February 1870

"Well," Nancy Strallan sighed to her husband as she slipped back into the library after dinner, "I fear that is the last time Mrs Cox shall be serving fish for the foreseeable future - so I do hope you enjoyed it."

Phillip made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, and stretched out his arm to draw her down and against him on the sofa. "I'm sorry, my sweet one." His hand found the back of her head and smoothed back the golden curls he found there, damp with nearly-dried sweat. "I had no idea this caper would be so horrid for you."

Nancy smirked. "And would it have put you off if you had known? Because it wouldn't have made the blindest bit of difference to me. Besides, this is nothing. The way Mother tells it, she lived off dry toast and water for four months when she was having me - and you can't say things have been even half as bad around here." She smoothed her dress down over the soft swell of her belly. "Was your mama ill with you, too?"

Phillip slid his fingers between hers, linking their hands. "I've no idea. She… wasn't the most confiding of ladies."

Nancy's expression was uncomfortably knowing. Phillip avoided those searching eyes. "Shall I read to you?" he said, instead. "Take your mind off the queasiness?"

"Why not?" She passed him the copy of Political Economy for Beginners*, toed off her slippers, stretched out so that her head was in his lap, and closed her eyes peaceably.

Perfection.

"It wasn't a love match."

Phillip's voice was quiet in the darkness as he and Nancy lay drifting off to sleep. Well, Nancy had been trying, anyway. Really, Phillip did have the most awful habit of thinking so noisily. She was rather glad that he'd decided to voice whatever it was, rather than give both of them a sleepless night.

"Hmm?" she hummed against his collarbone, lifting her head slightly from its accustomed, exceedingly comfortable place on his chest.

"My parents," he elaborated. "Not a love match."

"Ah." Nancy's hand stroked down his arm comfortingly. "I… I had suspected as much." Nothing had ever been directly stated, of course - Phillip was rather private, even when it came to discussing the interior of their own marriage, let alone anyone else's - but it hadn't been difficult to piece any of it together. There had been so many clues, after all. The way that Strallan House in London had been designed to suit his mother's taste so very thoroughly, almost as if there hadn't been another occupant to consider at all. The way that all the tenants had seemed so surprised at the idea of the lady of the house being such a permanent fixture. The fact that when Phillip had brought her here, the master and the mistress's chambers had been so very far apart from each other. (Of course, she'd put paid to that straight away.)

"They… didn't despise each other, or anything like that." It made her heart ache, that attempt at putting a brave face on what must, after all, have been a horrid situation for everyone concerned. "But… after me, neither of them had any desire to… well, to repeat the experiment. Or to - well, to take too much of an interest in the results of the first one." There was a certain clipped brittleness to the end of that sentence.

Nancy sat up properly and fumbled for the bedside candle, and the box of matches. In the soft, yellow glow, she saw Phillip's face, drawn and pinched. He so rarely wore that expression, these days, that it was easy to forget how melancholy some of his letters had been, and how lonely his life, before she had arrived.

It had been quite the topic of conversation in the Treskillion household, after all, when they'd finally got around to announcing their engagement to everyone. Nancy had gone home for Easter, and Phillip had travelled by train to Truro, and then on to Norcote by stage. He'd attended one of her father's services, and dined with them at home - but a man so used to solitude had found the warmth of his intended's parents, and the laughter and gregarious conversation of her siblings, so unfamiliar and exhausting that he hadn't exactly showed to best advantage.

"How," Martha had asked, outraged, after Phillip had gone, "can you even think of marrying a man with a face more miserable than a wet Wednesday?"

Even Papa, the quietest member of the family (although that wasn't saying much), had been anxious. "Dearest, only tell me that you're sure," he'd murmured, his tone of voice making it terribly clear that he, at least, wasn't.

"Well," Mama had tried, "he's… very polite. Didn't you think he was polite, Judith? Sir Phillip?"

Judith had raised her eyebrows in silent censure, making her opinion eloquently clear without the need for anything so prosaic as words.

"What use is 'polite' going to be if Annie realises in a year's time that she can't stand him?" interpolated Benjamin.

Yes, it had taken quite some time for the Treskillion clan to come around to the idea of Phillip Strallan. Now, they seemed to have accepted his quietness as just an odd little quirk. "Oh, don't mind Phillip," they'd say at family gatherings, "he's just Shy", in the same way they'd say 'Political' or, perhaps, 'Mad.'

