Author's Notes: We continue to track Addie's health and we note that tensions tend to rise in ALL families as weddings approach. Given the Crawleys are involved in this one, a little drama and some poor choices are to be expected…
General Warnings: Because this story is set during the early part of the 20th century, be prepared to occasionally run into period typical homophobia, 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.
Specific Warnings: Original Characters & Crawley Family Dynamics.
SPECIAL THANKS go to the Classicist, who has built a wonderful fanon family for Anthony. Diana, her husband and children, as well as Anthony's parents belong entirely to her. Be sure to drop by and read her work as it is considerably better than mine! Charlotte and Clara are also her amazing inventions!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Late November 1913
"Barrow? Oh, there you are."
Loxley's underbutler knew that, strictly speaking, he had numerous other duties he could attend to. Mr. Kerr, the old butler, had been handing more and more of his duties over and Thomas' days were growing fuller by the minute it seemed. There was silver to polish, and while Kerr still handled the wine cellar and the butler's books, Barrow was now the one who sat down and made plans for the house with Mrs. Walsh on most other fronts.
"Edi-t-th?"
"Hello, Addie, how are you feeling?"
Thomas wasn't the least bit ashamed to be caught 'shirking'. Sitting in Addie's room in one of the oversized, low-backed leather chairs that had migrated from their old sitting room in Downton into Addie's room, he'd pulled himself up beside the girl's bed. With the lady entering the room, he stood, carefully keeping his place in Theodore Roosevelt's African Game Trails by tucking his finger inside.
Despite the fact that general manners dictated that he should keep his attention wholly on the lady of the house, Thomas turned to glue his eyes to the girl currently propped up on a small mountain of pillows. Her answer was vital.
"Not bad."
Addie's thin shoulders shrugged beneath the flannel nightgown she was wearing and the heavy knit shawl that was wrapped about her over that. Spread out on the bed, her sharp nose resting on her mistress' lap, Hippolyta the shepherd squirmed just a bit closer as Addie's fingers carved idly through the thick fur around the dog's neck. Other than petting the dog, she had moved very little in the last two days.
It was jarring. The entire time Barrow had known the two Kavanaugh women he'd rarely seen Addie willing to stay still for long. He'd often joked that, as little as the girl ate, she powered her hyperactivity on personality alone. He'd dared share that with Miss Edith, back when she'd been Miss Edith and he'd still been one of the Lord Grantham's footman, and she'd laughed and agreed.
Whatever else Addie might have said was lost in a series of wet, wracking coughs that caused her thin frame to shudder violently. Thomas automatically reached out, setting the book aside without thought, to get a hand behind Addie's shoulders and lean her forward. Edith beat him to it, however, leaning her sister forward and roughly rubbing her back, encouraging her to get through the spell and let the congestion break up.
"That's alright, Addie, just breath."
"Want a drink of water, moppet?"
Addie shook her head as she sagged back against the pillows, Polly now leaning forward and nosing at her hand, the dog clearly distressed.
"Have one anyway." Edith said with unquestionable sisterly authority as she picked up a glass and pressed it against her sister's lips. Addie turned her head, but Edith followed her. "No, Addie, take a drink, is her fever up?"
Thomas glanced back at the clock on the mantle and cleared his throat.
"It was holding just under a hundred ten minutes ago, Lady Strallan."
"We won't bother again for a while yet, then." The lady's bright hair gleamed over her worried face as she bit her lower lip briefly, pushing her sister's long hair back from her face. "Why don't we plait, this, Addie? Wouldn't that help you feel better?"
"No," Addie breathed, shaking her head. "Leave…"
She broke down into another coughing fit and Thomas tightened his hands into fists to keep from reaching out. It wasn't his place… God, he hated those words. He always had, but it was ten times as bad to just stand still and listen to the child shaking while she coughed when there was nothing he could do. At least Lady Edith knew what she was about.
He'd been torn between being furious at himself and at Lady Edith over the mess at Addie's school. Why make her go to some half-rate place made up of society's rejects when they could afford anything? Why not get her a proper governess? Hell, why couldn't Lady Edith just keep teaching her sister herself? She'd gone to university, hadn't she? That had to at least qualify her to teach a schoolgirl's lessons. They didn't make real teachers go to university, last time he'd checked.
"Water?" Addie croaked when she was done and Thomas couldn't restrain himself. He stepped forward with the glass in hand and carefully held it up to the girl's lips himself, letting her sip at it before she collapsed back against the pillows as her sister rearranged the duvet, the shawl, and the dog that were all conspiring to keep Addie warm.
With nothing else to do and hating the powerlessness he felt, Thomas went over and put some more coal on the small stove fitted into the room's fireplace. It as putting out a good bit of heat, but if they wanted it to stay that way it was best to keep it tended. As he stood up, Barrow nearly jumped at the feeling of a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Turning, he found the lady pressing a finger to her lips and nodding towards the bed. When he turned, he found Addie had drifted off to sleep again. Her sister had pulled the duvet up, tucking her in to her chin, and Polly had crept forward to sprawl the full length of her body along her young mistress' in silent support. Reluctantly, Thomas followed the lady out of the room. He couldn't keep his mouth shut once the door was closed.
"Lady Strallan, are you sure it is wise to leave her alone right now?"
He half-expected censure given that his tone was sharper than he intended, but instead the blonde shook her head and added, her tone quiet.
"No, I'll go back in with her in just a moment, Barrow, and thank you for stepping in for Anthony and I."
"Where is Sir Anthony, if you don't mind my asking?"
Barrow would have asked, even if she minded, though he made sure to school his expression into something more worried than annoyed. In truth, he was worse than annoyed at the man. Thomas Barrow was angry, and he damned well wanted someone to feel it.
"He should be back soon. Anthony only left because Lady Gervais has finished with Rosecliff's books."
"Already?"
"Mrs. Weingarten wasn't a competent leader, but she was an able enough administrator in other fashions."
"And?" Barrow realized how high-handed he sounded and flushed. "Pardon-."
"Oh, stop."
Barrow flushed as his employer looked up and shot him a wry look that was all sharp brown eyes. To his surprise, however, instead of remonstrating him as he expected… Lady Strallan rubbed a hand over her face.
"Barrow – Thomas – I'm as furious as you are, and I don't blame you or anyone else who's as angry at, well, me as I am."
"Begging your pardon, Lady Strallan, but I'd like to point out that it wasn't you who suggested sending her to that school." Thomas pounced, seeing an opening. "Nor was it you who told Addie to handle her own problems. As if a girl who'd never been to school would know how or which problems she should solve or call a parent for."
"Perhaps not, but – but we meant well, for as little as that is worth." To Thomas' chagrin she seemed to utterly miss the fact that he was trying to shift her ire away from herself and to a more appropriate target. "It was a mistake and I hate that she's suffering for it, but what we've got to focus on now is her health."
"That much is certain, my lady. What can I do?"
"What you're doing now, and a bit more." Edith paused to peek back into the cracked door and then gestured. "Come to my office."
Thomas followed along up to the third floor. There, in an odd location between two guest rooms, a smaller room was tucked at a slightly odd angle. At one point he thought it might have been a large closet or cupboard of some type, or maybe an extra servant's room for visitors with children or the like. Now it had been converted into what Thomas privately thought of as the lady's writing closet.
Beneath the single small window was a small kerosene heater featuring blue enamel and nickel trimmings set up on bricks. Currently cold, the heater proclaimed how far by the wayside the lady's writing had fallen. The floor was covered by an attractive, if rather faded, oriental rug. The lady's desk sat in all of its trim, practical, rolltop glory along one wall with her typewriter setting upon it. Neat stacks of paper graced the desk, along with a single perilously tall stack of books. Two bookshelves were fitted against the walls, along with one other curious item of furniture.
"Thomas, this is the medicine cabinet." The lady explained. "It's technically a dentist's cabinet, but – never mind that. I know Mrs. Walsh keeps her own downstairs, but I want you to know about this one because Addie trusts you and you've just – you've done so much to help us and I am grateful."
"Nothing I've done that I wasn't happy to, my lady."
