Disclaimer: All recognizable works belong to 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 from it.

Warnings Ch. 1: Bullying and victim blaming. Discussion of childhood behavior disorders and poor treatment thereof.


August 1914

"It is essential for your daughter's mental wellbeing that she have a sense of order, control, and hierarchy within her family. Lady Mary is a child of the Aristocracy. She is not deranged. She is in no way slow. She merely requires a more centered place in the world and more sure sense of self than a mercantile upbringing would give her. You cannot expect a mustang to win at the Ascot and if you treat a thoroughbred like one, it won't do very well, either."

"Cora…"

"I wrote it all down, you know." Cora's quiet voice carried painfully in the dark room. "I memorized it, Robert. Why shouldn't I? The experts all agreed!"

"Cora, please, this can't be good for you or the baby."

"Oh, Robert, what have we done?"

Cora put both her hands over her face and just tried to breathe.

"Darling we did our best. We did what we had to do for our children's welfare."

Cora rolled over and simply looked at him in the dim moonlight. Robert, looking at her with all the love and worry in the world, folded and leaned back against his pillows. Frustration and helplessness welled up inside her and she ran her hands through her hair.

"If that's the case how did this happen? First Mary makes that dreadful mistake, now Edith's eloped!?"

"I know, sometimes I feel that none of our children appreciate the responsibility that goes along with the privileges they've had."

Robert complained and Cora bit her lip, unsure of herself in the face of the impeccably written list of wrongs done sent along with news of Edith's elopement. It was one thing to pass Edith's complaints off as a petulant child not happy with her place in the world. It was another to dismiss a respected neighbor's assessment of their families best kept secrets.

"It wasn't just Mary's doing, you know. Mary calmed down so much and since Edith was, what, twelve? She hasn't let Mary be, has she."

"I know, Robert, but Mary never let her be either and we asked Edith to ignore so much…" Cora sighed. "Didn't we create that?"

"Perhaps but made certainthat Edith knew Mary shouldn't be upset. It's hardly Mary's fault she was so fragile when they were younger!"

"I know that, but... I just... Robert, it all feels wrong, don't it?"

"Of corse it does, one of our children was - wasn't well." Robert Crawley's agitation climbed up a notch, but he grabbed and held his wife's hands fiercely, his blue eyes bright and serious with sincerity. "We did what we could when they were young to make sure Mary - who was ill was properly managed - then, when they were older, we told them to let each other be. The doctors agreed, Cora!"

"Yes, and look at where that's led us!" Cora bit her lip and squeezed his hands. "Darling, shouldn't we have done more?"

"I don't see why it's so unconscionable to expect a little obedience from one's children." Robert grunted. "Edith is our daughter, just as her sisters are, and she simply refused to get along."

"You wouldn't know that from how we've treated her, would you?"

Cora gave in, pushing the covers off and rising from bed as her husband fell silent. She didn't bother with her dressing robe. It was so late it was early. No-one else was up.

"What?"

"That she's our daughter just like her sisters are. Can you really say that, honestly, Robert?"

"Look, I'll admit we - we've been unfair. Mary has as well. That could happen to any parent in the situation we found ourselves in. Edith must address her own faults here, I won't have anyone pretending she didn't enjoy antagonizing Mary when she knew exactly what would happen."

"Robert."

"I know, I know, but the fact remains that if Mary's an adult who knows what she's doing, then so is Edith, and look what she's done? Running off and eloping and do you know what the talk is going to be? And sending that letter to a foreign embassy! As for Mary, she's-."

"I'm very well aware of what Mary has done, how widely it is known, that it will only get worse, and Edith's running off shall make everything ridiculously difficult. She might - both of them should - have stopped and thought of the rest of the family!" Cora agreed but then shook her head. "It doesn't change the fact that Anthony Strallan is right about one thing. We failed Mary and Edith by letting it go on too long. It was one thing to let Mary grow out of her problems. It was another thing to give her free reign to belittle and control her sister, Robert, or let it turn into an all out war!"

"It needn't have become that if Edith hadn't antagonized her sister." Robert carried on doggedly. "She could have been obedient, and usually was, with us. She could have been the same with Mary. I don't understand it. Strallan must have done something."

"He seems to have married our daughter."

"He interfered with my family! Cora, it's just not done!"

"And yet, Robert, he did it!"

"He's not the man that I thought he was."

"I imagine he feels the same way about you."

Looking uncomfortable, Robert wrapped his arms around her and Cora leaned back into his embrace.

"We made mistakes, but they were honest mistakes. Every parent makes them. The girls… well, - things got out of hand."

"You Englishmen have such a gift for understatement."

"And you Americans have a wonderful gift for dramatics." He kissed her cheek. "Cora, it could have happened to anyone. We'll set it right."

"How."

"Oh, we'll manage."

Cora turned, shocked, to look at her husband.

"Robert, you spent nearly two hours storming about like a thundercloud threatening to become a tornado. You raised your voice at your mother!"

"Yes, I'll be paying for that I'm sure."

"No doubt we'll all be paying for it." Cora huffed, turning in his arms and putting her hands on her husband's chest, idly stroking the smooth cotton of his pajama shirt. "Robert, how did you go from raging against Sir Anthony, to blaming Mary to blaming Edith to blaming your mother to blaming both of us and now you think it's going to be alright? What do you think will possibly fix a mess of this proportion?"

"Well, I - Edith's always wanted attention." Robert offered up. "I mean, an elopement? They all need a stern talking to and Strallan owes me an apology, but beyond that, I don't see where casting some huge shadow over this will help. Mother was right. We don't want to set Edith up as a martyr and we don't want to give Mary more traction to carry on and try and get her own back. We let that go on too long. So we just… need to… take it in stride as much as possible."

"Robert…. You raised your voice at your mother." Cora's voice was dry. "Are you really trying to tell me that Edith is going to come back and you're going to, what? Tell her she was a very naughty girl, then clap Sir Anthony on the back and welcome him into the family?"

"Oh, I have every intention of letting her know her failures, but we'll… let things die down first."

"Edith is not coming back as our daughter, she's coming back as someone else's wife. Would you have let my father lecture me after I married you?"

"That's different?"

Cora was not amused.

"We didn't elope!" Robert protested. "I was a Viscount and heir to an earldom. I'm not that much older than you! We certainly didn't… didn't do anything together we shouldn't proceeding the wedding, and nobody ended up dead!"

"My papa still didn't approve of you." Cora replied, unmoved. "I argued and I won and we married, but the fact remains that I went against him and he wasn't happy. After letting us know the first time, he held his tongue."

Robert took his turn to give her an old fashioned look and Cora looked away.

"Mostly."

"Look, Cora, however I address the… bad behavior, that's my place as Edith's father. I still think we should try and… go on as well as we can with it. You know, they're married just… carry on."

Cora stared at her husband in shock.

"Pardon me?"

"Well, it's not so bad is it? Ignoring that they eloped, Edith's never had the best manner with men. We have let Mary interfere with her when she's in company." Robert admitted and Cora felt a pang as he echoed her own words from the long, confusing, fight that she and her husband had had with each other and her mother-in-law earlier. "So we… let Edith have this. Then we… move on as a family. Welcome Sir Anthony and… carry on."