If only they knew what he'd suffered…

Gently, Nancy stroked the back of her hand over his brow, trying to smooth out those frown lines. "Darling…" Her heart tightened at the clouds in his eyes, and she reached out to embrace his neck and draw him into her arms.

He twisted his head and kissed the crease of her elbow, eyes fluttering closed against her skin. "It was better than it sounds." He tried for a smile. It failed miserably. "At least they were both… discreet. You know, in terms of…of outside interests."

Not nearly discreet enough, clearly, Nancy thought crossly. Drawing back, she said, crisply, "It sounds quite bad enough, thank you." Just another way that they differed, she supposed - he, with a pair of cold adulterers for parents, and she with a mother and father who hadn't slept a night apart in thirty years. She could only imagine what it must have been like for Phillip as a child, with two parents who saw him as nothing more than the securing of a lineage and a title, and each other as a convenient business arrangement. No way to raise a little life at all!

His hand on her waist squeezed in brief thanks. "I… I always assumed that when I married, it would be like that. That I'd… find a woman who wasn't downright revolted every time I came to her bed, secure the line and… then we'd go our separate ways." His mouth twitched dryly. "Part of the reason I left it so long, I suppose. It all looked and sounded… thoroughly unpalatable. Selfish of me, according to Papa."

Selfish! Never had Nancy met a man so unselfish who still insisted that he was. Now she was beginning to understand. It would be no use to tell him that it wasn't true, she knew that well enough, so instead, she slipped her fingers between his own and drew them down to settle over the curve of her tummy, where he'd given her - so unselfishly - such a lovely, precious gift.

"And then I met you, my darling, sparkling girl. So utterly unexpected. And now…" He sighed and his hand spread out over her nightgown, thumb stroking the bump thoughtfully. "Nancy…" His voice cracked. "You know so much more about all of this than I do, than I think I ever will. How will I know if I'm… making a decent showing of the job?"

Nancy kissed him soundly. "Because we'll do it together, silly. Like everything else."

3rd September, 1870

"Well, there you have it," Nancy smiled tiredly up at him. "Duty done, and all that."

"But you're sure you're all right?" Phillip fussed, tucking the bedclothes in more securely around her. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and as of an hour ago, he was a father.

Nancy settled back against her pillows and took a refreshing sip from the tea Mrs Dale had brought up for her before replying. "Perfectly fine, darling - only a little sore. Which," she added hastily, as Phillip's face began to crease with worry again, "is perfectly normal, not to say expected." She pulled a face. "The doctor told me he was nine pounds at birth, Phillip. Nine."

Wincing a little, Phillip glanced over at the crib in the corner where his son and heir lay. "But he wasn't concerned?"

"Not in the least." Seeking to distract him, she added, "I think our young man over there's going to be a beanpole, like his papa."

Still, Phillip frowned. Nancy knew that troubled look all too well; out of all the things her husband was good at, fretting had to come top of the list. He'd turned worrying into an art-form, especially since she'd been expecting. "And if the doctor doesn't satisfy you," she finished, a little more loudly, "then only wait until Mother gets here and let her tell you the exact same thing. Going through the whole circus four times must grant one some privileges, I suppose."

"Hmm." He watched silently as Nancy spread healthy spoonfuls of damson jam over her plateful of toast and began to devour a slice, washing it down with more tea. Certainly, she looked cheerful enough, only a little tired around her eyes. Funny, that, given that two hours ago, she'd been screaming fit to bring the roof in on all their heads. Wasn't this parenting caper an odd business? "When she gets here, she'll want to know the little chap's name, won't she?"

"I suppose she will." Nancy sighed. "And we can't keep calling him 'the little chap' forever, either. I've had nine months of it, and I don't think I can bear another day, to be quite honest." 'The little chap', apparently sensing that he was under discussion, let out a muted noise from the crib, the precursor, perhaps, to a wail. "Oh, Phillip, be a dear and bring him over, won't you?"

"P-pick him up, you mean?" Phillip frowned. "Do you really think we should be - messing about with him? Oughtn't we to call Mrs Dale, just to see, first?"

