December 24, 1914
Edith Crawley woke on the morning of Christmas Eve feeling full of joy. Sir Anthony had promised to come to Downton for Christmas, and he would be arriving today. At least, that's what he had written her the week before. He was good at keeping his word. And she had missed him dearly while he'd been away doing his war work.
The house was full of joy, too, which certainly helped Edith's good mood. It was hard when everyone was happy about things that pushed her to the side—Sybil's presentation, Mama's pregnancy, Mary's wedding, John's birth—but none of that really bothered Edith. She had the love of a respectable Baron who would make her a Baroness, and they would have such a happy life together, she knew. And now that John was born and Matthew was no longer the heir, Edith herself would be marrying a title and Mary would never be more than Lady Mary Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. It wasn't often—or ever, actually—that Edith won in a battle against her elder sister. But this time, she'd certainly won the bumper prize.
Eager for the day, Edith rang for the maid. Now that Mary was married, Anna had taken the position of her lady's maid. Edith, being unmarried for the time being, was dressed by one of the other maids. Madge had taken Anna's position as head housemaid and had also taken over dressing Edith and Sybil.
As Madge pinned her hair, Edith wondered idly if she might be able to take Madge as her own lady's maid once she moved to Loxley House upon her marriage. Though that was a ways away, she knew. They would not be married until after the war. And according to the papers—recited to her each day by Sybil and Papa—things were only just beginning. There had even been a raid on the eastern coast of Britain by German battlecruisers only a week before!
No, it would be quite some time before she married. But that was alright. Sir Anthony would be able to come home and visit for Christmas and stay through the New Year and probably visit often thereafter. They would be married eventually, and that was all that mattered.
Edith went down to breakfast and met Sybil on the stairs. "Good morning," Edith greeted.
"Good morning," Sybil answered happily. "I'm glad I'm not too late. Madge dressed me before coming to you, and I went to look in on John. I just caught Nanny taking him back to the nursery."
"Back from where?" Edith asked. Their little brother was only eight days old. There was hardly cause for him to be anywhere.
By Sybil explained, "Mama is feeding him herself. I think having a son made Papa say yes to anything she asked, and I'm sure that since Granny doesn't live here anymore, there's no one else to stop her. Nanny brings the baby to the bedroom when he needs to be fed and Mama takes it from there."
Edith could hardly believe that. It was one thing when the baby was a day or two old, but it had been a week since the birth. "Papa is allowing that?!"
Sybil glanced down the hall to ensure she wouldn't be overheard. "I think," she said in a low tone, "that Papa is sleeping in the dressing room. Nanny told me that she brings John to see Mama at least twice in the night."
That didn't sound like what Edith knew of her parents, and she worried about what that might mean. And honestly, what sort of woman of the peerage fed her own child like this a week on? Sometimes Mama had the strangest American ideas about things, and these past months being pregnant had only exacerbated her oddness.
The sisters made their way to breakfast. Papa was already seated with the newspaper. He glared slightly at Sybil when she came to sit beside him, eager to take the pages he'd finished with Papa didn't like that one bit, but Edith did her best to keep out of it.
"Edith, a telegram arrived for you," Papa said.
"Oh?"
Carson brought it on a silver tray. She picked up the envelope and the knife to open it. Her heart sank, predicting that it was from Sir Anthony, telling her that he'd not be able to make it for Christmas. But perhaps he'd just be late? Or he'd make it in time for New Year's?
But it wasn't from Sir Anthony at all. It was from the newly established War Office. Frowning in confusion, Edith's eyes ran over the words.
Lady Edith Crawley:
Your name has been listed as Sir Anthony Strallen's next of kin with our records. We regret to inform you that he was caught in the December 16 raid on Scarborough Castle and died the next day of his injuries. His Majesty's Government sends you condolences.
Edith gasped in shock and horror and immediate, consuming grief.
"Oh my, Edith, is everything alright?" Matthew asked with concern, entering the room for his own breakfast.
Words would not come from her mouth. A sob escaped her throat, and Edith threw the telegram on the table and ran out of the room as the tears blurred her vision.
December 25, 1914
Robert Crawley crept into the nursery just after dawn on Christmas morning. "May I take him, Nanny?" he whispered softly.
Nanny smiled at Lord Grantham and lifted the sleeping baby out of the cot. "He should be waking up soon and wanting his feed," she warned.
"I'll be sure to take him to Lady Grantham if he fusses. We'll be down in the library, if that's alright."
"Of course, Your Lordship. I'll go to the servant's hall for a cup of tea, if you don't mind. Ring if I'm needed," she answered pleasantly.
"Yes, do go have a cup of tea," Robert insisted. "We'll be fine." He held his son in his arms and made his way out of the nursery. "Just my boy and me," he murmured to the sleeping baby.
