Vocation. The word tumbled through Anthony's mind all through the night; that is, it tumbled between his bouts of sleeplessness and torturous dreams. The dreams were not new to him, images flashing through them of people who he couldn't recognize passing through the various torture chambers he'd been subjected to while being held captive. Some of the faces felt familiar while others were alien to him. But he could not put names to any. He finally woke, anxious and sweating just as the sun began to shine through his window. Relieved that the new day was finally upon him, he sat up and tried to collect his thoughts. But of course, the only thought that his mind would grasp was that vexing word "vocation".

He tried to sift through all his conversations with Edith, tried to see her comment in a different light, grasping at anything that might convince him that he was more than a vocation to her. Oh god, how had he come to this place? How had he let himself believe that she might want a life, a future, a real future as his wife; not his nurse or some assistant but as truly his wife? But he knew the answer. How could he not have fallen for her so completely? He'd spent months staring at her picture, caressing the edges, talking to her, creating a fantasy. Of course, he had believed that his fantasy might actually become real.

Anthony shook his head disparagingly. He was a fool. Edith was young and vibrant and full of color where he was old and dull and lifeless. And he didn't know who he was or where he belonged. And then there was his arm, he thought, as he looked down at the offending appendage as if it were the enemy. What could she possibly see in him other than a project, something broken and in need of mending? Not something, someone broken, his mind reminded him. Despite the dawn of a bright and promising day, Anthony Strallan was weighed down by dark and heavy storm clouds.

Dr. Clarkson's visit later that morning didn't help Anthony's mood much. The doctor explained that the arm was as healed as it ever would be. Anthony was to continue with the exercises he had been given just to keep the circulation in the arm which would keep it from shriveling too badly. "You must keep the circulation in the limb," Clarkson explained. "Otherwise, you could lose it altogether."

Anthony didn't reply but his thought was that it wouldn't matter one way or the other.

His mood darkened more when he later stood against the balustrade overlooking the main saloon. The source of his misery, Edith, was seated at one of the tables that filled the space to accommodate feeding so many men at once. Next to her, Anthony recognized the young man claiming to be Patrick Crawley. Edith had bee agonizing for several days about the young man's claim. Dear sweet, trusting Edith seemed to believe his claim.

Anthony knew that the rest of the family had their doubts. Edith's father had spoken with Anthony a few days before. "I know your situation is different," the Earl had said, "but I thought you might help me to understand. This man, Peter Gordon, says he lost his memory as a result of his experience on the Titanic. He claims to have gotten it back because of the blast that burned him so in battle. I'll admit that I am quite confused. How can that be?" Robert Crawley looked at him with questioning eyes, almost begging for Anthony to have an answer.

"My situation is different, I believe," Anthony had finally answered. "I haven't regained my memory, to begin with. But both Dr. Clarkson and Lady Edith say that my manner hasn't changed, that I act much the same and sound much the same. I've heard the young man speak. He doesn't speak like an Englishman. But perhaps he was in Canada long enough to acquire their way of speaking. That would be unusual though, I believe. I would think there would be some trace of his British upbringing."

As Anthony stood at the balustrade thinking, he remembered Robert's expression as he thanked Anthony for listening. The Earl didn't believe this Peter Gordon's story anymore than Anthony did. Heavens, the only reason he spoke four languages as a native was that he had been raised speaking them, even spending time in those countries as a child speaking nothing but the native languages. Anthony blinked. How did he know that? He couldn't answer but he knew it was true.

Before he could explore that revelation further, there was a commotion below. Looking down, he saw young Gordon had become agitated. "Why won't they believe me?" he bellowed as he swept his food from the table. Anthony's own agitation rose as he saw Gordon's effect on Edith. He could have strangled the young man right then, even if he did have the use of only one arm. His darling Edith looked absolutely mortified in Anthony's view. He wanted to go to her and try to comfort her, but he stood in his place. After all, he was broken too and he did not want to be the lovely young woman's vocation.