Nancy set aside her teacup with a firm clink of china. "Absolutely not. Phillip, he'll be hungry. And Mrs Dale can't do a thing about that, I'm afraid." She began to move the tray aside. "If you don't fetch him, I'm going to have to get out of this bed and do it myself," she threatened.

"Absolutely not." When his wife showed no signs of stopping, he added, warningly, "Anne, I forbid it."

Pertly, she twitched aside the eiderdown and poked a foot out, toes searching for the bedside rug. Phillip held up his hands in surrender. "Very well, very well. Just… please, stay put."

A thoroughly unwarranted smug expression took up residence on his wife's face as she resettled herself in bed. At Phillip's anxious look at the crib, though, her face softened. "He's not made of glass, you know. You aren't going to break him."

Phillip closed his eyes in dry, amused agreement. "You said that to me about you, once."

"I did." When he looked at her again, his wife was grinning impishly. "I was right though, wasn't I?"

"Mmm," he agreed, a little grudgingly. "Only look where it's got you, though." Still, he stood and approached the crib. His son - God in Heaven! - was properly awake now and whimpering. Hesitantly, with the air of a man about to dip his hands into a tank of man-eating fish, Phillip reached down for him.

"Don't forget to support his head," Nancy said helpfully from the bed. He could hear her smile.

"I do hope you're not laughing at me," he replied without turning around. "Whatever happened to honouring and cherishing?"

Nancy snorted. "I rather think you're holding the results of that little experiment, my darling."

"Hmmm." His son turned a sleepy face into his father's arm, pressing against his shirt and Phillip's chest constricted. A faint dusting of blonde hair covered the tiny skull, and blue Strallan eyes were set over dimpled, entirely Treskillion cheeks. If ever something could persuade a man to believe in miracles… "Hello, young man. Let's get you to Mama, hmm?"

Nancy received their son from him with practised hands, holding him steady in the crook of her elbow while she unbuttoned her nightgown.

As he nursed, Nancy slipped her little finger into the baby's tiny fist. Phillip watched as his son held on tight to his mother's hand. Perhaps he'd try that later, when Nancy was resting. All acquaintances start with a handshake, after all. And the exchange of names…

"Family tradition says there ought to be a 'William' in there somewhere," Phillip murmured. "In his name."

Nancy's voice was soft but only, he realised, in deference to the nursing newborn in her arms. "Absolutely not."

"Nancy…" Centuries of generational family loyalty warred in his head against remembrances of coldness and recriminations. Neither was entirely able to win out.

"No," Nancy insisted. "I categorically refuse to name our son after a man who was barely any sort of father to you at all. He doesn't deserve the honour."

"It'll cause a minor family scandal, I hope you realise that." Still, he wasn't protesting, and Nancy thought that that was a good start.

She grinned cheerfully. "Well, I'm good at that." Thinking of Phillip's maternal maiden aunts, who ruled the family with iron fists, she added, "It's only what the Aged Dreadfuls will be expecting anyway. I think you'll find that tearing up centuries of Strallan naming convention is perfectly in character for the curate's daughter who bewitched you into matrimony and carried on working as a lady's companion right up until the week before you married her." She looked up at him. "Besides… dear-heart, I don't want you to be thinking of That Man every time you say our son's name." She sighed. "Haven't you any man in your family who wasn't utterly horrid?"

Phillip chuckled. "There's my uncle Anthony, I suppose. My mother's youngest brother. He was a scholar, got a fellowship at a Cambridge college. When I was a boy, he used to bring me books at Christmas-time."

"I like the sound of him. Anthony it shall be, then. And 'Phillip', for his papa."

Phillip's eyebrows flew up. "Oh, now, steady on - I didn't say - "

"Darlings!" The door flew open with no warning whatsoever* and Margaret Treskillion, all windswept grey-blonde hair and dimpled cheeks, swept in beaming.

"Mother!" Nancy's smile matched her mama's as the two women exchanged kisses.

"Now, let me look at you." Mrs Treskillion smoothed back her daughter's long braid of hair and clucked. "Well, you don't look too done-in, dearest. Was it horrid?"

"Yes," Phillip answered frankly. "Hello, Mrs Treskillion."

His mother-in-law bumped a cross, scolding kiss against his forehead, making Nancy giggle. "Phillip, dear, how many times? 'Margaret' does just as well, I promise - if I can't tempt you to 'Mother.'"

Phillip ducked his head in amusement at the gentle rebuke. "Margaret, then."

