the other morning. Oh, before I forget, I got you some of the lemon balm you liked so much before."
"You're too kind, my lady."
"Oh, it's fine. You can hardly do my fine sewing if your hands are a fright. I can't believe you've had be in the laundry!"
"Just a bit my lady, and I don't mind. It's best to make sure the lace is handled well, and the new girls don't know what they're about."
"Well, consider this a thank you for your extra work."
"That's very kind, my lady, thank you." Shuffling and dressing sounds, Robert tried not to get distracted picturing it. "I don't suppose that Miss Chen had anything to say."
"Oh, she's not so bad at all, O'Brian, I think we've just had a misunderstanding. I'm quite glad I got to have a word with her mother. The truth is, I think we rather frightened the poor girl."
"Well, finally you figure it out, love. You were making the child uncomfortable."
Robert felt a well of relief. There was that longstanding disagreement solved. If nothing else, the idea that the woman in question had ambushed his wife over tea and bribed her to have a talk in a cottage via their grandson was rather novel. He had to appreciate the gumption behind it, honestly. Then again, Sybil's rather gleeful retellings of Dr. Clarkson's continued inability to get rid of the woman were rather engaging. It made sense for a Christian woman who'd survived the Boxer's Rebellion to be made of stern stuff.
"Be that as it may, you have to admit it's still a strange situation in Loxley. What with them having her mother up to watch the children, and the valet's nephew in the nursery half the time. They don't even know if the lad's parents were properly married, last I heard."
"They don't even know who the poor boy's mother was, O'Brian, and I find it sad. Families shouldn't be broken up like that for any reason. I mean, I fully acknowledge that, if we want to make any progress with the native people in America we're going to have to give them access to education and maybe even make them accept it, but that's no excuse for ripping children from their parents."
Robert smiled and closed his eyes. That was his wife. Cora, who believed firmly in what was right and would fight for it. She might not be as dramatic as Sybil, but he'd never been able to look at his youngest and not see his wife in the first days of their marriage, before she'd calmed down and when he hadn't the slightest idea of what to do with her. Robert thought rather longingly of the… entirely pleasant process of figuring it out, and then reminded himself he had a mission.
"I suppose they could manage to put schools in whatever places people like that live, my lady, but it seems more trouble than any government would go to. More trouble than they've gone to in Ireland at any rate."
"Oh, O'Brian, I'm sorry. This is insensitive of me. I'm just rather tired of it, is all." Cora sighed and Robert perked up, hearing the frustration in her tone. "I just don't' understand what Edith wants from me."
"Well, I think it patently obvious, my lady. What she wants is her own way, and that's for you to go kowtowing to her every whim."
Well, that bloody tells it, doesn't it? Robert bit his tongue and shook his head. He wasn't even surprised. He'd wondered for a while, what was fanning the fire. Now, well…
"It just doesn't make any sense!" Cora went on, upset and growing moreso. "O'Brian, I apologized. I couldn't have been more abject if I'd tried. I all but groveled, begging her to take me back as her mother, and she did. Everything seemed to be going so well, and then nothing. It's like – one moment she's happy and coming to dinner, the next she's just too busy and when she is here, she's always talking with Sybil or Robert. Don't get me started on my grandson, either. He's just perfect and Edith's always acting like I'm going to – to snatch him and run away or something!"
"Well, begging your pardon, ma'am, but she may feel that is the power she's got over you."
"It's just so wretchedly unfair and no way to treat a child! Tugging them between their parents and grandparents… but I'm getting upset and we need to get downstairs. Let's not talk about this anymore, O'Brian, I'm sorry to get you so involved."
"I'm here to serve you in any way I can, my lady."
Robert wasn't sure what was worse. The fact that the woman was pouring poison in his wife's ears… or the fact that she honestly sounded like she believed she was doing it for Cora's sake. One this was sure, and it wasn't something Robert liked at all, but something would have to be done about it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Well, Robert, this is a lovely surprise." Lady Violet greeted her son with a mix of pleasure and mild irritation she felt was warranted. "Unfortunately timed, mind you, but a lovely thought. I was coming to you for tea, you realize."
"It's just as well you're not, the officers are settling in, but it's still chaos. Give it a day or two to settle?"
"Why, when I can add my own particular brand of assistance to matters?"
"Because we have a more significant problem."
"Well, considering how significant the invasion of one's home might be considered, that's alarming. Sit down and I'll call for tea. I can promise you that you'll regret the pastries, but the tea at least shall be excellent."