She must have sensed that he was watching because she looked up at him. He stood mesmerized as she smiled at him, her entire body relaxing as she took in the smile he offered in return. How could he not smile when he realized that he was able to comfort her after all, even if from a distance? Even though his mind was warning him that he was being foolish, the rest of him just could not help but respond to her. Feeling drawn to her, he turned to make his way down when Lady Sybil approached her sister, whispering in her ear. The two hurried away quickly. For the best, you old codger, he thought. You would only make a fool of yourself.

Anthony was sitting quietly in one of the lawn chairs reading when Edith approached him later. "Hallo," she greeted him happily.

He could only look up and smile, returning her greeting, "hallo."

"I spoke with Dr, Clarkson earlier," she said softly. "He thought it might be a good idea if I were to drive you over to Locksley this afternoon."

"But why?" Inwardly he was afraid that this meant Clarkson was ready to send him home and Anthony didn't feel like he was ready, not just yet.

"Being in a familiar place, a place you knew very well before the war might jog a memory. It isn't likely, he said, but it could. And I, that is… we both thought you could perhaps do with a little time away from here."

Watching her expression Anthony recognized that it most probably had been Edith's idea. Something in that notion made him wary. Still…. "Clarkson thinks it is a good idea?" he asked.

"He does. And as I drive…." Edith sighed. "Please say yes. Even if you won't benefit from it, I certainly could use some time away from here."

Remembering the scene she had endured earlier, Anthony decided to go along with her little game. He wasn't blind though; this was most definitely a trap of some sort. "Yes, alright. When should we go?"

"Whenever you are ready," she said, looking quite relieved. "I've already taken the liberty of phoning over there and alerting the staff, not there is much of one with you having been gone. But they are expecting us."

"Yes, alright then. Well, I suppose now would be as good a time as any?"

Edith's answering smile was bright and Anthony thought she looked radiant. Could he really do that for her, make her feel that happy? No, he answered in his head; no, she was just happy to get away from Downton for a while. He tried to quell the delight that was threatening to bubble up within his own chest, however. Mustn't let this go to your head, old chap.

The ride to Locksley was cheerful with Edith driving and telling him abut her adventures as she learned to drive and then later learned to manage a tractor. She really is an amazing young woman, he mused as he listened to her stories and watched her drive. She is also quite a speed demon. We are travelling a quite the clip, he noted as he glanced at the tress that seem to be rushing by. But sitting across from her, watching her animated expressions and noting the sun glistening in her hair, Anthony thought he might never feel quite this good ever again. Perhaps she was right; perhaps it would do him good to get away from Downton for awhile.

A worn looking old butler met them at the door of a rather charming house. "Hello Oates," Lady Edith greeted the old butler.

"Good afternoon, Lady Edith," the old man returned. Then turning to Anthony, his stiff butler façade cracked slightly. "It is very good to see you again, Sir Anthony."

"Thank you…. Oates," Anthony stuttered as he recalled the old man's name. Glancing around the entry, he continued. "I'm afraid I haven't any memory of this place but apparently Dr. Clarkson thought a visit might jog something. I hope you don't mind the intrusion. I'm sure you have other you were expecting to do this afternoon."

"Not at all, Sir. I'm afraid it has been a bit boring in your absence." Pausing only an instant, the old butler continued. "I took the liberty of setting tea in the library. That always seemed to be your favorite room, Sir."

"Thank you." Anthony replied. Now if I just had a bloody clue as to the location of the library, he thought as he glanced around the hall.

"Yes, thank you Oates," Edith said quietly. "Sir Anthony and I can find our way. We'll ring if we need anything more."

Anthony marveled at her quite manner as she took complete control of the situation, both dismissing Oates and taking his arm to lead him to the room in a manner that suggested he was leading with her on his arm. It almost made him feel as if really was the master of the house…almost.