Thomas was… more than a little surprised to find out how much he meant that as he said it, and the flare of actual fondness he felt, all unexpected, for the blonde woman as she patted the old mahogany cabinet and withdrew a set of keys from her pocket.
"I usually keep it locked, but until Addie's better I'm going to leave it open."
The cabinet itself was an inch or two shy of Thomas' height. It looked like a normal tall wardrobe with two plain polished doors and a sturdy brass lock near the handles. As the lady opened it, however, it revealed its secrets. Behind the solid doors the cabinet was divided into an upper & lower section. The upper section contained a compact ,marble-topped work surface that currently featured a glass mortar and pestle and a stack of ruthlessly bleached white tea towels, flannels, and plain white handkerchiefs. Above the gap created by the shelf were two glass-fronted cabinet doors.
Beneath the marble shelf was a foot-deep line of small, shallow, shelves. Each one had a small brass pull handle and looked about the right size to contain the sort of implements medical professionals liked to torture people with. Or, as he noticed the lady begin opening and shutting the tiny drawers, they were handy to store small bottles of tablets or powders. Beneath the small drawers were three deep drawers.
"Have you ever used an inhalator before?"
"Er, no my lady."
Barrow stepped forward to help as the lady opened the largest of the drawers and took out a blue enameled pot and a kind of double-sided cone. She handed him both and then reached up to the glass doors and removed a spirit lamp and began to fill it from a bottle stored beside it.
"Alright, an inhalator is used to direct steam towards a patient."
"Because inhaling steam can help break up congestion in the lungs." Barrow realized, nodding, and feeling a flare of relief. "I've done it before, but usually with a towel and a saucepan."
"Exactly! You see how it sits on legs?"
"Yes."
"Light the lamp and adjust the wick, then tuck it underneath the pot between the legs. Which, of course, you fill with water and sometimes medicines." Lady Edith was fitting words to actions, picking up a dray from where it had rested beneath the feet of the cabinet and unfolding its legs, handing it to Barrow and then setting the inhalator and spirit lamp on it.
"What kind of medicines?"
"Friar's balsam, metholatum, eucalyptus oil, peppermint oil, rosemary oil, frankincense… there are a few things."
As she spoke, Lady Strallan began rifling through the small drawers again and frowning. She also continued to talk and Thomas began to wonder if she was discussing things with him or with herself. Before the uncharitable thought could continue, she turned and looked at him.
"Thomas, I – we're going to need your help for this."
"Of course."
The words were out without thought and Thomas meant them. Lady Edith had… well, she'd done right by him and as much as Thomas still chaffed sometimes at the realities of service and the indignities that came with that, as much as he was struggling with bouts of boredom in the quiet house… Thomas Barrow never forgot a good turn or a bad one and he knew what Lady Edith Kavanaugh and her sister had done for him. He couldn't frame it. He struggled to trust it still, but…
But if there was one out of the lot he believed meant every decent thing they'd said and done for him, it was the pale shadow of a child currently sleeping a few doors down.
"Addie's alright with taking aspirin and resting, but the chest cold is getting worse. We have to fight it so that it doesn't become serious bronchitis. If we don't it could become pneumonia and…"
Thomas was absurdly relieved when the woman swallowed whatever it was she was about to say, leaning down, his hands white-knuckled around the tray, he found himself offering something he'd almost never bothered with in his life; reassurance.
"I'll handle Miss Addie, Lady Strallan. I know a thing or two about dealing with contrary personalities."
To his surprise, she laughed and, to his total shock, she reached up and squeezed his wrists in both of her small hands.
"Barrow, you're awful, but you have been a godsend, haven't you?"
"One does one's best?"
"That didn't require an answer." She was smiling at him for his cheek, however, and sniffed once before visibly bucking up under her worries. "Right." The lady turned back to the cabinet and fished around a bit before taking out a larger bottle of oil of some sort and a couple of cups and small mixing spoons. "Come with me, then. We've only got eucalyptus – I was an absolute idiot for not restocking before winter – but we'll work with that until my husband gets back."
"I could run into the apothecary in town, ma'am."
"Oh, don't worry, my husband stopping on his way back."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"All the girls I know are nice girls and don't need to be pawed at during your stag night, Lawrence." Midori shot the older man a fierce scowl. "If you want wait staff use your servants or hire professionals. I don't care how popular you think an 'oriental theme' would be with your friends and political allies, or whoever you're inviting to the thing. Also, isn't your best man supposed to be planning this?"
"It's too good a chance to expand my connections to leave in someone else's hands."
Midori rolled her eyes dramatically and blatantly at the earl, as she never would have done to another man with such power. Lawrence was different. He'd given her rides on his shoulders when she was tiny, hadn't he? Besides, she'd seen him as a furious, screaming, angry adolescent. Even at his worst he'd never raised his hand to a servant or a woman. She doubted he'd start now, with her.
Not the least because she wouldn't hesitate to break his hand if he chose to.
"Now, don't be like that."
"I can't help it; you make me like this. If you're turning it into a matter of social connections, why can't your new secretary handle it?"
"Have you or have you not already had your finals?"
"I've turned in my final papers and sat for my exams early, yes, but only because someone put pressure on my professors to let me do so. I wonder who that was?"
"Guilty as charged."
"You sound entirely too cheerful to be a guilty man."
"I've bribed the jury. Makes one chipper."
Midori couldn't quite hold back a snicker at that, or the general absurdity of life. Lawrence had arrived on her doorstep after what had to have been a long and trying day in the Lords. That horrible mine collapse in Senghenydd [1] had not yet seen an official inquiry, but there was bound to be one by the start of the new year. Lawrence knew how important it would be and wanted a part in it, not the least because he was appalled that such a thing had happened in Britain and left so many widows and orphans destitute. Either way, even though Midori knew she likely should have, she couldn't bring herself to shoo Lawerence away or make him take her to a nice public restaurant to talk. They were friends and their families were all tied up in business and obligations born out of honor and debt.
"Where's your mother?"
"Well, I'm to graduate in spring if all goes well. Mama wants to move out of London."
He looked at her in surprise and Midori shrugged.
"It's unnecessarily expensive here, everything's forever dirty, the Thames is one step below an open sewer in sanitation. Why not move somewhere Mama may have a proper garden and keep a pig if she'd like to?"
Their little brick row house in London was a nice place. Located in Mayfair, they had a nice enough back garden with room for some chickens. No room was available for ducks or geese, however, and a pig was a hopeless cause. While her mother had grown up in cities her entire life, they were Chinese cities and intrinsically different from London in ways that had never made her mother fond of the great metropolis.
"Why not indeed? I take it that we won't be neighbors."
Midori looked up from the stovetop with amusement. Coming in from a damp rain with a sob story wasn't the best excuse in the world, but it was a typical one for Lawrence. Ever since he was young he'd liked her mother's cooking and, when his own mother's arthritis was plaguing her and his father was too busy being an earl to be a father, he'd always manage to worm his way into their kitchen looking for something to eat and some sympathy.
That was why Midori was currently throwing together a meal from leftovers. They had some pork, sweetened with spices and honey, that only wanted reheating. There was always leftover rice, and a range of vegetables pickled and otherwise preserved that could be gotten from the pantry. It only took a few minutes to throw all of that together and make some tamagoyaki the way her father had liked. It didn't have to be elaborate, just spicy, and Lawrence would inhale their upper middle class leftovers as if he didn't have a classically trained French Chef at his beck and call.
"Did I say something funny?"
"Somehow I doubt your wife would be laughing if suddenly my mother and I popped up in the shadow of your estate."
"You lived there for years, Midori, I never want you to think you don't have a home there if you need it."
"Which is kind, but again begs the question of why you'd set your future wife up to think of me as the competition if that's how you feel. You can't possibly think that she's going to welcome me with open arms after you specifically set her up to be jealous, Lawrence. Unless you're planning on letting her in on the joke?"
"Of course not. Mary's the kind of woman who only appreciates what she has if she feels she has to work for it."
"Interesting, as I doubt she's worked for anything a day in her life."
"I am marrying a lady."
Midori finished mixing the sauce and tossed it in with the rice, vegetables, and pork, mixing it with a wooden spoon as savory steam rose from the pan and it all began to heat. Frowning, she gestured with the spoon as she cooked.