"I - you'd welcome him, really? And forgive Edith?" Cora's heart instantly felt lighter at the idea. That there needn't be further conflict. "No more comments or backhanded… I mean, I never defended her as I should and I know my own part in this but you and Mary often… gang up, dear."

"I know. We're very alike and Edith… is... really, she's always been so out of place with us." Robert shook his head, perking up. "At least now she's settled. She's bound to outlive him, but he'll leave her comfortable, no matter what."

"That's true."

Robert's smile became broader, his voice lower with a hope so long buried neither felt right speaking it loudly and his hand skirted to gently rub over the subtle curve of her belly.

"And if this one's a boy, well then, there's no reason to fret about our daughters' security, is there?"

Matthew wanted an answer. He loved her. Her mother was pregnant, the heir and replacement her father had longed for potentially on the way. Edith had eloped and was married before her and, yes, it was the dullest man in the county but it didn't help. Sybil wouldn't stop trying to talk about Nurse Nelly, and Mary wouldn't, she wouldn't do that. Not when the nurse had been the only one to ever understand and help her when she as little.

She also left you. Job done. Time to take the money and leave you. Oh, by the way, the sister you were told you were helping to learn how to be a proper lady hates you, Sybil doesn't know you, but at least that's in your favor, and you're very pretty. No matter what, you're pretty. Don't forget it, it's the most important thing about you.

"Mary, I am entirely too old to summon up the energy to deal with your exertions. Sit down. Ladies do not pace."

"I would have thought that you'd given up all hope of my being a lady, Granny, given my choices."

"You are not the first nor will you be the last lady to make such a mistake." The Dowager's tone was dry. "If we're being metaphorical about it: The cat is out of the bag. It is time to trim its claws, give it a flea bath, and teach it to stop relieving itself upon the furniture."

"I'm glad to know you equate me with an incontinent feline!"

"Mary, do stop the dramatics. Things are bad enough without an actress in the family." The Dowager was not impressed. "You came to me. Now do. Sit. Down."

Mary sat.

"Do you wish to speak about Matthew?"

"No!"

Mary answered as quickly as possible, as unsettled by the idea of even thinking of the great turmoil twisting her apart inside as she was by the sudden gentle tone her grandmother had taken with her. Looking up, she prepared to fight properly if there was a hint of pity. Instead, the faded blue eyes caught hers and all she saw was a kind of resigned understanding. Such that, after weeks of fighting, running, fretting, and anger, something inside her simply fizzled; like wet gunpowder.

"Granny, what am I going to do?"

"About what, Mary, be specific." Lady Violet sipped her tea and went on in her inimitable fashion. "When it comes to distressing realities we are spoiled for choice."

Matthew was first on her mind, but Mary refused to speak of it anymore. She already knew what Granny thought. She knew what her Mama and Papa thought. What she didn't know was what she thought. Only that if she were to accept Matthew, as frightening and alien as the thought of being a solicitor's wife was, the idea of him knowing was worse. How could he love a woman who'd lowered herself to the carnal mockery of not only taking a lover, but having him die in her bed!

"I just… want to know that… you - no-one has spoken to Matthew of… my mistake, have they?"

"No, nor will they."

"What's to stop Edith-."

"Edith has been back at Loxley for nearly four days and answered no calls and made no move to call on us. She had a month long honeymoon and more to spread it about the country and did not. I do not believe informing Matthew of that is on her mind right now."

"You say that like you know Edith so well."

"I do not believe anyone in this family actually knows Edith." Lady Violet sipped her tea pointedly. "Do you?"

"What's there to know?" Mary scoffed automatically.

The Dowager did nothing. Mary fidgeted and waited. Eventually, the older woman went on.

"I fancy that I know Sir Anthony Strallan very well."

"What do you mean, Granny?"

"His father was the most rigid, upright, tiresome example of rural gentry that your grandfather ever chose to make a friend of." The Dowager sniffed as she generously spread orange marmalade on her scone. "His wife, mind you, was far worse."

"Oh?"

"As poor as church mice, her family, and no connections whatsoever. She had pretensions of equality and representation much like your sister, but without any of the class. She was also a hopeless blue stocking. Not to mention a good twenty years younger than Sir Phillip." Lady Violet scowled down at her scone and, despite herself, Mary felt her lips turn up in amusement.

"So Strallan men have a type?"

"Edith is hardly progressive."

"Edith is whatever she thinks will gain her a moment of Mama and Papa's time or the attention of anything male." Mary sneered, then fell silent and looked away from her grandmother's knowing eyes. "I don't want to talk about Edith. Not if she isn't going to cause me further grief."

"Then this shall be a very short visit!"

"Granny I…" Mary fell silent at that.

"Eat your scone before it turns to granite. I don't know why you'd abandon Mrs. Patmore's baking to come here."

Mary chewed energetically on the rubbery scone, noting that the lingonberry jam was lovely. The Dower House jams had always been her favorite. Not that she'd ever let Downton's cook know that.

"Mary, I'm going to ask you a question. I would like you to answer it."

"Must I?"

"No."

Mary looked up and once again she saw no anger or blame or pity in her grandmother's lined face. Just a pride equal to her own, and an understanding Mary was afraid even Atlas couldn't bear the weight of. Her grandmother nodded silently, agreeing with who knew what she saw in Mary's expression.

"You will find in life that there is nothing you must do, only choices you must make. Everything else comes out of that. Now, will you answer my question?"

Mary nodded reluctantly.

"What do you want, Mary?"

"Excuse me?"

"I do hope your hearing isn't going, Mary. That shall leave us in a terrible place conversationally at my age."

"What do you mean, Granny." Mary huffed. "What do I want for dinner? For my birthday? To wear to the Garden Party next week?"

"What do you want, Mary. Just that. Ultimately."

Mary nearly scoffed. She considered just getting up and walking away. She'd done more of that in the last month than in her entire life. It was… it was wonderfully freeing in one way. In another, she felt like an abject failure and a coward.

Crawleys do not run away, Mary.

"I wanted excitement last year. To just live." Mary swallowed bitterly. "Look where that got me."

"Choosing excitement does not generally end well, though… choosing against it leaves one with questions." The dowager sipped her tea. "Dreadful things, questions. Entirely too democratic. Once one person has one, everyone has one."

Mary looked down into her tea and her own image stared back through a tannin haze.

"Didn't you just ask me a question, Granny?"

"Yes, and look where that's led us! Now, an answer if you please."

"I want Matthew, but I want him as heir. I want a brother for my father but I don't - I don't' want him to take Matthew's place. I don't want to give up my place in society. I've bled for it, Granny. Edith with her long walks and her 'artistic temperament' and just being allowed to vanish has no idea what it costs to be perfect every moment of every day. I always had to be there and seen and I've earned everything I have!"