Settling down, Violet looked over her son. As he did all too often now, her boy looked unhappy. He did not, however, currently appear lost. If anything, there was a settled determination about him that was hopeful to her eyes. Not because he seemed better for it, but because she held that no-one who lived without a sense of purpose came to any good ends. Still, she kept up the usual small talk as the tray came up, and noted with pleasure that the unexpected change in plans had resulted in a small tower of sandwiches and none of the sorry scones she was fed when she took tea at the Dower House.
"Well?"
"O'Brian is interfering with Edith and Cora."
Violet paused and then slowly and gracefully set her tea down.
"I will admit, I had not expected that. Interfering how?"
"You know that Cora's been disappointed with how things are progressing with Edith, don't you?"
"I know that your wife has unreasonable expectations."
"Well that lady's maid of hers is – I beg your pardon? Mama?"
Violet sipped her tea and took her time. She chose her words carefully.
"Contrary to popular and, I will admit, cultivated belief to the effect I have not watched Cora love you, give you children, and put up with all manner of your nonsense for nearly thirty years without coming to care for your wife, Robert."
"Well, that's a relief, Mama."
"And it is from that care that I speak."
Her son frowned at her, but his expression was watchful. Pleased he was paying attention, as he all too often didn't, Violet went on.
"Robert, Cora has longed to repair things with Edith since the break happened. She was heartbroken after the Garden Party, and remained hopeful and determined during the entire length of the estrangement. You will recall that even after she agreed it was best not to attempt correspondence, lest that bring further upset, Cora continued to ask after the Strallans at every opportunity."
"She was highly upset when Edith stopped using her title."
"She gained another that brought her greater happiness." Violet agreed. "It was still dreadfully insulting and the fact that she's carried on with it is quite the aggravation."
Robert's nod was regretful, but accepting and Violet felt a flare of pride.
"What does that have to do with Cora's expectations, and why are they unreasonable? All she wants is for Edith to love and trust her."
"What she wants is to have a relationship with Edith as she has with Mary and Sybil." Violet looked up and met Robert's eyes steadily, seeing all of her temper mixed in with his father's goodness. Really, she could have hoped he'd have his father's mild temper and her intelligence, but one didn't get to choose, did one? "Robert, that is never going to happen."
Her son looked at her, hurt.
"I have a better relationship with Edith now than I ever had."
"Yes, but it is not like the relationship you have with Sybil or Mary, is it."
Robert looked at her helplessly and Violet reflected that the delivering of hard truths was, once again, her lot in life.
"Robert, Edith is never going to look at us and give us complete trust. There are few places that is built." Violet looked out the window. "I have heard war can build such trust between men, but I know nothing of it. I do know that such trust can be built between parents and children and even siblings, but it can only exist if, in the innocent and trusting years of childhood, we teach our children that when they reach out to us – afraid and in need – we reach back. That did not happen to Edith and there is no way, now or in the future, to recreate that."
Robert stared at her for a long, helpless moment, and then set down his tea not to pick it up again.
"Mama, what you are saying is that I must somehow tell my wife that – in order to make any progress with Edith – she must first give up hope that there will be progress with Edith."
"No, Robert." Violet said softly. "You must somehow get Cora to realize that the only way to make progress with Edith is to love her just the same, whether there is progress or not."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Anthony woke up in a cold sweat.
"Guns-."
"What? Anthony, no, the baby…"
Anthony was wrong, as he felt his heart lurch from the cold speed of survival instincts to the terror of a fate that could be far worse than death. Guns would have been easier. Scrambling to his feet, he took in the image before him.
He had apparently fallen asleep on the settee in the music room. How he'd done it, he had no idea, as the sofa was a good foot shorter than he was. He chalked it up the unlikely places he had slept in the last year. As it was, he hauled himself to his feet with a speed that would have impressed a man half his age and got his arm behind his wife, supporting her, as she stood over him with one hand braced on her back and the other over the curve of her belly.
"Darling, if your pains have started – did they just start now? When did they start?"
"A few hours ago."
"A few-."
"You know how long this takes, Darling. I-." Edith stopped to suck in a breath and Anthony's heart leapt into his throat as he felt her stomach, normally firm but smooth, contract like iron. "Oh, that was a good one, wasn't it?"
"No, no it was not." Anthony argued. "Have you called the doctor?"
"It'll be a while yet-."