"Why?"
Lawrence, bless him, didn't play dumb.
"Because a man of my wealth, title, and position needs a capable partner."
"British romance at its height!"
Lawrence laughed at that, but shook his head and Midori pointed the spoon threateningly at his chest as he sat near the stove on one of the four scrubbed oak chairs settled around their sturdy kitchen table.
"No, I'm serious. Lawrence, I do understand that you want to marry someone who shares your goals and drive, but you do care for her, don't you? I hate to think – you can't intend to have a marriage like that can you?"
Midori didn't need to say a marriage like his parents. One that wasn't unkind, but had been so terribly unfeeling. Lawrence had adored his mother and suffered for her illness, and had admired his father but resented the cold way that the man often dealt with his wife and son. However he'd tried to reframe it now that he was an adult, Midori knew that Lawrence had not had happy childhood, but largely a lonely one. She was relieved when he answered seriously, shaking his head and accepting a full plate and pair of chopsticks from her with ease.
"I won't pretend I know Mary well – I don't – but I do care about her and I believe I know everything important about her. I admire her social intelligence and her spirit and her poise, and I like her sense of humor."
"And yet you have so openly referred to her as a spoiled brat."
"Mary is a spoiled brat – but then again, so am I."
"Yes, but you're a grown brat. Lady Mary just seems so young sometimes. I mean, other than rushing off to the spa has she ever been away from home?"
"Her family doesn't travel as much as most, but she's been Out for several seasons in London."
"Out isn't being independent or – or having responsibility."
"I disagree, Midori. Being Out carries with it a great many responsibilities, as do all of the social engagements she's active in. Mary's shown time and again that she's got great skills as a hostess – she just hasn't had time to truly develop them. I respect her and I like her company. We can laugh together as well as work together, and you know as well as I do that not every good marriage starts out as a love match like your parents had."
Midori poured them both a glass from the bottle of wine he'd arrived with and settled in opposite him. The easy familiarity was grounding, given her nervousness over her exams. This conversation like a thousand other, more childish conversations, had over biscuits and milk and other such things.
"I know that, I just…" Midori sighed. "Her family seems so difficult."
"Now you sound like your mother. Family. Piety. Ancestors… I would like it noted that I did not deserve that."
Midori withdrew her hand and smiled sweetly. The pinch she'd delivered his upper arm would leave a bruise for days, she was sure. The key was to twist once you'd gotten some skin between your finger and thumb.
"You utterly deserved that. My mother is a saint."
"Your mother is terrifying."
"As are most saints if you actually read their history."
"A touch! I'll give you that, if you'll give me credit for not being an idiot. Do you think I'd have taken on the Granthams if I couldn't handle them?"
Midori shook her head, took a bite of her own meal, and gestured for him to go on. As she'd hoped, he happily fell into an explanation. As with most politicians, Lawrence did like to hear his own voice.
"We've already discussed the positives in terms of the Gratham's wealth and connections, not to mention Mary's extensive social networks and presence." Lawrence waved his chopsticks in an egregious breach of good manners and Midori wrinkled her nose as he went on. "The negatives largely boil down to family scandals, difficult personalities, and Lord Grantham's abysmal skills at managing his wife's wealth or his own estate."
"Which are problems."
"Yes, but also problems that I'll be somewhat insulated from once Mary has my name and not theirs." He set his utensils aside and began ticking points off on his fingers on a way Midori knew he'd never do amongst those of his own class. Then again, Lawrence had an amazing gift for compartmentalizing his life. "First, family scandals."
Midori raised her eyebrows to show him she was listening and he went on happily.
"The initial scandal of Lady Strallan's origins has blown over. Now it's just old gossip to trot out now and then and make conversation over. That scandal's teeth were pulled the second Miss Edith Kavanaugh came back with such a substantial fortune. We both know that money can paper over almost any scandal."
Midori nodded wryly and Lawrence carried on.
"Lord and Lady Grantham actually look better for having tried to be kind and shield their niece, and I can point that out easily enough. Everyone knows that Robert Crawley is a decent man – just not particularly intelligent."
"The sinews of the empire?" Midori asked, tongue-in-cheek and Lawrence laughed.
"Yes, he's precisely the sort of man born out of time. He should have been able to throw on a suit of armor and bash his way through the battlefield to prove himself. Dogged loyalty is where his strengths lie - and I can use that."
"And the accounting difficulties?"
"It's hardly that unusual. With estate taxes rising by the year, the drop in farming income, and everything else… it's difficult to keep an estate profitable." Midori's raised eyebrows finally got a more serious answer as he winced and sighed. "Honestly, I'm not sure how much longer Leathe is going to be truly profitable. Right now it's making a good income, but the house itself is so punishingly expensive in terms of staff and upkeep. Then there's the coal…"
"Coal?"
He looked up and Midori was floored at the expression of pained speculation on his face.
"There may be some good coal seams on the estate. If there are, it makes far more sense to exploit them than carry on trying to increase stock yields and the like. However, if I do that there's no way to keep the house. It may be sitting all but on top of one of the best veins."
Midori set her chopsticks down numbly.
"You'd – you'd really consider selling up?"
"I have to consider everything. Right now, it's not an option I look favorably on, but I refuse to stumble and fail because I haven't looked at every possibility."
"But, well, selling up."
"Don't forget, I've got Pleasance House and that's barely two hours' drive from London. It's smaller, but still capable of hosting a good party, the hunting is acceptable, and the house's upkeep is less than an eighth of what Leathe is. Funny what a difference being built in the 19th century makes over being built in the 17th, hm?"
Midori just tried to process the idea of Lawrence selling the sprawling estate and its great mansion. It seemed utterly impossible. It was totally contrary to what she'd come to expect. At the same time…
"My first duty is to my legacy. To my family." Lawrence went on, and his words were precisely what she'd expect him to say. "If I bankrupt myself attempting to maintain some forgotten piece of decadent history, where will my children be? Who will my great-grandchildren be if not some forgotten dusty title with nothing to back it? Midori, you know I'm determined that we shall hold our proper place in the Empire. To do that, we have to do whatever it takes to adapt."
"And Lady Mary's a part of that?"
"Yes, an essential part." Lawrence was quick to speak. "Not just of my ambition but of my family. She's everything I want in the mother of my children and in a partner. A woman like that may not precisely raise her children, but she will teach them to succeed. I do like her, Midori, and in time I'm sure that I'll love her. I just have to make sure that I got into this seeing her for who she is – and with a firm grip on her worst habits. If that means making her jealous every now and then, or tweaking and feeding her pride at times, why shouldn't I? I'm really just giving her what she needs."
Midori slowly shook her head and picked up her chopsticks again.
"What?"
"All I can say is that I'm incredibly grateful that I am just a nice middle-class girl. Politics and society are not my cup of tea." Or anything like what I would want in a marriage.
"Well, that's just as well. It means I can still come by your mother's house and demand a break from all of it when it's too much."
"As long as your wife doesn't find out."
He laughed warmly at that and, before Midori knew it, she found herself reluctantly agreeing to help his chef put together a menu for his themed stag party, and to take his housekeeper out shopping for decorations and the like at a few places she knew that had the sort of cheap, tacky, stereotypical things that were made to cater to western ideas of what Chinese things should look like. It was only after she'd gotten him out the door that she let out a deep breath and realized, to her irritation, that Lawrence probably had never really intended for her to ask around and find him "oriental waitresses" to add a "sense of the exotic" to his party. He'd just led with something he knew she'd refuse so that, once he'd gotten what he actually wanted, it seemed like a compromise.
"Mama Cat." Midori picked up the fat brown tabby – or was she pregnant again? – from where their housecat was wending around her ankles as she locked the front door behind her oldest friend. "That man is just awful."
"Mrrt!"
"I know." Midori sighed and draped the cat against her shoulder, going to the living room to find a book and carry on with her interrupted embroidery. "I don't know why we put up with him, either."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Gracious, did you leave anything at the apothecary?"
Anthony flushed but couldn't bring himself to summon up even a crooked smile at Edith's surprised observation as he let her take the basket from his hands and allowed Stewart to help him off with his hat and coat.