It hadn't been like this with the girls. Robert didn't want to admit it, but it was true. Having a son was different than having daughters. For a father, at any rate. When Robert held Mary and Edith and Sybil as babies, he had seen them as precious and he had loved them and he had vowed with his whole heart to protect them. With John, Robert looked at his son and saw the future summed up in one tiny person. Robert knew he needed to protect his daughters. With his son, he somehow felt like John would be the one to protect him. As though everything was saved by this beautiful baby boy.
Down in the library, the Christmas decorations were gleaming beautifully, and the fires were already going bright and strong. Robert sat down with John in his arms. Pharaoh lifted his head up about an inch from where he lay before the fireplace and then went back to sleep. The old dog would not last to the New Year, Robert knew.
"We've had the best beginning and now we're having so many endings," Robert murmured. The baby was still sleeping, as was the rest of the family, and Robert didn't want to disturb them.
But Robert wanted, very much, to spend a part of today just being happy. It was John's first Christmas. A joyous day. Every day with his son was joyous, but these firsts would be just so miraculous, and Robert wanted to experience each and every one. The problem was, of course, that between an ailing dog and a grieving daughter and a nation at war, this Christmas was likely to be a subdued one. Edith had gotten news of Sir Anthony's demise yesterday morning, and they all would do well to respect her mourning.
Honestly, Robert hadn't been all that thrilled with Edith's engagement to a man more than twice her age. A man whose first wedding Robert had attended just a year before he'd met Cora. Sir Anthony Strallen had been a young baron at the time, full of life and shining with intelligence and joyfully marrying a girl he loved. And now, more than twenty years later, he had buried the woman he loved, had no children, and had found a kindred spirit in young Edith Crawley.
Oh Edith was fine, of course. She was intelligent and pretty even if she did not always possess the best demeanor. She lacked Sybil's charm and kindness, and she lacked Mary's wit and strength. Poor Edith got lost in the shuffle. And as a result, Robert could hardly fault her for falling in love with the first man who seemed to pay her any attention. Robert wanted better for his daughter, though, than a middle-aged bore. Perhaps she would find someone better one day. But for now, she was left as a widow who had never actually been married. And just in time for Christmas, amidst an elder sister who had just gotten married and a family who was fixated on the recent birth of her little brother. Poor Edith indeed.
"But right now, we can have a nice Christmas, can't we, John?" Robert said. He brushed his lips gently over his son's forehead. Every day, that boy looked more and more like Cora. Her sapphire eyes and dark hair and even her little button nose.
Robert gazed at his son for the millionth time. He would never tire of looking at his boy. He thought, too, about how all of his children had features of the whole family. Mary had Cora's coloring but dark eyes like her grandfathers. Edith, too, had Patrick Crawley and Isidore Levinson's dark eyes. She had beautiful blonde hair only a shade lighter than Rosamund's when she was little. Rosamund had grown up to have ginger hair like Mama, but Edith's stayed blonde. Sybil was almost the spitting image of Papa with her slightly olive complexion. But she had Robert's brown curly hair and his blue eyes. Though Sybil's were a bit green. Turquoise, even. She had Cora's sweet nose, though. Sybil and John both inherited that. Edith got Isidore Levinson's nose, the poor thing. But all four of Robert's children were beautiful, all perfect creations that he and Cora had made together. Oh weren't they lucky?
John started to wake up and immediately began to fuss. "No, don't do that, chap," Robert said, standing up immediately. "Just be patient, please, I'll take you to your mama."
He hurried up the stairs, trying not to jostle the baby and praying he wouldn't start wailing and wake the whole house. Thankfully, he was just making little noises of discontent still when Robert opened the door to Cora's bedroom.
"I think someone's hungry," he announced softly.
Cora stirred from her slumber, well used to being woken from sleep by now. "Why do you have him?" she asked groggily. She sat up and began unpinning her nightdress.
Robert tried to avert his eyes as he handed her the baby. "I just wanted to have a little moment of happiness with my son on his first Christmas," he explained, his back to Cora.
"You could come to bed and have a moment of happiness with you son and your wife," she offered.
He could hear the smile in her voice, but he didn't dare turn towards her. "No,I'll leave you your privacy for now," he answered. "Nanny is in the servant's hall. I'll ring for her so she can collect the baby when you're finished."
With that, Robert went through the connecting door to his dressing room. The quiet happiness of Christmas morning was over. It was time to be getting on.
Matthew Crawley hurried upstairs after he finished his breakfast, hoping to catch Mary before she was up and dressed. She had been dead asleep when he woke, and he'd not wanted to disturb her. It was Christmas morning, after all, and he wanted to be with his wife.
He entered the bedroom and found her still with her breakfast tray on her lap. "Ah, there you are," she greeted. "I woke on Christmas morning to find myself alone. I thought that getting married meant I'd not have Christmas morning alone anymore."
She was teasing him, of course, and Matthew chuckled happily. She liked to tease him. And he liked to tease her. That was perhaps what he loved best about his Mary. They were husband and wife, and they were lovers, but perhaps more important than any of that was the fact that they were the very best of friends. Matthew hadn't known that he could love and desire a woman with whom he also had such good fun no matter what they were doing.