"I'm calling – damn, it will be Clarkson won't it? He's at the hospital with the soldiers now. Who – surely we're not resorting to a midwife along, darling? Damn and Blast, I should have taken you to London yesterday. What was I-."
"Anthony calm down."
He sucked in a heavy breath, realizing he was dizzy.
"Yes."
There, he'd gotten simple agreement out. Taking a moment, he closed his eyes. He'd done this last time and been utterly useless and then he'd had all the help a man could desire. Hugh had been with him through it, Claudia had come over, and there'd been the best possible medical attention…
"Sweet One, forgive me." Anthony swallowed again and leaned down to kiss his wife, still holding her carefully in his arms. "You'll want to go upstairs."
He felt Edith relax against him.
"Oh I would. Will you help me or shall I call Stewart?"
Anthony felt his ears redden. It was a testament to how this made him fall apart. It was also humiliating and he deserved it. Last time she'd gone into labor she'd already been up in their room and ready to deliver at Strallan House, so to speak. Properly situated might be a better term. Now? He'd drifted off to sleep listening to her play the piano.
"You're sure it's not too early?"
Anthony quickly scrambled through the numbers. They added up properly. The weeks weren't too few or, as he'd seen with Pip, too many. They'd been so lucky. Edith had delivered Pip so well, even as large as he'd been. If it had gone any other way…
"I've got you, darling."
Anthony stooped and, before she could protest, had his wife safely in his arms.
"Anthony!"
"Let's get you upstairs." He turned, walking out of his mother's delicately decorated music room, taking the stairs evenly and safely, not risking a fall. Catching sight of Mrs. Walsh coming around the corner into the hall, he raised his voice. "Have you called the doctor, Mrs. Walsh?"
"Yes, sir, and the hospital says he's in surgery and cannot be gotten for anything."
Anthony's heart lurched.
"But you needn't worry, because I've called on Mrs. Crawley and she'll be bringing Lady Sybil with her." Mrs. Walsh went on. "Mrs. Chen and Midori are on their way up from the cottage as well, and between all of us, it will go on just as it should."
"Of course, it will." Anthony agreed, sawdust clinging to every word.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Stewart settled John, who napped like he'd had an encounter with a cursed spindle, on the library sofa and cleared his throat. John twitched, but just curled up tighter under the rug draped over him. It was mid-afternoon. That meant it was time for napping.
Before the fireplace, Sir Anthony paced. Stewart had watched this before, all too often. Though, with Maud, it had been the upstairs hall outside the bedroom. The reason why was obvious. The baronet had exchanged his chosen form of distraction.
Strictly speaking Master Pip should have been down for a nap in his cot upstairs, tucked in with the stuffed dragon Lady Sybil had gotten him ages ago. The little lad's pale head was resting on his father's shoulder, however. Pip's thumb was jammed in his mouth as he slept in his father's arms, and Sir Anthony paced restlessly in front of the fire, his lips resting in his son's curls as he sang.
"Ah, Stewart."
Sir Anthony, Stewart noticed, had eyes as sharp as they were blue. Very little escaped his notice. One would expect that, considering the albatross of a job they'd hung around both their necks because of it. He had, of course, been entirely oblivious to his batman entering the room.
"Sir."
"I… no word."
It wasn't a question.
"The ladies will let us know when something changes." Stewart put every ounce of calm and support he possessed into his voice. "It will all come out, sir. Lady Strallan is an exceedingly strong woman and, if I'm not too bold to say it, motherhood's suited her well so far."
"It had better, considering I'm so inconsiderate to put her in the way of it so often."
Stewart bit back the urge to remind the older man that it took two to produce this particular situation. It would not please the man to hear it. It would not be well-received. He knew from experience, having done it when Pip was on his way. He did make an effort not to make the same mistakes twice.
"The lady doesn't seem to object to the process, sir." Stewart satisfied his need to comment and cleared his throat. "And, if I may say so, the results have been excellent so far."
Sir Anthony's grip on his son changed, one of his hands coming up to cradle the towhead as he pressed his lips to the boy's curls. He didn't answer, but he closed his eyes. Seeing the man's lips moving in prayer, Stewart turned to unnecessarily check on John. His nephew remained tucked in under the rug and sleeping. Stewart paused to get the corner of the sofa cushion out of John's mouth. Mrs. Chen had expressed that he was overall an excellent lad, but he had the oddest habit of chewing pillows. They were still working on it.