"I didn't want to be without, Sweet One. How is she?"
"The fever is slightly better, but that might be the aspirin. The cough is getting worse, but between Barrow and I we finally got her to use the inhalator."
Anthony frowned as he stepped forward and picked up the basket, taking it back from his wife. It wasn't terribly heavy, but the idea of her carrying anything heavier than her own coat made him nervous. Despite his linguistic accomplishments, he didn't know a language with words strong enough to describe his own utter disgust with himself at that moment. His pregnant wife was exhausted, taking care of her sister, who would never have been ill had he been an even half-competent guardian.
"How was the board? Is there any hope?"
"None whatsoever." Anthony shook his head, his shoulders grimly set as he settled his free hand at the small of his wife's back and ascended the stairs with her.
"It's more than just that – that monstrous woman, Mrs. Hart? Speaking of you talked to the police, didn't you?"
"I spoke to the Detective Chief Superintendent in Ripon. It's…"
Anthony found himself at a loss for words as they reached the landing and Edith turned, resting her hands on his own and looking up at him with concern weighing in her golden brown eyes. Recrimination, already entrenched, dug deeper into Anthony's mind as he looked down at the dark circles under his wife's eyes.
"Anthony?"
Nothing for it, old thing, you can't protect her from this.
"Mrs. Hart calmed down significantly at the sanitorium but this – this episode appears to have been a long time coming, nor is it her first." Anthony's tone was entirely grim as he shook his head. "Apparently, she's shown a pattern of exploding under stress and having… dramatic fluctuations in temperament since her assault all those years ago. Dr. Clarkson cannot say whether it is an intrinsic fault in her nature or the result of the fractured skull she suffered, but this isn't the first time she's developed paranoid and aggressive behaviors focusing on someone who gained her animosity."
"And knowing this Mrs. Weingarten employed her."
Anthony's own frustration broke free and he ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it.
"Mrs. Weingarten employed everyone."
"What do you mean?"
"The woman took the fundamental goal of the school – to provide an education and respectable career for the most unfortunate of ladies – to an extreme. Rather than selecting the most promising candidates from among the various charities allied with the school, she was simply choosing whoever she helped the most or helped first. As she was personally involved in getting Miss Hart back to Britain, she made it her personal mission to make the woman self-supporting and fold her into the school."
"Out of eight instructors five have the absolute least required credentials to teach. Mrs. Weingarten was hamstringing the curriculum to fit the abilities of her instructors, rather than seeking positions elsewhere for those young ladies she was personally involved in helping who were not suited to teaching. She was also hiding how enrollment in the school never reached projected numbers and that she'd reduced staff and compensation to make up for the shortfalls."
"Then there's no way to save the school."
"Not with this latest scandal, I'm afraid not." Anthony admitted with a pang of regret. Mama would be gutted to see something she and her friends worked so hard on collapse before it could even properly prove itself. "We're going to retread. Go back to setting up one or two small charity schools."
"Oh, Anthony, I am sorry. It was such a fine idea…"
"Good intentions…" He agreed and pulled her in for a quick embrace as he accepted a soft kiss against the plane of his cheek. "And thank you for being so understanding. I know how angry you are."
"Oh, the anger actually burned out fairly quickly. Now I have worry to accommodate. No room for temper at all, darling."
"How are you, sweet one? I do worry."
"Constantly, I know, but there's no point. Addie needs me, and quite beyond that this is a chill, not something contagious. I'm fine as is my current, well, passenger."
"But you do need your rest. These – these first months are the most fragile."
Edith petting at him then, meeting his eyes with a gentle, tired, reassurance.
"We'll all be fine, Anthony."
What could he say to that? It was reassurance they both needed. He also knew how very flimsy such optimism could be. Taking the basket he and Edith took a quick detour to her office to tuck most of the new medicinal supplies he'd gotten away in her medicine cabinet. An article of furniture he'd never actually seen open before, and which only increased his anxiety.
"Rather well-stocked."
"If it wasn't Addie being sick, it was Daddy's emphysema – that troubled him for years even before the cancer… and you must remember that Adrian was in medical school, darling. Most of this is his." She murmured as she opened a drawer to reveal a collection of scalpels and other instruments, then quickly slid it closed. Picking through the four different bottles of friar's balsam, she selected one and put the others away. "We won't make her have another go immediately, but we'll keep this in her room. Shall we go check in?"
"Yes."
Anthony smiled crookedly at the feeling in his own tone, but gently led his wife out of the room, ignoring her raised eyebrows as he took her elbow as they made their way down the stairs and then back into Addie's room. He found Barrow quenching the spirit lamp and setting it aside, not to mention tidying the inhalator away on the tray for cleaning. The brunet shot him a hostile look that, for once, Anthony felt he'd entirely earned. Had you not been such a fool that child wouldn't be so ill.
A yip from the bed signaled acknowledgement from one of the ladies present and Polly wriggled down from the bed to demand her dues. Anthony scratched her about the ears, but didn't pause as he walked over to where Addie lay back against a pile of pillows, listlessly fingering the book in her lap.
"Edith do we have to mess about with the inhalator?" Addie whined immediately. "Anthony, tell her I don't need it. I just need to be – be left alone for a bit!"
"Not on any account, I'm afraid." Anthony lowered himself into the chair beside the bed and leant over, brushing her dark hair back from her face to look closely at his sister-in-law.
Addie's already pale complexion was almost greyish in the warm electric light of her room. It was as if the liver-red of her hair was sucking all of the color from her face, and even her eyes seemed washed out and more gray than blue. Resting his hand on her forehead, despite her squirming away from the touch, he frowned and shot Edith a look. She shook her head minutely and cut her eyes towards the inhalator. Ah, of course. The steam would make her feel hotter. We'll have to wait.
"We need to break up that congestion in your lungs, Addie."
"Dr. Clarkson's just a scaredy cat. All of the doctors are. I'm fine, it's just a cold. I get them all the time. It doesn't matter."
"Well, then, it shouldn't be the least bit of trouble to get over it in the next day or two." Anthony interjected, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially as his eyes caught on the book in her hands and an idea sprung from the parentage of inspiration and desperation. "You know, I've been thinking."
"Hm?"
"About the amphibian surveys."
"Oh, well, most of them will be dormant now. It's cold. Even the snakes are hibernating."
"True enough, but it's struck me that we could use a broader survey. You know, it is the proper season for all manner of game."
"Don't you-," Addie took a break to cough weakly, but a spark of interest touched her eyes. "doesn't your gamekeeper do that?"
"I was never a great hunter, you know, nor was my father." Anthony went on, as if admitting something he should be embarrassed over, but was not… which was accurate. "So, we've rather left the whole gamekeeping matter to traditional methods."
Addie looked at him, now firmly interested beneath the slight haze fever had added to her eyes.
"What I mean is, the gamekeeper keeps the poachers out, Addie, and he keeps a general count of game killed or dead of other causes but he isn't exactly making a scientific survey of Loxley's bounty. Perhaps when you're feeling better, we might work together to set up some proper studies?"
Addie perked up.
"We'd need more ledgers."
"I think that can be managed, but first you have to get better." He reached out and tugged the duvet up, leaning to the side as Polly retook her position in the bed, her head resting again in Addie's lap as Anthony rescued Roosevelt's tales of big game hunting from her overlarge canine feet. "Would you like me to read to you for a bit?"
Addie nodded tiredly, her eyes drifting closed as she pet her dog. Anthony shot a quick look at his wife, who leant down to kiss his cheek, disguising the opportunity it gave her to whisper in his ear.
"I'll be up in a moment. She hasn't eaten a thing and I want to talk to Mrs. Bernard."
"Nothing?"
"I have an idea." She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and it prompted a sleepy noise of disgust from the patient that Anthony tutted at in amusement as he watched his wife quit the room.
Anthony missed entirely the dark look that Barrow shot him as he exited as well.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sarah O'Brian kept her head held high as she checked into her modest lodgings in London. She'd already been to the agency and put advertisements in several of the papers most likely to bear fruit. There was nothing else she could do, at the moment.