"Now, Anne, darling, tell me the truth. Is Phillip exaggerating?"

"Yes, thoroughly." Nancy grinned at Phillip and let him take her free hand in his. "I can hardly remember any pain at all, now. And there are certain compensations." She lifted her sated bundle as if she were showing off a prize cabbage. "Meet your grandson."

Mrs Treskillion scooped him up and away with the practice of very long experience. "Hel-lo, sweetheart." At Anthony's sleepy little sigh of contentment, she agreed, "Yes, Granny's here now." She smiled teasingly up at them. "I was going to add 'To give Mama and Papa a rest', but he looks as good as gold. Whoever thought you'd have such a well-behaved child, Anne?" Over Nancy's gasp of laughing outrage, she wondered, "And what's his name?"

"Anthony," Nancy answered promptly. "Anthony Phillip." And then, before Phillip could protest any more, she rushed on, "Is Papa still downstairs?"

January, 1921

"I don't," Edith Strallan said to the painting of her father-in-law, "suppose you were ever worried about a thing in your life." In front of her, the empty paper tucked into her typewriter stared back at her accusingly. She'd not been able to write a word all week.

The old gentleman stared steadily back at her. Edith sighed. "Honestly, Pa, I blame all this psychology business. Didn't have it in your day, did they? No. But now, it's all Freud this and Jung that and subconscious whatsits the other."

If Edith tilted her head, the shaft of light coming in through her study window made Phillip Strallan's face look much more sympathetic, almost as if he were smiling at her. Never mind, old girl. Everything'll turn out right, just you see. It was rather comforting, talking to her father-in-law like this, even if he couldn't reply. Even if she'd never had the chance to meet him in person.

The baby squirmed against her ribs. "And you can settle down too, Squiggle."

"Squiggle?" Anthony's voice at the study door was gently amused. "Are you still at that?"

Edith sighed. "Well, it's bad luck to give them a name before they're born. And… well, I've always thought they must look quite squiggle-like, at first anyway."

Anthony crouched down next to her desk chair and spread his hands over the seven-month bump of her stomach. "Well, I think this one's long past the squiggle-stage. In my non-expert opinion, that is." When Edith didn't smile, however, he reached up to touch her cheek. "What is it, sweet one? You've been quiet for… weeks, now."

"Do you ever think we're… mad, to be doing this?" Edith wondered.

"Ah." He straightened and propped himself on the side of her desk. "I see. I suppose… well, I am getting on a bit and - "

"It isn't you!" Edith interrupted. "It's - darling, it's me."

"You? Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, I… You had such a lovely childhood here. Your parents, from what everyone says, were absolute angels to you and Diana." Anthony spoke of his parents - his family - with such affection, after all: his clever, serious father; his stubborn, riotously funny mother; Diana, bold and mischievous; the way all four of them had adored each other and lived so closely with each other, during the cosy winters spent at Locksley and the long, golden Cornish summers with his Treskillion relatives…

It all seemed so alien, to Edith. No Crawley had ever grown up so chaotically - and now, on the verge of bringing a little Strallan into the world, Edith felt entirely out of her depth.

"I…" Edith swallowed. "I don't think I spent more than an hour together with my mother until I was fourteen years old. I can manage this bit - sitting around, eating myself silly and swelling up like a tick - but I've no earthly idea what happens next."

"Well… we find a way through together." Comfortingly, he stroked his thumb over her cheekbone, catching at the corner of her mouth. "It's love, Edith, that's all - and I know that you're good at that. And whatever comes next… we'll do it together. Like everything else."

Author's Notes:

Political Economy for Beginners - Yes, Anne is making Phillip read her Millicent Fawcett political tracts. And, almost against himself, he rather enjoys it.

The door flew open with no warning whatsoever… - If you're not yet reading QuestionableRelevance's brilliant Andith fics, you should totally get on that; if you are and you've read the latest chapter of Encore: well, let's just say that Diana had to get her lack of door-knocking skills from someone. The Treskillions - every last man-jack of them - are chaos incarnate, and precisely what the Strallans needed to liven them up a bit.

"Honestly, Pa, I blame all this psychology business…" - I love the idea of Edith chatting to Phillip's portrait. If they'd had the chance to meet in life, I have a sneaking suspicion that they'd have got on like a house on fire.