Inheritance

by QuestionableRelevance

I've always been fascinated by the fandom theory that Edith Crawley is actually Lady Rosamund's illigitimate daughter. This is my take on that in my usual verbose, meandering style. Now Rated M, for Marriage (and the things married people do).

8. Chapter 8

Author's Notes: Mary and Matthew make the kind of progress to be expected in a difficult situation. We catch up with events in Yorkshire!

General Warnings: Because this story is set during the early part of the 20th century, be prepared to occasionally run into period typical 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 Child 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.

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June 1913

"I'm so sorry, my Lady, I thought we'd have time."

"No, no, it's not your fault, Anna. You've done nothing but try and help me." Mary replied, her mouth moving around a frozen tongue and past a torpid mind. "How – do you know why the clinic let him in? They're supposed to be the soul of discretion!"

"He has a letter from Lord Grantham, Lady Mary." The blonde maid smoothed the sheets and fluttered slightly around the room, looking at her employer with tense blue eyes, her mouth pulled down in distress. "Aren't you twenty-one?"

"Like that matters to anyone!" Mary seethed and went to throw her legs off of the bed, stopping at the last moment and rearranging herself beneath the covers. Her next words pushed out past gritted teeth. "A father is a father, and a daughter is supposed to be obedient didn't you know?"

Anna's face darkened.

"Yes, my lady. I've heard it said before. The way they say it, it don't even matter if they're your real father, as long as they can have their way."

Mary's look held all the agreement needed and her dark eyes flashed. She could hear two men moving down the hallway outside the door, the sound muffled by the thick stone walls and heavy doors of the old convent. Still, pain and humiliation meant she'd recognize the shuffling tread of Docteur Maulin. She'd seen him not fifteen minutes before, forced to lay back and spread her legs as he used a great syringe to push more of the burning, stinking, medicine inside her that was killing this infection that threatened to ruin her life. At least it had had an effect. Whether the nitrate substance was working or its reek just drowned it out, as far as Mary could tell the discharge was stopping.

Matthew's tread, behind the doctor, was as it always was. Confident, open, and totally unshielded. Mary had disdained that openness, that kindness as naive and foolish from the first time she'd met him. She'd resented that someone so utterly unprepared and unattached to Downton could inherit the estate and step into the ranks of nobility after she'd spent years fighting tooth and nail for the status she had. It wasn't fair or right that he could inherit everything and the only reasons why were hanging between his legs.

Whispers in the back of Mary's mind fought a fierce battle. Her mother's voice, kind and implacable in its disappointment condemned her for her selfishness and promiscuity. The condemnation wrapped in dismissal that lived behind the otherwise gentle French doctor's mask as he treated her oh-so-very-blandly sang harmony to it. Her grandmother's encouragement to marry as quickly as possible, before anyone found out, set up its own Gregorian chant in the background. Anna's soft words and Edith's support could barely be heard over the racket, and were not given enough credence to make a difference anyway.

"Mademoiselle?"

No names were spoken at the clinic, ever. It had been something that both unnerved and relieved Mary. As the doctor knocked on the door he called her "mademoiselle" as he had in every treatment and exchange that passed between them. Likewise, he addressed his male patients – and most patients were male at the clinic – as "monsieur". Another layer of protection, but one that left Mary feeling adrift and worried. She'd always taken such pride in being a Crawley. Now, because she was sick, she was nobody.

"Please come in, doctor." Anna answered, going and getting the door as she had since her arrival.

"Thank you, Miss." Moulin's accent was thick and heavy, but his English was still clear. His expression, as always, was kind but unreadable, and what followed was as tersely informative as every other word out of his mouth. "Your father has sent this young man. I will leave you to speak, and return for your next treatment."

Moulin gestured slightly and then stepped back outside the door, leaving Matthew to step forward. He stepped quickly into the room and Anna shut the door behind him. He had a faded leather portmanteau with scratched the scratched gold initials R.C. near the handle in one hand along with a slightly abused carpetbag in the other. His hair was ruffled when he removed his hat and handed it to Anna with soft thanks, along with his coat. There was a sheen of sweat across his face.

"You forgot your bag at the station, Anna."

"I – yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Crawley."

"You're welcome."

Anna hesitated and Mary opened her mouth to think up a defense for the maid's defection and misdirection of the man, but Matthew beat her to it. He waved one hand and shook his head as he handed over the carpet bag and left the other by the door.

"Anna, everything you did was done out of loyalty."

"Then you're not angry?" Mary countered, one eyebrow arched as she hated having to say this from the horrendously vulnerable position of sitting upon the bed.

The last time she'd had to face down a man in her bedroom look what had happened!

"I'm furious." Matthew replied cheerfully, letting Anna wince before adding. "At myself, I mean, for falling for it. Let's forget it and just go on. Anna, would you step out so that I can have a word with Lady Mary?"

"I think it better if Anna stays, Cousin Matthew."

Mary watched Matthew's warm, concerned, expression harden slightly, but he nodded willingly enough.

"Of course."

Silence fell for a long moment and Mary's resolve to make Matthew break it fell to pieces under the weight of her nerves. Her patience always had been like thin ice. It would have been better not to trust it.

"What are you doing here?" Mary demanded. "And with a letter from my father?"