Well, besides post another letter to Liam. That she could do, for all that she felt she was at a frustratingly dead end even with that final thread of revenge she'd had clasped in her hands. As if the Crawleys had not done enough to her!
"Sarah O'Brian?"
Sarah turned to spy a man of perhaps thirty-five, dressed smartly but not overwhelmingly. A quick glance showed him to be of plain features. Graying blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and a broad plain face. Just a touch heavyset, Sarah knew well enough to glance at his hands. A body's hands told you things about them, and in this case, her natural prudence arched its back and hissed as soon as she noted the old scarring on his spread knuckles and the missing left little finger. The man might dress like a nice middle class bloke, but what he dressed like and what he was weren't the same.
"Who's asking, then?"
The man's thick lips turned up in a slight smile. To her surprise, he offered her a complete answer.
"My name is Mr. Anderson." He reached into a pocket and withdrew a card. "My employer would like a word, if you have the time."
O'Brian looked down in surprise at the neat, plain printing on the card. Unembellished, save for the quality of the paper and the bold font, The Right Honorable Lawrence Ramsey, Earl of Holderness. She turned the card over and found that it was printed on both sides. A telephone connection and postal direction was even offered, of all the things. What was the world coming to?
Beneath the hooded, suspicious eyes that she turned on Mr. Anderson, however, her mind was whirling. She was nearly fifty years old and had found herself without position after years of service to the Crawley family. After all she'd done and all she'd suffered for them, that wretched countess had tossed her off as if she was nothing on account of nothing more than a few missing bottles of wine and a bauble or two. She'd been lucky to scramble and find a place with Lady Flintshire, if anyone who had to cater to that bitter old nutter was lucky. It had still been coin in the bank and a roof over her head that didn't eat into her savings.
Now? Now, Sarah O'Brian was reduced to advertising in the papers, helplessly seeking out a position despite having nothing more in terms of reference than a tepid letter dashed off quickly by the woman's husband. Lord Flintshire, she was sure, had only even given her that miserable excuse for a reference because he was too worn out to bother with another argument with any woman, not because he felt she deserved it.
"And where would we be having this word?"
Anderson nodded behind then, through the glass window beside the crowded little foyer door of the boarding house.
"The Crooked Swan across the way does a fine shepherd's pie. My employer, it should be added, would like to pay for your time with a meal, if you're so inclined, ma'am."
"A free meal's a free meal, Mr. Anderson." Sarah straightened her hat and smirked as the younger man offered her one thick arm, crooked at the elbow. "And it's not every day a lady my age gets invited to dinner by an earl, is it?"
The man's chuckle was all good-natured gravel.
"No, ma'am, it is not."
As promised, he took her across the street to a surprisingly well-lit public house. The proprietor apparently knew Anderson, for he nodded to them both and made no move to stop the other man from leading her to a narrow door at the back of the taproom. For a moment, Sarah felt a shiver of alarm. Being led by a man into the backroom of anywhere was dangerous… but when the door opened nothing inside set off any sense of alarm in her.
Along one wall of the small room three capacious booths ran. There was also, she noted, a central round table set up for gambling, though no game was going on at the moment. At one of the booths the handsome, dark face of the Earl of Holderness was present. He rose, O'Brian noted in amusement, when she was showed in. Well, that's a politician's courtesy, I wonder what he wants from me?
Though she didn't wonder hard. No, Sarah O'Brian had a strong feeling she knew what the man wanted. She'd be all too happy to give it to him, and then some.
"Mrs. O'Brian, than you for coming to speak with me."
"Well, a lady in my position could hardly turn down an invitation from am an of your standing, now could she?"
"Not easily, no. Forgive me for the presumption, but I took the liberty of ordering ahead."
"Oh, no offense taken, my lord. That's quite kind of you." O'Brian slid into the booth and watched out of the corner of her eye as Anderson vanished for a moment, and returned just as quickly with a tray and began to play waiter. "It's been an age since I've had a good shepherd's pie and a proper pint."
"Well, that's a pity if there ever was one."
"Quite."
Sarah said nothing else as she daintily spread her napkin over her lap and applied fork and knife to pie. Anderson slid a drink her way as well as towards the earl. She decided that the man was likely enough the earl's valet. One didn't trust a footman with tasks as personal as this no doubt was. That said, she resolved not to be the first one to speak. The earl didn't disappoint her.
"I won't insult either of our intelligence by implying that you don't know why I am here, Mrs. O'Brian."
"I imagine that a man like you, with such a bright political future ahead of him, would be very interested in the family he's married into."
He smiled thinly at her and, for the first time, O'Brian felt a real hint of unease trace its way up her spine. He nodded and Sarah almost went on, but stopped herself. No, let the man speak. Nothing makes a man happier, especially one in politics.
"It hasn't escaped my attention that the trouble that my in-laws began having with rumors started not long after you became a part of Susan Flintshire's household."
He took a drag of his pint, looking absurdly comfortable in such a humble setting, and O'Brian noted that he – like his valet – was dressed appropriately for the part of town he was in. While his carriage was as sharp as his title, his suit was no better than you'd expect from a bank clerk or the like.
"I see two major reasons for this. The first is that, having been let go without reference, you were resentful and approached the Flintshire household specifically to spread rumors and cause trouble. The second is that, with few employment opportunities, you felt it necessary to placate Lady Flintshire with whatever gossip you could provide in order to maintain your position as her maid."
O'Brian put to down her fork casually and wiped her mouth carefully.
"You're a man of interesting opinions, Lord Holderness."
"Actually, in my opinion, I couldn't possibly care less as to why." His next response came with a toothy, winning grin as he leaned forward slightly. "I'm not a philosopher, Mrs. O'Brian, I'm a problem solver. Which is why I would like to present to you my current problem, and two potential solutions."
Sarah said nothing, she just watched. How fitting that a cold fish like Lady Mary would attach herself to a serpent like this one. Well, she always acted like she was the Queen of Sheba. She might as well learn what kind of men become kings in a world like ours. Do her a fine measure of good it would, wouldn't it?
"My problem, Mrs. O'Brian, is that the rumors you've been spreading about Lady Strallan's pregnancy are making my future wife and mother-in-law uncomfortable."
"And your solutions?"
His smile got a touch wider and he reached into his pocket and withdrew two envelopes. One was noticeably thicker than the other. He set them both down before her, one on either side of her plate.
"To the left is an envelope containing a contract wherein you would promise to cease and desist all negative references to your time at Downton. You would, in the future, describe all members of that family in glowing terms. I've even included examples and an outline within the envelope for your reference."
"And what would I get in exchange for perjuring myself in such a manner? It was hardly wine and roses to get underpaid to do the work of three ladies' maids for the years that I did, Lord Holderness."
"You would get four hundred pounds and a second class ticket on a steam ship bound for Canada."
Sarah stared in shock at the man, but rallied.
"That's a very generous sum for a man to pay someone just to go away and say a few nice things about his in-laws."
"I would also, of course, expect full disclosure of everything you know about the Crawley family."
A germ of wicked delight planted itself in Sarah's mind, but she kept it from her face.
"And what's in the other envelope."
"A series of letters implicating you in an IRA money laundering scheme."
"What – I – you-."
The man smiled thinly at her and spread his hands.
"The choice is yours, of course."
"I would hardly call it any choice at all! I've never had naught to do with that nonsense or any kind of violence. Whatever else I've done, I've never raised my hand against another human being in my life." Sarah replied fiercely, agitated past thought for a moment, and then caught in the dark eyes of the earl as he shrugged.
"Makes the choice that much easier, does it not?"
Sarah's breath was ragged, but it was hardly a choice. She'd already known what she was going to say before he threatened her. Now? Well, if I can give him a little unease to sleep beside at night, that's just going to help me sleep sounder, won't it?
"It does." She pushed aside her half-finished pie and gestured towards the heavier envelope. "I'll be reading anything before I sign it, however."
"Of course."
O'Brian accepted the envelope as the second, disturbing envelope returned to the man's inner coat pocket. As she read, she had to admit that the man was good. While it was clearly a legal document, it was a straightforward one. Rereading it, she had to admit that it was clear and easy to understand, and it also left no room for error. For four hundred pounds it's not so much a hardship to forget I ever knew the Crawleys. In fact, at this point, I'd be happier if I hadn't!