"I imagine she could tell you instead the cost of being less than perfect, no matter the effort, but I agree, you've earned all that you now have." Lady Violet's accent was prim, but her words soft enough to draw Mary's eyes back to her face. "Having tried my hand at both being everyone else's definition of perfect and suffering for failure to do so I can say I liked neither state. I find accepting my own perfection and embracing the fallibility in others a great help with such unfortunate emotionality, but that may be a wisdom that comes only with age."

Mary huffed a laugh and a question of her own slipped out, breathing its first and coming to life in the peace of the temporary silence between them in the Dower House sitting room.

"What did you want when you were my age, Granny?"

"I wanted everything." Lady Violet Crawley sipped her tea with a sphinx's composure. "When that did not come to pass, I accepted what was proper."

"Are you glad you did?"

"Of course, it's only proper."

"Granny."

Mary set her tea cup down. It had held no answers, and neither had her grandmother. They carried on normally at tea, discussing the other neighbors, the ebb of summer into the Season that was inevitable, and generalities as they always did. Yes, Mary knew what she wanted. What she didn't believe is that she could have it. Because what she hadn't said to her grandmother was a very important thing.

She wanted Matthew, but she wanted him to love her. Precisely as she was. In her entirety. Mistakes and all.

"Do you think Strallan could love you if he knew you?"

Her words to Edith played back in her mind. The first domino that started so much of this mess, she realized. Mary knew where every crack in her sister's armor was. She knew how to get through that thin skin she always mocked Edith for. What Edith didn't know is that, when Mary attacked her sister, she was aiming for herself.

Of all the things Edith was, she was stupidly honest. She didn't know how to properly dissemble if her life depended on it. She'd even honestly thrown that letter in Mary's face when she'd confronted her. Calling her that wretched name. Just jealous, as always, that men actually wanted her. And what did Edith have? A boring old man!

So while Mary wanted to tell herself that Edith has painted herself as a perfect martyr in those diaries. That she'd never told that old man she was married to about the constant nasty comments that she'd lobbed Mary's way or the jealousy or that damned letter…

Mary found that she didn't believe it. Edith was just ridiculous enough to make a complete gesture of the thing. To lay her whole life in front of Strallan and await judgement. After weeks of raging and anger and everything else, Mary felt almost at peace with what she knew, save for one thing.

Edith bared her entire life and her soul and every single flaw to the man she wanted and he accepted her unconditionally.

Never in her life would Mary Crawley be so blindly jealous of her younger sister.

"Mrs. Martha Levinson, Lady Strallan."

The library at Loxley was a treasure hoard in Edith's mind. The walls were entirely lined with polished walnut shelves, broken only by the five large windows along its north wall. Each window had a seat fitted with heavy green velvet cushions, and they matched the upholstery on the overstuffed sofa and ottoman facing the fireplace, which was itself a work of art.

The great hearth and mantle had, according to Anthony, been a find from his grandfather's grand tour and originated in a 15th century French chateau. Salamanders and stags carved with other heraldry gleamed from the stone. When the fire was lit the chips of amber set into the salamanders' eyes and mouths gleamed.

The shelves themselves were filled with tomes. Many of the books were lovingly bound sets of various ages, specifically commissioned for the library. Others were newer, private purchases, chosen by whim. Generations of Strallans had contributed to the library and, to Edith's delight, it had quite broken free of the room's confines. There was hardly a room in the house that didn't have a bookshelf. There was even a small one on the landing.

"Grandma?" Edith spluttered in befuddlement at the unexpected arrival.

"Well, are you just going to sit there or come give your grandmother a hug?"

Edith rousted herself from her comfortable slump on the sofa and crossed the room to slide into Martha Levinson's embrace. Her American grandmother hugged like she did everything; as if she meant it and you had best pay attention! Pulling back from the bony hug, Edith looked up into the worn face and noted with a certain amusement that her Mama's mama was as shocking as ever.

Martha Levinson was dressed in the very edge of fashion. She wore a lovely blouse and beneath that a pair of traveling bloomers that Sybil would no doubt covet. Her hair was cut short and had been died a dark auburn. Her makeup was significant. Edith wondered if she had a lip rouge print on her cheek now.

"Well, let me see you."

It was an order, not a request, and Edith was marched across the library and towards the light by the windows. Turning her head, she saw Morris standing awkwardly to the side. Realizing she had to save the butler, she smiled at the old man and cleared her throat.

"Morris, would you be so good as to fetch us tea? Are you hungry, Grandma?"

"Oh, you know how tetchy my bowels have got in my old age. It's miserable. I left my cook at that great pile of stone your mother married. She'll keep me fed." Martha waved a hand. "Tea wouldn't go amiss, though, especially if there was a splash of something else in it."

Morris made a hasty, if dignified, retreat.

"Hm."

Meanwhile, Martha was doing precisely as she said she would; giving Edith a proper examination. Edith stood still while her grandmother turned her first to this side, then the other, via her shoulders. Then Martha reached up and, with her fingers under Edith's chin, turned her granddaughter's head this way and that. Edith stood as still as a stone through it all, knowing fidgeting would prolong the process. Finally, Martha stepped back.

"Do I pass muster?"

"I have a very pretty granddaughter."

Edith blinked in surprise. The fond words were spoken kindly, but with the same unstinting honesty Martha always spoke with. It also wasn't the usual response.

"I won't just 'do', then?"

"Beauty is seventy-five-percent confidence, ten percent cheekbones, and fifteen-percent diet, Edith." Martha replied dryly. "You've always managed the last two, but it finally seems like you've found the first. Good."

Edith had no idea what to say, but it proved unnecessary. Her grandmother towed her back to the sofa, pointed imperiously at one cushion, then sat herself upon the other. Unsurprisingly, when Brian - Loxley's single footmen - returned bearing the tea tray, Martha took possession of it and began to pour for them both.

"I wasn't expecting you, Grandma Martha. Did you come over to be with Mama for the baby?"

"Oh, I'd thought about it, but that's not why I came." Martha raised both her eyebrows, looking deeply amused. "Would you believe your other grandmother sent me a telegram saying I should visit?"

"No."

The flat answer dropped out of Edith's lips and lay, dead of sarcasm, on the carpet. Martha grinned over its corpse.

"Aren't you going to ask after your Uncle Harold?"

"Of course, how he is? Has Uncle Harold come over with you?" Edith asked, amused. She'd always loved her Grandma Martha, for all that she was a lot to handle. Uncle Harold was loads of fun as well, if a bit silly. They'd often shared a similar awkwardness, though Harold Levinson had the twin gifts of gender and wealth to smooth his way.

"Oh, you know Harold. He hates to travel." Martha dismissed her son with a widening of her eyes. "I left him back in New York. It's polo this week. I'm sure it will be something else by the time I get back."

"Any potential aunts?"

"Dozens who'll be disappointed when they realize they aren't." Martha snorted, not at all concerned with ladylike manners. "Now that we've all the right meaningless things and established that my son is still alive, let's talk about you. Edith, you look happy."

"It says something interesting about our family that that's worth commenting on, doesn't it?"