Stewart thought about offering to pour a drink, then thought again. Last time he'd been a little too ready with that, having experience with how badly his employer did during Lady Maud's various disappointments. He understood the man's need for a little bracing, but best not to let him get too far. After Pip was born, they'd tucked the master in beside his wife, both equally exhausted but one decidedly not three sheets to the wind due to stress and Stewart's overmedication.
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"What – yes, of course, Stewart. You know you may."
"Christmas carols?"
"Pardon?" Sir Anthony looked at him like he was mad and Stewart, sheepishly, shrugged.
"You were singing 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' to Master Pip when I walked in."
Sir Anthony stopped his pacing and stared at him before shaking his head.
"Was I?"
"Yes, sir."
"… honestly, my friend, I have no idea."
The pacing restarted, when, perhaps forty-five minutes later, Sir Anthony began a chorus of 'Good King Wenceslas' into Phillip's hair, Stewart held his silence and kept up his own quiet vigil.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Midori had done this before, both in helping with Edith's first labor and several other times. Her mother had never been an acknowledged midwife, but she was female and her medical skills were known in their community. She'd been asked a few times, and she'd never said no. She'd just packed her things and taken her daughter along because that's how it was done.
"What precisely was in the tea you gave her to speed her pains along, Suyin?"
"Is now really the time, Cousin Isobel?"
"There's never a bad time to learn something, dear, but I take your point."
Sybil let out a high pitched giggle across from her and Midori grinned, wiping sweat from her own brow with her sleeve and looking up into Edith's red face. Her friend and employer didn't look back, too busy staring at the heaving mound of her own stomach and gritting her teeth. Midori had been impressed with a lot about Edith, but the thing that surprised her most was that she didn't scream during labor. It seemed like everyone did, but Edith? Gritted her teeth as if she was entering a fight, not childbed, and went at it red-faced and angry.
"Oh, I can't believe I let him do this to me again!" Edith groaned. "Pip's not even three yet!"
"You haven't a thing to worry about medically, my dear, plenty of women have children this close together. If it's not too far afield for an American source Abagail Adams even said that two-and-a-half years was an excellent time between births, and she was well-acknowledged in her time as something of an expert on the processes. Outside the medical field, that is."
"Abagail Adams had nothing to do with the fact that some idiot told my husband it was fine and not to worry about French Letters?"
"What idiot?"
Midori's mother asked from where she and Mrs. Crawley were monitoring progress below. Mrs. Walsh was holding Edith's shoulders helping her lean up. Edith was gripping the wooden bar that Ama had brought. With legs that ended in curves, it could be set up on the bed and rock a bit with the woman who held it. It also gave her something to grip that wouldn't break under the pressure; like a hand might, for instance.
"Me!" Edith Strallan gasped. "Me, I'm the idiot!"
"What's a French Letter?"
"Missed a few things in Nursing school, yes?"
Midori laughed at Ama's statement even as Mrs. Crawley hastily told Lady Sybil, "Never you mind. It's not important for your training."
Midori, who was holding Edith's left foot, looked up at where Sybil – wide eyed and clearly present at her first birth – was holding Edith's right. Then she grinned broadly. Because what else could she do? She loved labors. It was life.
"I'll explain later, Sybil."
"Midori-."
"Let her, Isobel, it is better if they know. Ignorance helps no-one." Ama announced, and then looked up. "You may push now."
"Yes, Edith, when your next contraction hits, push with everything you have."
Suddenly Sybil's eyes widened.
"Wait, did anyone call Downton?"
Midori stared at her even as Edith managed to grunt out.
"Too late now. I thought you did, Sybil!"
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Carson picked up the telephone with the expertise that had come with practice and the distaste that came with disliking the contraption despite that. Settling the receiver near his lips and the bell at his ear, he stood up straight and answered.
"Downton Abbey, Mr. Carson speaking."
"Ah, Mr. Carson. It's Major Clarkson I'm sorry to catch you like this close to dinner, but I thought I'd ask you to let the staff know I won't be up this evening. I'm sure the family passed it on, but I didn't know if anyone had thought to tell Barrow."
Carson blinked. Then he frowned. The contraption remained unimpressed. Had it been a footman, it would have been giving up all of its secrets in a tearful fit. Alas, it was not. Had it been, there wouldn't have been ladies serving in the dining room, either.