She accepted the pen Anderson offered and signed, as did the earl, before the papers also vanished. Sarah was pleased to find she also had a copy.
"Well, you're thorough, aren't you?"
"Entirely. Now, I have a few questions."
"Of course."
"Your speculation that Lady Strallan and Sir Anthony anticipated their vows is just that, I take it?"
"I'd say that when a man twice the age of a lady chases her all over the continent without a proper chaperone you can count on there being something irregular going on." Sarah drawled wryly, but shrugged. "However, given those two… I can't say I know they've done what they ought to or not. I have no lost love for that family and Lady Flintshire is painfully jealous of Lady Grantham. It wasn't hard to improve my lot with the later and get a little of mine back from the former by encouraging her to spread those rumors. She barely needed a nudge."
"I'm aware of Lady Flintshire's faults."
"That's hardly why I and half the lower servants were dismissed, however." She went on, and Sarah treasured the narrowing of the man's brown eyes as she folded her hands in front of her. "That comes down to the veritable tempest that shook Downton when the ladies left for France in the first place."
He frowned and she finally let herself smile.
"I'm sure they've given you those same lines you heard out in society about the Lord and Lady Grantham trying to send Edith away so she'd choose someone with a better title than Sir Anthony Strallan, or that Lady Mary encouraged her to get away from her parents' fussing at her to choose Mr. Matthew Crawley and tie down the earldom for their grandchildren, but I can tell you right now that none of that matches what happened in Downton when the family found out they'd left."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes!" O'Brian leaned forward and began ticking points off on her fingers. "The house all but exploded. It was like watching someone take a shotgun to a hen – feathers flew. Not a body in that house knew that the girls were leaving, and I'll tell you now that while the Lord and Lady would have been perfectly happy with Lady Mary accepting the new heir both of them had put it aside. You've heard that Lady Grantham was pushing for her to take Evelyn Napier on back in March, no doubt?"
Holderness was frowning now, listening silently, but he graced her with a nod. Taking a sip of her pint to wet her throat, she went on.
"Well, there were two or three others afterward and quick, but Lady Mary paid them not a bit of mind. In fact, she acted a regular terror right up until she was back from France. Picking fights with Miss Edith and Lady Sybil, even picking at little Miss Kavanaugh as if she were of an age for a grown woman to fight with." Sarah gestured with her hand like a magician pulling a flight of canaries from a worn tophat. "Then she pushes to go up to London with her cousin, who she'd been mean as a snake to for weeks at that point, and all of a sudden the girls are off to Paris without their parents being a bit wiser."
"Then," Sarah laid out her last card with flare, "then send Mr. Crawley over and he comes back with his tail tucked between his legs, all while Sir Anthony and Lord Grantham are writing each other like mad. Because, apparently, even when you're trying to keep a man from joining your family you've got to keep up a steady correspondence like gentleman do. Not that I would know anything about that."
"And this is when a great deal of Downton's staff were let go."
"Myself, the bulk of the maids, and the lower footmen." Sarah O'Brian smoothed her skirts and tilted her head to the side. "Not that it's any of my business any longer what that family might or might not have been hiding. So, if you'll please, I've signed your contract. I'll take my ticket and my money and neither you nor the Crawleys ever need to remember my name."
"Oh, you'll find I never forget a name, Mrs. O'Brian." Holderness smiled at her, sharp and crooked as a nasty scar. He passed her a thinner envelope, however, and she opened it to find it contained the promised ticket and funds. She still counted through the money twice as the gentleman across from her stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I think this mostly concludes our business."
"Mostly?"
"Anderson will return in three days to see you on your ship. I think it best if you remain in your lodgings until then."
Sarah surpassed a shiver. It went without saying she was being watched. That said?
"Well, then, I shall see you then, Mr. Anderson."
The thick-bodied ex-boxer nodded and exchanged a polite farewell with her before seeing himself and his master out. Sarah considered briefly the letters she'd been exchanging with the disturbed footman, Liam, who remained at Downton Abbey. Clearly Holderness knew nothing of them, and he hadn't asked after them. Nor was it precisely information about the family as all she'd done in them was pour sympathy on the boy and agree with all of his odd ramblings about how titled women were in some conspiracy against working men. Honestly, most of it hadn't made much sense, she'd just kept the letters coming out of the vague hope that, one day, he'd offer up some sensible information she could use to get her own back.
Sarah secreted the money away as well as she could inside her coat. She'd move it to a better hiding place when she got to her room. Her stays, most likely. She had no intention of letting the money leave her person before she could put it in the bank, and it would be best that she wait until she was in Canada until she did so.
Canada… Sarah felt the first genuine smile to touch her lips in what might have been years begin to spread across her face at the thought. It wasn't some distant tropical paradise… but it was exciting nonetheless. Her life had been nothing but the misery of her birthplace in Ireland and the drudgery of service in England for nigh on fifty years. Perhaps she was heading to the Great White North now, but that was still something exciting. With what she'd saved and what she'd just traded her silence for… maybe she wouldn't have to work in service at all. Surely, depending on where she settled, that was enough to start some small business.
Happily, Sarah returned to her rented rooms, her mind awhirl with thoughts of a little dress shop in some small, seaside town.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"No, no, I've got her Barrow, that will be all."
Sir Anthony didn't even spare a glance for the underbutler as he carefully slid onto the bed beside Addie and got a hand under one of her arms and around to brace against the front of her chest. The other he spread over her back, across her shoulder blades. Thusly braced, he leaned her forward towards the steam rising from the inhalator's blue enameled cone.
Stewart watched with a frown just turning down the corners of his mouth as the girl's persistent coughing slowed as she inhaled the vapor rising from the device. It smelled strongly of menthol and friar's balsam, as well as eucalyptus. The entire room smelled of it and Stewart was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to get the smell of the stuff out of some of his master's clothing. The tie, which was all but falling into the inhalator's cone, was likely a complete loss. Bow-ties it is until the young lady is feeling better, clearly.
An uneasy feeling clawed at the back of Stewart's mind at the thought, though he pushed it away. Instead he stepped forward and offered up the tray of hot soup that Mrs. Bernard had sent up. Miserable as the young lady felt, getting her to eat more than a few bites of anything had become wretchedly difficult.
"Thank you, Stewart, in a moment. Let's see if we can't calm her cough down first."
"Of course, my lady."
Stewart manfully tried to retain the tray, but Lady Strallan took it and put it aside. No amount of clearing his throat would convince her that it was fine to let him hold it until needed. As he couldn't exactly get into a tug-of-war with Lady Strallan over soup, all he could do is let it go.
He did hate to, however. He hated to leave the room even more, but it wasn't his place to stay. As it was, he nearly tripped over Barrow getting back into the hallway. The taller man was waiting, hovering, near the door. Stewart merely shook his head.
"Might as well have our own dinner. Sir Anthony and his lady have it in hand."
"If they had it in hand, Stewart, Addie wouldn't be halfway to pneumonia."
The low growl was easy enough to understand, though Stewart was grateful it wasn't audible through the door. God alone knew the man inside was enjoying enough self-flagellation over the situation. He needed no assistance in making it worse. Feeling rather helpless and irritable himself, Stewart intentionally waited until they had the relative privacy of the servant's stairs at hand, then deliberately picked up a nice sharp stick and applied to the resident bear's backside.
"Well, as you were apparently aware of Miss Adelaide's struggles from the start, why precisely didn't you alert the household weeks ago, Mr. Barrow?"
As predicted, Thomas swung towards him with his fists up. For the briefest second Stewart really was tempted to get into a nice scuffle over it. Barrow was quite a bit larger than him, but his mind was already rushing ahead.
The underbutler wasn't ignorant of how to fight, but he was a half-rate brawler at best. He relied too much on his height and reach. Stewart could see what to do immediately. The cramped stairway gave him an advantage. A step forward. Get one foot between the other man's feet. Pressure to the knee or a stomp to the instep, duck, and one shove – assuming Barrow's neck survived the tumble down the stairs, there was very little that was as satisfying as kicking a man to a bloody pulp while he was down.