Martha Levinson put down her teacup and paused. Edith refused to squirm under the scrutiny, though everything inside her did. She bit down on the urge to tell her grandmother not to mind anything she said. She fought the ingrained need to change the subject to anything but herself. Meanwhile, Martha looked through her with an air of studied dissection.

"You know, I was quite ready to handle this man old enough to be your father who'd run away with you."

"Grandma!"

"But he's good for you." Martha nodded decisively. "We'll keep him."

"Excellent, who are we keeping?"

Edith looked up to see her husband, looking every bit the country gentleman in his well-pressed, but everyday sort of tweeds, and a blue tie she'd intimated to Stewart was one of her favorites. Having no idea what sort of conversation he'd walked in on or anything at all about Martha Levinson besides the fact that she'd given birth to Lady Grantham, he smiled in the sort of vague friendliness he always did when meeting new people. He looked slightly alarmed as Edith's grandma turned her gimlet gaze on him.

"My husband, Grandma Martha, Sir Anthony Strallan." Edith barely managed to restrain her nervous giggle. "Anthony, this is my favorite Grandmama."

It wasn't quite true or fair, but in that moment, Edith absolutely meant it.

"Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Levinson, but who're we keeping, Sweet One?"

"Well, you of course."

Martha's answer prompted a confused blink and Edith lost her battle with the giggles. Her husband's lopsided smile in answer made her heart leap and twinge in her chest. As if knowing this, Martha patted Edith approvingly on the wrist as Anthony simply looked confused.

"Jolly good?"

A somber hush shrouded Downton. The summer birdsong and warm front that had descended gleefully on Yorkshire only served to highlight the gray shadows that seemed to seep out of the stone of the building. Awkwardness settled downstairs, lighter than the grief and uncertainty that lurked above it.

"Well, if Mary hasn't chased that young man off, I have to say there may be some hope for this pile yet." Martha settled in beside her daughter when she returned in the evening, seated in a comfortable chair she'd insisted be brought in from another room. "I don't know why you insist on all these Rococo frills and teeny little chairs in here, darling, the style makes for miserable furniture and a boudoir is supposed to be comfortable."

"I'm comfortable, Mama."

Martha acknowledged it with a wave of her hand and settled back further into the chair, her eyes on her daughter. Cora refused to squirm under her mother's attention. She loved her mother. It was just easier to love her when they were on opposite sides of the Atlantic.

"Come here, Cora."

Enfolded in her mother's embrace, which was still too rough and too sudden, Cora melted. There were some things that never stopped being comforting no matter how old you grew to be. One of them was a mother's arms. Cora sniffed back the tears that threatened and took the comfort with gratitude. Whatever Violet's intentions in giving Martha permission to meddle, the results had been a godsend.

"You will recover. Right now it feels like you never will, but that's how it always feels right after a loss. Survival and adaptation are the hallmark of the American Spirit, if not what makes us human. You'll be alright."

"I will." Cora agreed, letting her mother pull a handkerchief out of the evening pajamas she'd shocked everyone with, and laughed a little as Martha dabbed at her face as if she was a girl again. "We'll never manage Sybil's leanings towards inappropriate fashion now, Mama, I hope you realize it."

"Well, your husband should appreciate my restraint. I didn't wear it to dinner here, did I?"

"How's Edith?"

Cora couldn't hold herself back anymore. Days of worry and then the dreadful fall in the bath and what came after. Not knowing anything about her most difficult child added to the stress, and with Martha having spent an afternoon and evening there Cora wanted to know.

"Better than ever she was."

Cora winced, but Martha - while she loved her children greatly - had never been a gentle mother.

"You've known Edith was miserable for as long as a child has enough brains to be miserable, Cora. Should I be worried or relieved you seem upset to hear she's happy?"

"I'm not upset that Edith is happy!" Cora replied, nettled.

"Really?"

"Of course I'm not. Every mother wants their children happy. It's just harder to understand what will help some of them." Cora put her chin up. "You know that better than most."

"Which is why I always gave you and your brother room to find what made you happy."

"You did." Cora had to acknowledge that. "I've tried to do the same, but things are different here."

"Which you were amply warned about."

"Mother."

Martha shrugged and leaned forward, sipping at her coffee and looking speculative. Cora tired not to feel like she'd just come out of the nursery after having spent the day doing precisely as she should and somehow disappointed her mother in doing so. How was it that a lizard caught in the gardens or skinned knees were an improvement over doing what you were supposed to? Why was growing out of that a source of disappointment?

"Edith is very happy, Cora. Sir Anthony is hardly what I'd call exciting, but he seems to live inside his head just as much as Edith does, and she's clearly thrilled with him, so I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. I suggest you do the same."

"I hadn't planned not to." Cora felt free to complain a little. "I don't understand it, Mama. I know we… could have done better by Edith. However, I was nothing but supportive of her and Anthony's courtship. I let them have all manner of freedom and trusted them, and they had no reason to think I would disapprove. I don't understand why they had to run off!"

"Did Violet by any chance mention she'd sent me a copy of that fascinating letter?"

Cora felt herself color, but let out a measured breath. She'd had nearly a month to talk about this with her husband and her mother-in-law. They'd considered it closely and, while Violet still seemed to be deriving more pleasure from being ominous and vague than being helpful, Cora felt she and Robert had come to an excellent understanding of how to handle where there family had ended up. She was glad her mother was here, in a way, with her recent loss. She wasn't glad that Martha was apparently planning to meddle in her prerogatives as a mother.

"Yes, and I know that Sir Anthony's reaction to finding out some of our family's early hurdles and stumbles likely led to the elopement." Cora went on with the same stern, stubborn energy her mother did; it was the only way to handle Martha. "Edith, however, should have known that she needed to behave appropriately. They eloped!"

"And think of all of your money that Robert saved because of it. Really, Cora, what's done is done."

"I missed my own daughter's wedding, Mama, given your involvement in mine I would think you'd understand how hurtful that is!"

"Entirely." Martha sipped her coffee and exhaled steamy judgement. "Do you really want to have a long talk about hurtful family situations, though?"

"No, I do not." Cora sipped her own scalding intentions and radiated surety. "Robert and I have it handled, Mama. We know what we need to say and do in regards to Edith. Who is our daughter. All we need is a chance to do so."

"Okay."

Cora paused, wrong footed by Martha's easy agreement, but refused to fall into the trap. Instead she set her cup down and invited her mother silently to refresh both their drinks. Her mother did and Cora changed the subject back to fashion.

"Really, mother, evening pajamas at your age?"

"What does age have to do with it?" Martha smiled, her good humor back and Cora felt a wave of comfort as she recalled a time when her mother had been the fire breathing dragon and she had been the treasure she guarded. "I brought gifts from New York. Your cousin's warehouse has the most excellent silks in. Given that Edith didn't get a trousseau the bulk of it got left at Loxley today, but I didn't slouch on my other girls. I have a luscious plum. It's nearly black in some lights, but glows as it ripples. As soon as I saw it I thought of you."

"Oh, I can't wait, thank you Mama."

"Perhaps for a pair of evening pajamas?" The elder teased. "See if your husband's staid English heart can take it, hm?"