"Of course, I would be happy to pass on the message, Major Clarkson." Carson allowed his tone to roll a little, making it clear to impart his displeasure as well as his inquiry. "However, I am unsure as to what you think the family would have passed on."
There was a pause.
"Well, sir, nearly… five hours ago Lady Sybil and Mrs. Crawley went to Loxley to assist in Lady Strallan's delivery." There was another pause, as if understanding only now the difficulty of what he was saying. "I'd assumed that Lady Sybil had used the telephone before she left the hospital."
Carson closed his eyes and counted to ten.
"No, I'm afraid she did not."
"Ah."
Another pause.
"Well, perhaps you might inform the family of her whereabouts so they do not worry that she's not back from the hospital. She is, after all, not here."
"Yes, Major, I most certainly shall."
"And I'll ring from Loxley to let her ladyship and his lordship know how it all turns out."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary, sir, though it is a kind thought."
"Yes, well… goodbye."
"Yes, Major, Goodbye."
Carson hung up the phone, exhaled noisily, and then made the journey upstairs very quickly.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Oh, Sweet One, you must be an angel to bring such miracles into my life."
Tired, sweaty, and triumphant, Edith greeted her husband with a smile as the five other women who'd been in the room slipped out and left her alone with Anthony and the newborn, freshly diapered and swaddled, who rested in his mother's arms.
"It wasn't that bad, honestly, Pip was worlds more difficult." Edith beamed and looked down at the bundle that was currently aggressively nursing from her left breast with a smile of helpless, devoted, love. "Though if you were hoping for a daughter, I've disappointed you."
"Never!"
Edith leaned into the kiss he pressed to her brow, then the second to her lips, then there was a strong arm behind her back, and she relaxed into her husband's hold completely as he toed off his slippers and climbed into bed to wrap them both in his arms. She smiled and allowed her husband to adjust the blankets, sliding his finger into one tiny fist and then visibly melting at the reflexive grip, tears shining on his cheeks.
"Dear, God, Edith he's perfect. You're perfect. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Edith decided to take Granny's advice on claiming credit for work justly done. "Our poor nursery is rather slanted, though, isn't it? There are now going to be three boys in it more often than two."
"We'll hire a nursery maid." Anthony agreed and when Edith went to protest he kissed her again. "Just a nursery maid, darling girl. Someone to help with the diapering and let you get some sleep at night since – since I won't be here through the worst of it was I should be. God, Edith, I'm sorry I-."
"I know, I know. It doesn't count when you want to be here, my love." Edith promised, swallowing against the mounting reality that her husband would be gone from her in three days. "Don't think of that, just… now?"
"Now." Anthony agreed, kissing her again and looking down at the tiny hand, its fingers not even able to fully close around his one digit. "He's got a good grip. He – he'll be strong, like his brother."
"Like his Daddy." Edith corrected, sighing and then yawning, helplessly in the grip of exhaustion and the warm contentment that came over her as her younger son nursed. "They'll – they'll get along, won't they?"
"They'll love each other madly, and get into all manner of scrapes together."
"How can you be sure of it?"
"Because Pip doesn't have a jealous bone in his body. If he did, he'd have thrown a fit when John showed up." Anthony replied and the logic in his voice was endlessly reassuring. It wasn't just an empty platitude. "What happened with you and Mary was not merely childish jealousy. That's something that happen, darling, and when it does we shall deal with it and it shall pass. What happened with Mary was different, rare, and shall not happen here."
"Of course not." Edith put her fear away, looking down at her son as her lips turned up. "I think he has my hair."
"And he should feel lucky to have it." He kissed her hair and reached up to flip her plait over to the other shoulder, prompting a sleepy laugh.
The laugh dislodged their newborn son, which prompted a plaintive blatt and then flailing. Edith, helplessly amused and so very tired, laughed again and considered switching sides, before noticing her son wasn't rooting around any longer. Just squirming.
"Wind him for me?"
Her husband beamed at her and, with trembling hands, collecting the tiny, precious bundle from her to set against his shoulder.
"Towel, darling."
"Later."
Edith closed her eyes, amused, and reflected that Stewart wouldn't thank her husband for that attitude.
"Shall we name him what we talked about?"
"If you're still sure? I mean, it seems a bit lopsided, all things said."
"I'm sure."
Anthony looked down at his wife as she slept and, after carefully winding his son and ever so gently shifting him onto the counterpane, he tucked Edith in more securely, then gathered his second son up in his arms.
"Let's go down and meet your brother, shall we?"