It really was the briefest second, and it left a rotten taste in Stewart's mouth. He'd left the mud and the blood and the misery behind in Canada. He'd found a name and an identity in South Africa, with Sir Anthony's help, and it was better than that sudden fierce urge to let someone else hurt as badly as he did.
"I – you think-."
"I think you care so much about that child that you've shoved your head up your arse so you don't have to see it." Stewart, who usually did not engage in coarse language simply because it was another way to separate who he'd been from who he'd become, snorted and shot a wry look at the other man's fists. "Either use those or put them away. I for one have better things to do than argue on the stairs with you."
"Do you reali-."
"That the poor girl in there could die?" Stewart turned and whatever slipped past his stone mask must have been jarring, because Barrow pulled up short in his oncoming explosion of anger. Finally he shook his head. "Barrow, I'd seen more children die from cold and disease and hunger by the time I was twelve than anyone in Europe will ever understand, short of Napoleon rising from the dead to have another go at the Continent, at least."
Barrow went to open his mouth but Stewart cut him off before the man could say something they would both regret.
"Everyone in this house is doing everything they can for Miss Addie. Including yourself. Instead of seeking blame, maybe do something constructive."
"Like what, pray?"
Stewart snorted, and raised one eyebrow. After living as long as he had in a house with Mrs. Bernard – a devout Catholic – and Mrs. Walsh – a less devout, but fiercer Welsh, churchgoing mother of three – he'd learned that it was safest not to espouse such sarcasm aloud. You never knew when it would be overheard. As usual, Barrow had the very devil's luck and no one overheard him.
"Such as call Dr. Clarkson." Stewart replied as he turned and exited the stairs near the hall telephone. "Her cough is getting worse and Sir Anthony will want him in short order. It's one thing I can take care of for them. You might think of taking that dog on a walk."
Barrow glared, but after a moment disappeared. Once he was gone, Stewart took a moment simply to breathe. Covering his eyes with his hand he winced as he heard the girl take another coughing fit. Strictly speaking… they all should get their dinner now. If they did, they'd be freer later to help, and try and chivy Sir Anthony and his lady into eating while they took a shift with Addie.
Then again, Stewart thought as he took up the telephone, he'd missed so many meals in his life. What was one more?
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"So, you see, Grantham, I apologize if I've overstepped with the woman, but I just didn't want to see your family – our family now, really – suffering anymore from her spleen."
"No, no, of course note. It's – it's really very good of you."
Lawrence Ramsey had come by a bit before his dinner hour and, with a crooked smile, said he had a bit of business with Robert for once. It had produced a great deal of curiosity from the ladies, but even Robert's curiosity had turned to humor when the younger man had laughed it off and then caved gracefully to Cora, Sybil, and Mary's demands.
"I'm having a stag-do, before the wedding. Just myself and about fifty-odd friends." Lawrence had laughed. "But, I didn't want Mary to worry a moment that there might be any funny business so I thought I'd invite my future father-in-law along as well. I just came by early to do so properly – though I hope you're happy you've spoiled the surprise, ladies!"
Robert… honestly appreciated the subtlety. Cora was altogether too upset by this rumors about Edith, and – frankly – Robert himself was more than bothered. If anything, he was properly angry over the fact that his own cousin and that wretched maid were still creating trouble for his family. After she'd had the gall to steal from him.
Still, not as much gall as Barrow, who Edith still insists on having over at Loxley and promoting of all the things!
As it was, Ramsey was doing everything Robert thought a gentleman ought to. He was handling this distressing matter quickly and privately. He was doing it in such a way that protected the ladies. He was even doing it in a way that didn't make him into a cad where O'Brian was concerned, little as she deserved it.
"That's still a great deal of money…"
"It's no small amount, that's true, but it's also enough to make this a permanent solution." Ramsey offered. "The woman's clearly a spider. She's going to be trouble as long as she can weave any kind of web into proper society. The best way to pull her fangs is to get out a broom and sweep her well away from any influence."
"There are still a number of people and posts in our government in Canada she could take up, in terms of working as a lady's maid."
"That's why I was so generous. The woman seems to hate being in service – this gives her a chance to get out of service. If she's busy running a hat shop or something in Nova Scotia, well, she's not going to be spreading rumors anyone in London will hear."
"And, if she does, you'll have her signature on that contract." Robert sat back after providing both of them small glasses of whiskey as they settled into the comfortable chairs present in the Grantham House smoking room. "That was a fine idea."
"Litigation has its advantages, sordid affair that it can be. Speaking of, your young heir's beginning to make a name for himself."
Robert couldn't help the pride that touched his smile as he nodded, sipping his drink.
"Yes, Matthew's doing splendidly. He's positively racing through everything – I've it on the best authority that he'll be ready to move to Chambers by next year."
"Going from a modest solicitor in Manchester to a barrister in London – and I know that once Reginald Danvers takes the silk he wants to pluck the boy for his faction – in a year. That's quite an achievement."
"It is."
"Expensive, as well."
"Ah, well…" Robert chuckled. "Truth be told… Matthew's become like a son to me, but his carrying on as a solicitor out in Yorkshire was a touch embarrassing. This is rather better, don't you agree?"
"Far more suited to his rank."
"Yes."
"However, it does beg a few questions."
"Hm?"
"Matthew Crawley is handsome, intelligent, and a decent man. He's inarguably talented in matters of law and has everything about him to suggest that he'll do your title proud and make a fine earl, as well as a promising career here in London." Robert's future son in law set his whiskey down and leant forward with his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes fixing on Robert's blue gaze seriously. "So the question becomes, why precisely did Mary refuse him?"
"P-Pardon?"
Robert supposed there were worse times to choke on one's drink, but couldn't come up with one right off the top of his head.
"I'll be honest with you, Robert, because I respect you. You've been nothing but welcoming to me, and everyone in the Lords knows your name and your steadfast support of what's right and proper within our government."
Robert had been teetering on the edge of offense a moment before, but the earnest compliment held him back. It also left him feeling rather unbalanced. There was no hint, of course, in the younger man's earnest expression that this was utterly intentional.
"It's just that… I find myself somewhat unsettled by a few things that O'Brian woman said. I understand that she's likely as not lying, but a man does wonder. Especially so near to making such a permanent and life-altering decision as marriage."
Anger and confusion gave way before terrible unease. While he was certain, positive, that O'Brian would have opened her dreadful mouth and spread every possible secret she could to defame his family through Susan while she had the chance… that lingering fear that she knew remained. Mary's defenseless, save for secrecy. It's the only shield she has…
"Of course you would, but I can assure you that nothing that left that woman's mouth is anything but an – an ugly falsehood designed to harm my family." Robert rushed to answer, then stood up, too agitated to sit. "Though do tell me what she's said. I feel I have a right to know – as if the way she's smearing poor Edith isn't bad enough!"
"Well, yes, though Lady Strallan and Sir Anthony can't be said to be entirely without fault there." Lawrence chuckled and held up both his hands, coming to stand across from Robert and offering him his glass back, as he'd picked it up on the way to the fireplace. "Not that I think for a moment either did anything untoward. I mean, I've met Anthony Strallan. The man's brilliant, but he's hardly original enough to do anything as interesting as misbehave around a lady."
Robert was torn between irritation and amusement. Years of habit, when it came to poking fun at his neighbor for his boring hobbies, interests, and homebody nature fought with a desire to defend his family.
"I don't mean anything offensive, I just am saying that it's bound to lead to a bit of gossip when young girls leave home without proper chaperones. The world hasn't changed that much, and I'm sure Lady Strallan could have waited and informed you properly before she rushed off to Austria and everything in between. Really, it was good of Sir Anthony to rush along to protect her as he did. I don't know what some modern girls are coming to, honestly."
"Well, yes, that I can agree with. You wouldn't believe some of the ideas Sybil's gotten into her head recently."
"One of the things I like best about Mary is her sensible nature about such things. She's a lady in the truest sense, and doesn't care to change what makes her so."
Warming to the compliment to his eldest, Robert nodded.