Cora managed a laugh and got a bit more news from home before Martha finally turned the subject back to Edith in her own time. Which, Cora had to admit, was what would have happened no matter what. There was a reason Cora could handle her mother-in-law, and that reason was her mother.

"Edith was very upset to hear about your loss." Martha stated.

"Oh, Mama, don't suggest I use losing one child against another!"

"I'm not. I'm just telling you what I know, Cora."

The countess swallowed and sipped her coffee. Martha watched her daughter carefully for a moment, and then went on. The clock on the mantle ticked on, impartial as time always is.

"Edith being upset means she cares." Martha caught her daughter's eyes. "If you don't want me to comment, I won't, but if you really want to know what I think right now, I care. I know you don't always like my help, darling, but I think - in this instance - you need it."

"I…" Cora swallowed. "I'd like to hear what you think. I don't promise to agree or do anything you suggest, Mama, but I would like advice."

"That I have plenty of."

"Oh, I know."ˆ

Martha shot her an old fashioned look, but laughed gamely.

"I walked into that one, so you can have it for free."

Cora smiled and, for a moment, a person might have believed she'd run barefoot through a garden chasing anoles one glorious summer in Charleston.

"I think Edith is afraid of losing what she's gained." Martha looked at her daughter. "And if it's not obvious that she's gained a lot by eloping, let me point it out. Because Edith has gained a perfectly supportive spouse who seems to be taking her every happiness into consideration."

"I'm glad that-."

"I mean every happiness." Martha positively leered. "Edith's moving exactly like you'd expect a girl who'd pull a wild match out of thin air and give her diaries to an older man would move after a secluded honeymoon."

"Mama!" Cora's jaw dropped.

Martha waved a hand, clearly enjoying the subject.

"And have you really not spent any time with that neighbor of yours? He's half-a-head taller than that husband of yours and - in case you haven't noticed, because I have - that man has the most enormous hands. You know what I say about a man's hands, Cora."

"Oh, God, Mama, yes. I do. I can never forget or get that out of my head." Cora looked towards heaven for support and wished her lips didn't want to smile. "I do not need to be thinking that around Sir Anthony. He's my son-in-law and he's my age."

"All the more reason to be happy that Edith's getting proper satisfaction out of the man." Martha would not be cowed. "Had a little chat after I cornered their footman as well and it seems rooms are being locked more often at Loxley these days. Only when the lady and his lordship are in them, mind, and it seems the old stick of a butler has been stressing the importance of knocking."

Cora covered her face and, despite her horror, lost out her battle and let out a huff of laughter.

"I'm… glad we don't have to worry about that with Edith, then."

"Still waters…." Martha replied smugly. "Your Papa was just the same way."

"I did not need to know that!"

"England has made you a prude, darling. Anyway, what was I saying?"

"What Edith's gained."

"Well, first, martial satisfaction. Next, an establishment of her own and control over her own life." Martha shot her daughter a wry look. "A woman these days shouldn't have to put up with a controlling husband."

Cora didn't dignify that with comment. Despite her mother nettling her, though, her spirit was lighter. Martha may have come through like a tornado, but the air was clearer afterwards.

"Mostly, however, I would say that my granddaughter is safe."

"Safe?"

"She has absolutely no need of you or her father and can stay as far from Mary as she likes." Martha raised her eyebrows. "You're not seeing the benefit? Because even only having seen my granddaughter eight times in the last twenty years, I do. That letter rather underlines why doesn't it?"

"Did you talk to her about it?" Cora asked, desperately hoping for a look into Edith's mind, which had always confounded her.

"Yes."

Cora waited and her mother did something she'd never seen before. Settling her cup down on the tray, Martha Levinson sat up straight. Then she turned and took both of Cora's hands in her own.

"Cora, I'm sorry."

"What for, Mama?"

"For not coming to England when you were having all that grief with Mary." For a moment, her mother's lifelong pursuit of youth and progress fell away, and she looked every one of her years as she squeezed Cora's hands. The long-fingered, graceful hands Cora had inherited from Martha. "I sent over an expert and reams of useless advice, and what good did it do? None. I should have come to you then and helped you, and I didn't."

"I told you not to."

"Since when have I listened to what people tell me?" Martha scoffed. "Cora, you lied when you told me you were fine. I knew it. You knew it. I let you because it was easier, and I'm sorry."

"So am I, Mama." Cora sighed softly and let herself just… admit it. "I had no idea what I was doing, but was desperate not to say so. You and Papa… you said it was a mistake, marrying Robert. I didn't want you using Mary against him or me or - or anyone, and I was so desperately afraid that whatever had gone wrong with my baby would never go right and… and what kind of failure as a mother was I if I sent my baby away? Then there was Edith and…"

"And?"

"I thought she'd… that I had time." Cora let out a rough sob and rubbed her wrist against her eyes as if suddenly transported back to being the child she'd once been in her mother's presence. "Mama, they said that it was being too involved with Mary that had made her have those fits. I thought I was doing right by not hovering over her the way I did Mary but I - I was just ignoring her, wasn't I? Because I was hurt and felt ashamed, of Mary and that there wasn't a son…"

"Children aren't just a gift from God, they're also a lot of hard, dirty, miserable work and they'd get on the nerves of Jesus Christ himself."

Cora laughed again, through her tears.

"Mama."

"What? It's only honest. Thank God we could afford nurses so that I got a break now and then." Martha leaned down and kissed her daughter on the forehead. "Those experts were full of it. You did fine with Mary. Things like that aren't normal and just happen. You did your best with her, and you got it right with Sybil."

"I didn't with Edith, though, did I?" All Cora's humor faded. "Mama?"

"As I've spent a lifetime telling you, darling, you can only go forward." Martha stood up, groaning. "I'm too old for this heavy English food."

"You brought your own chef, Mama."

"It's English food, Cora, you don't have to eat it. The smell carries weight." Martha cracked her back as she turned towards the door. "Edith promised to come by tomorrow for the Garden party. She'll get here a half-hour or so early so you can all talk."

"A half-hour."

"Let's not give Robert enough time to muff it up too badly, hm?"

"Oh, Mama." Cora huffed and bit her lip. "Did Edith say anything in particular? About or for me, I mean?"

"No, nothing for you or Robert. She sent letters for her sisters, though."

Cora froze.

"Both of them?"

Lady Mary,

For writing the letter to the Turkish Embassy and for the things I said to you, I am sorry. It was wrong. I never should have done it. It was done expressly to hurt you. It was cruel, and meanness motivated it in every way. I'm sure it's worthless to you, but I apologize.

I ended up writing this letter because I was trying to organize my thoughts. I'm going to have to see you and the rest of the family again, so I need to know what I want to say. All my life I had so much to say to you, but it didn't matter, because you'd just twist my words around - good or bad - and then lash me with them. Sometimes I deserved it. Sometimes I did not.

Mary, Anthony asked me why it all happened like that and why it mattered and we've talked about it for hours. I've come to the conclusion that our parents' reasons are their own problems to deal with. You asked me why when I wrote the letter, though, and beyond trying to hurt you further I think I finally understand the largest part of the "why" between us.