"Come kiss me properly," Mary beckoned. "I daresay we won't get much opportunity once we both go downstairs."
"I know there's mistletoe decorating the library, but you're right, it would hardly be appropriate," he agreed. The house was in conflict, happy over Christmas and the newlyweds and baby John but also being respectful of Edith's mourning.
Mary frowned. "It's hardly fair," she complained. "Edith is the only one of us who liked him. Why should the rest of us have our Christmas spoiled by the man's death?"
"Don't be unkind," Matthew warned. "Or I shan't kiss you."
"Oh boo," she answered facetiously, rolling her eyes.
With a chuckle, Matthew sat down on his side of the bed and leaned in, pressing his lips to Mary's. Her mouth began to move beneath his, and they indulged in a deep, passionate kiss.
But rather than let things go too far, Mary pulled back. She sighed happily. "I'm ever so glad I married you."
"Are you?" Matthew asked, trying to tease her again but knowing he'd let his true worries invade his tone. "Are you still?"
He had worried, initially, that Mary would regret her decision. As soon as they learned Cora was pregnant, the doubt had entered his mind. At that point, he'd not gotten an answer from her to his proposal. He knew now that it was because of that business with Mr. Pamuk. At the time, though, her reticence coupled with the uncertainty of his position led him to one conclusion: Mary wanted to ensure that she would have a husband with a secure future.
But then when he had told her he intended to leave, to give up this business of being heir to the Grantham Estate, she had explained everything to him. And more importantly, she had explained her love. He'd known, of course, that she liked him and that they got along well. He did not know, not really, until that moment that she truly loved him as he loved her.
Getting married before Cora had the baby had been Mary's idea. And he still didn't quite understand why. He had been worried, of course, what might happen if the baby were a boy—which it was—and whether Mary might look for a way to extricate herself from their engagement. But now, a week on from the birth of the proper heir to the Grantham Estate, Matthew still worried.
"You never did explain to me why you wanted to be married before the baby came. I was the one who asked your father, of course, but it was your idea, Mary," he reminded her.
She furrowed her brow. "Matthew, are you so uncertain of my feelings? Have I given you reason to doubt that I love you?"
"Of course not," he assured her. "But that does not change the fact that you still haven't given me your reason."
"Was my wanting to marry you before the chaos of a newborn and a growing war not enough?" she fired back.
"Not really, no."
Matthew knew instantly that he'd said the wrong thing. Mary's dark eyes flashed dangerously. "I've got to call for Anna now, if you could go, please," she instructed coldly. "We don't want to be late for Christmas."
There would be no further discussion now, Matthew knew. He would have to approach the issue in another way. Another time.
December 26, 1914
Elsie Hughes sat down in the stiff wooden chair with an exhausted sigh. "And a happy Boxing Day, Mr. Carson," she said.
Glancing up at the clock on the mantle of his pantry fireplace, Carson exclaimed, "Good lord, it's nearly one in the morning! I suppose it is Boxing Day."
"I suppose the first Christmas of the war was always going to be unusual, but I don't think anyone could have predicted this," Elsie said.
Carson passed a glass of sherry to her after pouring one for himself as well. "Come now, Mrs. Hughes, a bit of optimism. Who's to say this isn't the only Christmas we'll have during wartime?"
She raised her brow at that remark. They both knew the news of German troop movements and the push for enlistment here. There was no doubt in any rational mind that this was the first of more than one Christmas during this war.
"Well, be that as it may, I do agree, this has been a rather unanticipated Christmas. Certainly when we look at where we all were last Christmas," Mr. Carson said, taking a sip of his sherry.
"Oh my, yes," Elsie agreed. "Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley got engaged and married since last Christmas. Lady Edith got engaged and lost her Sir Anthony Strallen. Lady Sybil had her season in London. And now the new wee Lord Downton."
Carson chuckled merrily. "He's a charming little thing, isn't he? I must say I'll be quite proud to serve the second Viscount Downton during my tenure in this house."
"He's a bonny boy to be sure. Lord Grantham was already the Earl by the time I got here, so this is my first little viscount." Mrs. Hughes drank down the rest of her sherry. "One more, I think, Mr. Carson, before we end Christmas."
"May the next Christmas see this house standing proud and full of joy," Carson cheered, pouring their last round and holding up his glass.
"Perhaps you oughtn't have any more if you're going to be so full of feeling, Mr. Carson," she said with a rather drunken giggle.
He smirked in response, though his face was going a bit red. "You are one to talk, Mrs. Hughes." They clinked their glasses and had their last drink.
Despite the lighthearted toast and the silliness that exhaustion and drink had brought, Elsie was plummeted into more somber thoughts. The war was only going to get worse. Lady Edith had lost Sir Anthony Strallen, but how many more friends and relatives would be lost from this house and the people who served it? New life had come into Downton Abbey. How much would be taken away? Despite Carson's toast, Mrs. Hughes could not really believe that their next Christmas would be full of any joy at all.