"Mary really is. You don't know how lucky you are there."
"Oh, I feel I do… I'm just uneasy. Do you know why she insisted on going with her cousin?"
"Pardon?"
"To France. Why did Mary insist on going?" He gestured. "Especially given that she didn't even stay with the current Lady Strallan more than a day once she arrived."
"I, well," unbalanced from the constant jump between comfortable compliments and comradery and dangerous questions, Robert could have cursed himself for stumbling slightly over the agreed upon lines. How many times had he said them already? "well, that's largely our fault. You did say how fine a young man Matthew is and, well, Cora and I rather let our fondness blind us to the fact that Mary simply couldn't be happy with him. No matter how fine he is, Matthew really wasn't raised to our level of society, if you take my meaning."
"Entirely. Is that why you sent him after her?"
It didn't occur to Robert to deny it.
"Well, yes, but it's just as well it came to nothing, hm?" Robert laughed and raised his glass awkwardly towards the younger man. "I mean, Holderness, if not we wouldn't be here right now, would we?"
"No, but it still seems strange to me that Mary went to France as she did." He sipped his drink and leaned against the mantle, mirroring Robert's pose. "You're sure there's nothing you need to tell me? Nothing I should know about why an otherwise healthy young woman would suddenly take to a spa for her health?"
For a brief moment, Robert was sure that the man knew. That this was a trap. Then, in a rare moment of perfect perception, Robert realized that Holderness… didn't. The young man staring across him was simply too smooth and too eager to know that there was something… fundamentally wrong with the lady he was marrying. He spoke to eagerly of his affection and respect for Marry, and Robert suddenly understood two things.
The first was that Lawrence Ramsey had come to him wanting him to clear Mary's good name. The second was that the man across from him was entirely too intelligent to be put off by the network of contradicting rumors that his mother and wife had constructed around the girls' trip. That fragile shield that protected Mary so well now needed shoring up. If he failed to do so, Mary's entire future, the wedding she so desperately wanted, everything was at risk.
Robert Crawley was not the best of fathers, but he did love his children. He did want to do best by them. He did want to protect them. Even so much of his ill-thought-out and foolish choices regarding Edith had come from a desire to protect her. If it had all done more harm than good? That only made Lord Grantham more desperate to do it right from here on out.
Sadly, old habits died hard. When Mary Crawley had been put into his arms she'd been his first child. She'd been the perfect, beautiful, infant that every parent hopes to have. Moreover, as his firstborn daughter she'd been utterly free of the responsibility and burden of being his heir without the feeling of pressure to produce an heir that the other births would produce in him.
"It, well, it – you have to understand, it's more than a bit embarrassing." Robert spluttered and Ramsey raised his eyebrows. "Well, no man likes to admit that he's lost control of his household."
Lawrence frowned.
"Of course not, Lord Grantham. What happened?"
"Well, you see, we sent Edith up to London at Mrs. Chetwood's on the understanding that she'd break things off with Sir Anthony." Robert flushed at the lie, but his expression was sincere enough to fool even a hardened politician like the one before him. "I'd put my foot down, you understand. With her fortune Edith could have done so much better."
"That's true, it must have been a little uncomfortable to have her stepping out with a man your own age as well."
"Bloody awkward, truth be told." Robert agreed easily, as that much was true. "I'd assumed it was a more avuncular fondness, and by the time I realized it was a real courtship there was nothing left to do but let her know I was forbidding the match, but Edith – she's wretchedly headstrong. She always has been."
"So she ran away?" He frowned. "I was under the impression that Sir Anthony followed her."
"Lies." Robert cleared his throat. "They left together. It was a fiction that he met her in Paris. Mary went with them to try and persuade them not to elope."
Holderness' expression cleared, his lips turning up.
"And she did."
"Yes, you know Strallan. He, well, even I can admit how happy Edith and he make each other. I don't understand it, but there it is." Robert downed the last of his drink and set the glass aside, spreading his hands. "He didn't truly want to elope. Edith was just, well, being impetuous and – and rather shaken by fighting with me."
"I can understand that, given she ended up exiled to the States during your last argument."
"Yes, rather." Robert winced. "Still… Mary felt rather poorly for how badly they'd gotten on and offered Edith her support. Promised to get us all on board with the match."
"And she did?"
"Rather. I'd sent Matthew to bring both girls home, but… well, with Edith carrying on to Austria there was little I could do, and a wedding in Yorkshire was so much less – less scandalous than an elopement." Robert laughed weakly. "I now rather view the whole thing as just Edith being Edith. Couldn't possibly do things normally, had to take a tour of the Continent before her marriage, rather than after."
His future son-in-law laughed merrily enough at that, shaking his head.
"Well, at least she was good enough to thank Mary with a spa holiday for sorting out her problems."
"Well, Edith's headstrong and can be petty, but she is a very kind girl underneath it all."
Robert escorted Lawrence out to dinner and watched him gallantly kiss Mary's hand with relief. As expected, all talk at the table revolved around either the wedding or politics. Robert firmly gave the floor to his wife and daughter on the former, but enjoyed the chance to dominate the table along with his future son-in-law when it came to the latter. Glad that he'd dodged a bullet for Mary, and added some strength to the web of careful lies protecting her, he reminded himself to use the blasted telephone to have a chat with Edith tomorrow. Just so she knew what things were about with Ramsey. She wouldn't mind overmuch, and she'd understand how fragile Mary's position was, surely.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
More Notes:
[1] An actual footnote! In October of 1913 the Senghenydd Colliery Disaster devastated Wales. My grandmother wasn't born yet, but it was one of the few things from history that brought an immediate reaction out of her. She was a Welsh war-bride who married an American G.I. in WW2 and she claimed that you couldn't find anyone in the country of Wales who didn't know at least one of the 439 minors who died, one of the orphans created by the disaster, or a widow suffering because of the explosion or fires that followed. Working conditions in coal mines at the time were appalling. It's worth a google, if only to appreciate modern safety standards.
Addie – Addie has a chronic health condition (Gastroparesis) which results in her stomach emptying slowly, poor digestion of fibrous foods, and lack of appetite. Add to that the fact that she was a premature infant and Addie's health is always likely to be somewhat fragile. Being locked outside for an hour+ in a chill Yorkshire rain can actually lead to hypothermia in healthy adults. In this case, Addie was lucky to be born when she was. Everything she was wearing was either 100% cotton or WOOL. The good English wool of her jumper, stockings, skirt, and jacket are actually what saved her from true hypothermia. As it is, she is facing a battle against bronchitis and we already know she's resistant to medical treatment.
Thomas Barrow – he's worried about Addie and, well, he's still Thomas. He needs to take his spleen out on someone. Right now he's blaming Anthony. It's the one thing he and Anthony currently have in common.
Midori – Is well aware that Lawrence is a manipulative jerk… he's just the manipulative jerk that gave her piggyback rides when she was six. She considers him a friend despite his bad habits – which also makes her the single most *aware* individual when it comes to his nature. That said, expect more fireworks when it comes out that she's back into the picture.
Sarah O'Brian – is getting to exit stage-left. The truth is that, once dismissed, her ability to plague the Crawleys would be limited. She's just seriously lacking in any kind of social power to harm them with. She always hated service, for all that it was how she made her living, so I'm giving her a way out. Assuming she does well, she can live and die comfortably with a little dress shop somewhere in Canada.
Lawrence Ramsey – Lord Holderness is a consummate politician as well as a man of his time and rank. He sees nothing wrong with using his authority to fake up documents to implicate O'Brian and jail her, false as they are, for threatening him. If she wasn't threatening her betters, it wouldn't happen; clearly her fault not his. Likewise, he'd prefer a cleaner solution. Bribing her and making her sign a nondisclosure contract appeals to his tidy nature and his desire to know everything. That said, he also likes being right. So Robert didn't have to fight too hard to convince him that the real fault lies with Edith's hasty and inappropriate romance with an older man. Because he's Lawrence he doesn't care about that romance as long as he sees it as useful to himself, but he's willing to accept it as a reason for the Crawley's behavior. Which still sets up the problem of him being lied to and accepting these lies as a basis for how he views Mary…