We aren't meant to be sisters. We're not sisters, really, not in any way that matters. Being forced to pretend has just caused us problems.

You will never want me to be happy and I probably will never feel charitably towards you. Instead of endlessly tormenting each other and spoiling everyone's happiness, I suggest we simply stop. A truce. In public, if we meet, we can be civil and then avoid each other. In private, we'll just avoid each other entirely and go on with our lives.

I don't want you to suffer anymore, Mary. I don't want anyone to know the real you - whoever you are. It's none of my business. State your terms and, with some negotiation through uninterested third parties, let's cease hostilities. I want to get on with my life and I know you want to get on with yours.

Lady Edith Strallan

Mary wanted to rage at the paper. She wanted to kick and run and throw things. Only, it had been years since she'd allowed herself that. If it wasn't so late, she could have gone for a tearing ride across the estate. As it was, she paced in front of the empty fire grate in her room.

A truce? Mary wanted to scoff. She wanted to shake the paper in her sister's face and make everyone look at what a pitiful, nasty, useless…

You're not my sister…

That, Mary found, made her angrier than anything else. Of course Edith was her sister! If she hadn't been, then Mary wouldn't have been saddled with a lifetime of her, would she? Where did Edith get the right to just walk away?

"It's all fine for you, isn't it? You've got your stodgy old fool of a husband and a title you don't owe Papa for, and can go on and - and you're married." Mary clenched her teeth. "Think you've escaped, have you?"

The words came out as a venomous hiss and Mary was caught by a flash of color in the new wall mirror she'd hung. She turned, and then she froze. Staring back at her from the mirror was herself. Her white teeth bared and her hair loose around her shoulders. The image blinked back at her, it's dark eyes luminous and…

Honest.

You can't lie to a mirror, and it won't lie in return. Staring back at Mary was a slender, beautiful young woman standing in front of the unmade bed she'd rose from after being unable to sleep. With her silk gown rippling around her and her hair down in the dim light of a single lamp, Mary could see the full staggering thrall of her beauty on display.

None of it changed reality, did it?

Nurse Nelly had told her that she was a girl of breeding and character and beauty. She'd promised that if she acted like the lady she was, she'd have the life she was promised. Beautiful Lady Mary Crawley would one day be Duchess or Marquess if she didn't charm the crown prince himself! The only things required to do that were to always act like a lady and to be beautiful, and happiness would follow. Ladies were always in control. Ladies were allowed to put those who needed it in their place. Ladies must never forget themselves…

Well, being beautiful wasn't going to fix things with Matthew. Mary knew she had to try to do something with that herself and didn't know. He was heir now but… she'd made him doubt everything. There was the party, she would talk to him, but…

Being beautiful hadn't helped her when she'd needed to know what to do. Not when Pamuk showed up in her bedroom. Not when she was scared and excited and had no idea what to choose or if she could choose and so just… acted. Being beautiful had caused that.

But that's what she was, wasn't she? Beautiful. Beginning and end.

Now Edith and another bloody letter…

Mary strode over to her vanity and got the dressing robe she'd thrown over the stool. Then she grabbed a ribbon to tie her hair back. Making herself decent, she crept on bare feet down a familiar path. It wasn't yet ten. Normally they'd all be down at dinner still, but who was in the mood to linger at the table now?

Down the servant's stairs, through three doors, and a quiet knock on the final portal.

"Yes?"

"Carson, may I come in?" Mary swallowed and her voice trembled on words it hadn't said since she was fourteen-years-old, getting to regularly attend dinner, and far too old for such things. "I'll help you polish the silver?"

The door opened and those brown eyes, so understanding and kind, looked down at her with unconditional acceptance and Mary's heart clenched and released. She offered up an embarrassingly tremulous smile, but that was alright. Carson would never tell.

"Of course you can, Lady Mary." His response never wavered. "Shall I get us some biscuits and milk to tide us over while we work?"

"Yes, please."

Fifteen minutes of rote movements as the rags drug the strongly scented polish over the flatware and Mary took the letter from her dressing robe's pocket and slid it across the table. With that wonderful, centering calm, Carson picked it up and read it. She watched his face grow grave and waited.

"A very difficult letter to read, Lady Mary."

"Yes, rather." Mary swallowed. "I want her punished Carson. Doesn't she deserve it for what she's done?"

Carson considered it carefully and Mary watched him as he did so. First he picked up the coffee pot he'd been working on. Then he turned it once in his hands. Finally, he picked up the polishing cloth and dipped it in the pot. Then, very kindly, he turned and met her eyes with his own.

"I think, my lady, that if everyone in the world to got precisely what they deserved the world would be an even unhappier place than it is now."

Mary looked down, fearful of what she'd see, but a moment later he reached out and she felt her chin tipped up by his crooked, calloused finger. She met his eyes again and blinked hard against the affection contained therein.

"I would like very much for you to be happy."

Mary swallowed once and managed to say what she couldn't to either of her parents.

"What if - if I'm not made to be happy?"

"I don't believe that."

"She says we're not sisters."

"I don't know that one can choose one's family." His dry tone got a soundless huff of laughter from her and Mary smirked.

"I thought being unable to choose them was the hallmark of how the British defined family?"
"Quite." He chuckled then sighed. "Lady Mary, with your permission, may I make an observation?"

"Of course."

"Being cruel to your sister has never made you happy." When she went respond, he held up a hand. "It has made you less lonely, perhaps, but I would suggest that there are many other things that you can be given to do that can occupy your mind better than dragging people down into your own unhappiness."

"Like polishing silver." Mary whispered and, for a brief moment, the weight of how much this man had tried to do for her all the years of her life weighed on her shoulders and the mass of it nearly pushed tears from her eyes.

"Or some other help you can give someone who matters to you." Carson said firmly. "It is no-one's fault if you've been misguided, Mary. That poorly given guidance was stern and early. Perhaps anything that allows you and your sister to move on from that would be a good thing."

"But if we move on as she wishes, we wont' be sisters, will we?"

"Have you and Lady Edith ever truly been sisters, Lady Mary?"

Mary bit her lip. She picked up another fork. The silence carried on, undaunted by all around it. Only the steady ticking of the clock offered up any challenge. Eventually, her voice barely audible, Mary answered.

"No - I - I don't suppose we have."

Carson continued to work on the coffee pot. Mary switched to a spoon. No decisions were made, but when Mary sneaked up the stairs back to her room, she could sleep. She had no happy dreams, nor sad dreams, nor any dreams. She simply slept, woke up, and faced the morning.

Despite Sir Anthony Strallan's infamous punctuality they did not arrive early. In fact, they arrived with the last of the guests. He also proceeded up the drive at a fiarly glacial place. Another thing that was a bit unusual given his driving habits.

"You're sure you're up to this, Sweet One?"

"I'm fine, Anthony. You heard the doctor both times. There's nothing to worry about, yet, this is all normal."

Her husband frowned at her seriously, his expression drawn with worry. Edith reached out and stroked his cheek. Then she adjusted her hat.

"Really, darling, I'm not the least bit lightheaded today, and I haven't been sick at all before or after we found out, have I?" Edith blushed and offered a shyly delighted smile. "We're both fine."

"Yes, of course." He put the car into park and, quickly before Branson could approach, he reached out to brush a hand reverently over her belly with a weak crooked smile "We'll all be - be perfectly fine. You won't be mentioning...?"

"It's our news and none of my family's business at this point. We'll decide later, together." Edith agreed and pecked him on the lips. "I won't apologized too much to Mama for being tardy, either, I promise."

Her husband smiled back at her, warm and loving, before the Crawley's chauffer opened their doors and Anthony offered her his arm. Taking it, she set out across the familiar lawn. If Edith felt more than a little daunted returning, she reminded herself that she wasn't doing it alone as they approached the white pavilion where Lady Grantham was holding court. Sheepishly smoothing the pale yellow of her dress, she slid into a chair next to her mother as her husband hovered, his face creased in concern.

"I'm sorry to be late, Mama, my nose started bleeding for absolutely no reason just after I finished dressing." Edith explained. "I didn't catch it soon enough and had to change. I do hope we haven't put you out."

"Not at all dear, is that a new dress?"

"Yes." Edith felt a wave of relief at the meaningless banality of the conversation and smoothed her skirt. "After Cornwall, we went to London for a week. Anthony handled all of the paperwork, you know, the things normally done before a wedding, and I did a little shopping."

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

Edith waited for the inevitable comment about things always turning out better when's someone else chose her dresses, but it never came. Instead, her mother smiled brightly.

"Well, you look lovely. The cut of the dress suits you and I do like your hat. The peony is a nice touch, but what about the ants?"

Edith touched the simple straw hat with its cream colored ribbons and smiled, leaning forward as if imparting a secret.

"It's silk."

"Really?" Cora actually looked interested. "I can't tell!"

"Anthony's sister sent me a list of shops in her congratulations letter." Edith almost offered to share them but that old fear, of everything she did being reported back to her parents, stopped her. "Are you - how are you, Mama?"

"I'll be fine, Edith. Just as I told your father, there's no need to fret." Cora smiled warmly. "How are you and Anthony? Your Grandma Martha says that you're happy? She had a lovely dinner at Loxley."

Edith felt a strange sense of everything shifting sideways. Her mother was acting as if she'd come back from an entirely normal honeymoon. As if she hadn't eloped. As if Anthony hadn't - and she'd been so horrified and happy and everything else when she'd learned what was in his letter to her Granny - thrown so much in their faces and then run off with their daughter! She blinked at her mother, who just smiled encouragingly. Just the same way she did with Sybil or Mary.

"Where is Grandma Martha?"

"Oh, she's here somewhere." A hint of mischief touched her mother's blue eyes and she lowered her voice. "Follow the gasps of outrage. I'm sure you'll find her."

This wasn't at all how she'd thought things would go. Edith hadn't really assumed they'd get to the garden party part of the day. She and Anthony had had such a long talk about it all. About how to handle it and to make sure that her parents knew that she wouldn't accept being treated poorly. That there would be rules.

"How are you Anthony?" Cora asked with that perfect social sweetness her mother had always exuded like a cloud of grace. "I trust the nosebleed wasn't bad? It's not like Edith to have that sort of complaint. She's always been my sturdiest daughter."

Edith looked up towards her husband, who still stood behind her. He raised an eyebrow just slightly at her, apparently feeling slightly less concerned than he had a few moments before. Her husband had not responded well to finding his young wife with blood all down the front of her frock and a hand clamped to the front of her face when she'd opened the door between her boudoir and his dressing room. She'd barely convinced him not to call the doctor and send a note around saying they wouldn't be coming.

"I was actually wondering if Dr. Clarkson was invited, Lady Grantham. I thought I might have a word-."

"I am not sitting in a lawn chair while Dr. Clarkson looks up my nose in the middle of a garden party, Anthony."

He gave her a look right back while her mother chuckled.

"Perhaps inside?"

"Your Papa already invited him just so he can hover about me, Edith." She smiled. "I see you're now realizing the drawbacks of a very doting husband. They do worry, don't they?"

"Yes, I find I'm unfamiliar with the feeling."

Cora hesitated and Edith bit her lip. She made herself keep her face trained on her mother's, though she did glance away with her eyes. She wasn't here to be petty. That was also on the list. Edith looked aside and caught Mrs. Hughes' worried eyes and came to a decision. Turning, she looked up towards her husband.

"Anthony, could you find Sybil while I sit down with Mama? I'm still feeling a little lightheaded and I've missed her."

"Of course, sweet one." He kissed the hand he'd been holding, then returned it to her as he turned. "Won't be but a moment. May I get you ladies anything? Punch, champagne?"

"Champagne would be lovely, Anthony, and find Robert if you can drag him away?" Cora smiled warmly and Edith noted she omitted her husband's title. "We haven't toasted you and Edith yet!"

Taking an iron grip on any wayward thoughts, Edith embraced a broader version of the approach she hoped she could manage with Mary. No fighting. Nothing that matters. Just be civil, then go home.

"That's very kind of you, Mama."

Gwen would finally get to live her dream. Matthew left and all of Mary's hopes fell apart, her Papa visibly bit his tongue as he toasted her sister's elopement as if it were a great lark, and they were now at war. The traditional Downton Garden Party collapsed quickly and Sybil had clung to the one good thread that seemed through all of it.

She had her sister back. Sybil could see just how happy Edith was and it healed something in her she'd never realized was wounded. Oh, she'd always hated how Edith and Mary fought and her parents treated her blonde sister differently, but it had simply been the reality of how things had been her whole life. Sybil would regret accepting that for a while to come, but for now? Sybil could see Edith was truly happy. It shown out of her face every time she looked at her husband. A much softer sort of happiness even glittered weakly at the new way that Mama and Papa were acting and Sybil had such hopes.

She really should have known better.

They were all gathered in the library. Granny was talking to Grandma Martha and Mama about how any negative effects the war had on shipping might effect household management. Sybil thought that rather frivolous.

Edith was sitting beside her husband while he and Papa talked in low tones about the political situation, though her father was doing most of the talking while Sir Anthony listened with a thoughtful frown. Mary was standing off to the side, not speaking at all. Sybil bit her lip and tried to think of whether going to her would make it better or worse. Everyone knew what had happened. Everyone knew that Matthew had withdrawn his proposal and was leaving Downton.

"Excuse me, Sir Anthony, you have a call on the telephone." Carson's arrival, serious and wearing a perplexed expression beneath his usual polite service mask, turned every head in the room.

"Loxley?" Sir Anthony rose, frowning.

"No, sir, a Colonel Hilary-Mercer. I understand he telephoned Loxley first and they directed him here. He… made it sound urgent."

The frown on his face deepened, but it was nothing like the surprise on her Papa's or the worry that appeared on Edith's.

"Anthony, you don't think-."

"Perhaps, darling, we'll see." He was already moving towards the door. "I'd best take it directly, thank you Carson."

"Who is this colonel, Robert, I've never heard of him." Granny's imperious tones cut across the room and all eyes turned towards the earl. "Unless you know, Edith?"

"I've heard of him, but why would Edith know?" Robert asked, then went on quickly. "He's with the secret service bureau. Not really the done thing for a gentleman, but he's well-decorated and his family has a small estate in Wales."

"I don't know, because she's his wife?" Martha turned her wry gaze from her son-in-law towards her granddaughter. "Edith, have anything to add?"

Sybil turned hopefully towards her sister, but watched as Edith took a sip of the tea that had been brought in. On one hand, the fact that Edith didn't rush to offer whatever information she was asked for was probably good. Her sister seemed less desperate now, as if she wasn't, well, hungry for something nobody would feed her. On the other, Sybil watched Papa's frown nervously.

"Nothing important."

"Why don't you let us decide that, Edith?"

"If it's important, Anthony will tell you, Papa."

"Yes, but surely-."

"Do you let Anthony decide everything you say, Edith, or just what you say to us?"

Mary drawled from the fireplace, turning from the mantle and taking four slow steps closer to where Papa and Edith were sitting with her arms crossed defensively in front of her and one eyebrow raised in alluring disdain. Sybil immediately quit her chair near Mama and moved over closer to Edith. Mary was hurt. Mary felt vulnerable. This could not end well and Sybil, at least, was desperate for it not to descend into travesty.

"Mary, that was unnecessary. We've talked about this." Robert Crawley's voice, firm and parental, cut across the room. "Apologize to your sister."

Mary jerked her head, looking at her father with shock. Then her jaw clenched. Sybil wracked her brain, trying to think of anything to say.

"An apology you've been ordered to give means nothing, Papa. Let it be."

Sybil's jaw nearly dropped open and she caught her mother's surprised then delighted, eyes at Edith's response as her sister went on. Edith's lips were pressed thin and she obviously wasn't happy, but she wasn't cowering or demanding redress. She just took a sip of her tea and… went on. Mary's nostrils flared and then, to Sybil's shock… she held her tongue.

"Besides," Unfortunately, Sybil's Papa did not, "it's a good thing for a wife to appreciate and understand the need for discretion and to respect her husband's authority."

Edith let out an exasperated sigh while Martha snorted and turned to make some side comment to her waiting maid that left Granny turning to say something to her…

"Papa, thank you, but I don't need to hear your opinion about my marriage. Or anyone else's for that matter."

"Yes, the elopement made that clear, Edith." Granny added, but waved a hand. "What's done is done. We'll talk about it tomorrow at tea. Here, Edith, you know when."

Sybil began to realize that things were rapidly getting out of control. She tried to think of what to say but it was too late. Robert Grantham flushed and, in a demonstration of his complete inability to read the subtleties of a room, sat up straighter.

"I was trying to offer you a compliment, Edith. I would think that, given how often you sought them out, that you-."

"Papa, England is at war. Maybe it would be best to just preserve the peace for tonight and not discuss difficult things?" Sybil interrupted and her Mama chimed in.

"Yes, darling, let's not make today more difficult than it already was, and no-one needs to be grateful for an honestly given compliment, because that is just the truth. I need to speak to Mrs. Hughes about extending the table for dinner as well, since the party has broken up early and Edith and Anthony are staying-."

"Actually, I think it would be better if we left." Edith interrupted this time. "If Anthony's call is still going on, then something's happening he'll likely have to go to London for. We'd hoped - anyway, we should probably go home."

"Edith, I hope you and Anthony realize this is your home, as well." Cora chided gently.

"Since when?"

The side conversations, Mary's pacing back towards the mantle, all of it stopped as Edith rose to her feet. Flushed and with her dark eyes flashing, her sister stood up before all of them. Sybil gave up and sat, letting the tidal wave wash over all of them. Too late.

"Edith-."

"Don't Edith me, mother!" If anyone thought to doubt that Lady Edith Strallan had been born a Crawley, the razor sharp draw of her accent across each word she spoke should have put paid to it. The Crawley temper was alive and well in all of Lord Grantham's daughters.

"Don't take that tone with your mother."

"I'm sorry, Papa, but perhaps if you and Mama had ever decided you wanted to be my parents and to do something other than use me for Mary's whipping boy or degrade me for everyone else's amusement, I might be better disposed to considering this my home."

"Edith-."

"Do you deny it, Mama?"

Lady Cora stood up and moved, her husband coming to hover as she sat down across from her daughter, reaching for her hands and being denied.

"Edith, we know we made mistakes. I know. Your father knows."

"Knows what? That only the threat of scandal kept the lot of you from smothering me in my cradle for Mary's amusement?"

Silence reigned and even Mary looked appalled at the words that had fallen out of Edith's mouth. For her part, Edith just stood there, looking at all of them. Even the dowager had been shocked into silence. Finally, Edith spoke again.

"And?"

"And what?"

Sybil winced at her father's confused, hurt tone.

"And what about your mistakes?" Edith asked. "Mama, you're the one who said you made mistakes. Are we all just supposed to say, 'oops', and act like the way you treated me was a dropped tea tray? Like we're some happy normal family."

"Edith, it's normal for families to have problems."

"Is it normal for a family to have one sacrificial child?"

"I hope not, didn't do Agamemnon a bit of good and Greek wine is terrible." Martha drawled in the least helpful way possible, apparently unable to contain herself any longer and prompting a wince from her daughter and Granny's response.

"We're British, Mrs. Levinson, you will find we don't indulge in such theatrics."

"I don't know, Granny, this family is more theatrically inclined than most." Sybil muttered against her better judgement but Edith hadn't lost focus.

"Mama, Papa…" Edith visibly gathered herself. "You failed me and you hurt me. What do you intend to do about it?"

There was a moment of hush then. Sybil felt it raise the hair along her arms and realized that, in life, there are living moments. Moments when the choices you make wake up and creep around you, waiting for you to choose one. Like horses, you had to choose carefully, because some you could ride, some threw you, and others simply ran away while you held on for dear life.

"I - Edith," Robert stood up and stood over his daughter, falling back on the familiar projection of authority when all else failed, "you must understand."

And just like that, Sybil felt the horse arch its back.

"No, Papa, I really mustn't."

"Edith?"

Sir Anthony Strallan was frowning, and for once Sybil really was struck by how tall he was. Perhaps it was because he wasn't hunching his shoulders as he normally did. Edith's husband entered the room with a frown on his face as he looked at all and sundry, but focused entirely on his wife.

"Anthony, we're leaving."

Those blue eyes, so bright and pretty, but that Sybil had thought a little disconnected swung around the room taking in everything. She only had time to blink. Then he was nodding, offering his arm to his wife, and turning.

"Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham, thank you for hosting us."

"Edith!"

"Dammit, Strallan!"

And none of it mattered. Not parting on the weak note of the simples of good manners from Sir Anthony. Not her father's anger or her mother's regret. None of it mattered. because Sybil knew as she watched her sister walked out the door, that it would be a long time before she saw Edith in Downton Abbey again.