"Lord Grantham is afraid for you, Mary. Parents who love their children often are."

"Especially when they run off into the blue with no word as to their destination, you mean?"

"Your words, Mary, not mine."

"Well, father needn't have been!" Mary glared, still sitting and glaring up at him, because she couldn't move, and hating the disadvantage with every ounce of her being. "Oh, for God's sake, find a chair or a stool or something and stop looming in judgement."

His expression softened further, but he accepted the small chair that Anna pushed forward with only a brief word of thanks before setting it by Mary's bedside and sitting down. The trapped feeling already caging Mary tightened about her. She tilted her chin up to better look at Matthew like what he was; an interfering little busybody with no grasp of the real situation.

"Mary, you needn't look at me like that. I'm here to help you."

"And how, precisely, do you intend to do that? Did you perhaps acquire a medical degree without my knowledge?" A terrible thought occurred to her. "Y-you didn't bring your mother, did you?"

The look of utmost horror that touched Matthew's face at that idea was reassuring.

"God, no! I wouldn't inflict that on you, Mary, though I mean…" Matthew swallowed and lowered his voice and the sheer compassion in his face was like a whole legion of ants moving underneath her skin.

How dare he act like he cares so much? He barely knows me! I hardly gave him the time of day. We'd only just – just barely begun stepping out, if you can even call it that.

"Mary, please tell me that whatever you felt you had to do, you're alright." A touch of hope lit his features. "If you haven't had the – if you haven't done anything yet we could still-."

"Still what?"

"I would marry you, you know. You – you wouldn't have to hide anything. I'd protect you."

Mary stared at Matthew in shock. Inside her head she was just trying to process the offer she had just received. She ended up speaking without thought, her voice unusually mild in its incomprehension.

"Marry me?"

"Yes." Matthew said, his voice low and his blue eyes wide and bright and caring over the passionate tension of his mouth. "I would, in a trice, if you needed me to. Even if you don't love me and we don't know each other that well, I won't have you suffer because that worthless excuse for a human being – if a man like that can call himself such – hurt you, Mary."

"I – hurt me?"

"We know that you didn't let him in of our own free will. I don't believe that he didn't have something on you, or hurt you or – I don't believe it." Matthew said, his voice the rumble of thunder; distance shielding one from knowledge of disaster. "I know you better than that, Mary."

Mary underwent a strange combination of feelings at that point. Perhaps, at the root of it all, was a deep core of relief. She was still grappling with Edith's proclamation that it wasn't her fault. Yes, Pamuk had threatened her, but to Mary's way of thinking, she'd chosen to accept his attentions in order to have his silence. Along with a great deal of society, that made Mary's behavior consensual in her mind.

However, wrapped around that was a growing outrage. A sense of unfairness and furious anger that had germinated in the most unexpected garden. Mary didn't like Edith. Edith didn't care for Mary. Neither of them were ignorant of the others' feelings and Mary, above all else, had expected no assistance from her cousin-sibling. Yet, what had Edith done?

She'd immediately insisted that the fault for the tawdry exchange Mary had been through was Pamuk's. She'd called his threats to expose and blame her for everything blackmail and listed it as a crime comparable to financial or political blackmail. She'd absolved Mary and, when Mary had needed it most, offered help at great personal and financial expense without a moment's hesitation. Mary did not love her for it, but she owed her, and to a woman like Mary Crawley that was perhaps of even greater significance than affection could be. She did prize loyalty.

Guilt and outrage were covered by something else. Something that Mary hated deeply but could not control. Because overwhelming all of her other feelings was a thick shaggy coating of panic. Everything was getting entirely out of hand and all of her efforts with Edith to control the situation were coming to naught. Her secrets, which she'd wanted so desperately to keep, were falling to bits and landing hither and yonder for anyone to find. Her father knew she'd shamed herself. Matthew knew as well. Even Sir Anthony Strallan, of all people, knew everything she'd desperately wanted to keep hidden!

"If you know me so well then, cousin, I should hardly have to tell you that I neither need nor want the protection of someone's name in a case where – according to you – I've done nothing wrong!"

Was it any wonder that, beset on all sides, Mary's heart summoned its usual champion: her temper?

"Mary-."

"Don't you dare, 'Mary', me, Matthew!"

"I-."

"No!" Mary pushed herself fully upright, still keeping her thighs and knees pressed together as she'd been instructed, but glaring harshly. "I don't want to hear it and I won't listen to it. You don't even know what you're talking about!"

"I know you were hurt and now you've run here and – Mary, Mary, are you hurt? Did – did it go well? Are the doctors worried? Why won't you stand?"

The words tumbled, frightened, from Matthew's lips and it only served to make Mary angrier.

"You may write my father and tell him that I am not, nor was I ever, compromised in that way. Nothing needed taking care of, and I wasn't on my way to Switzerland." Mary pushed her shame through her teeth. "I was indisposed by a transmissible complaint due to that wretch's promiscuity, but in three weeks more I should be cured and come home to resume my life. Assuming, of course, that everyone's panic hasn't destroyed any chance of the secrecy I require to do so!"

"A trans… oh."

Mary watched, her stomach pitching like a toy ship in a toddler's bath, until she couldn't stand to. Seeing understanding break on Matthew's face was too much. She looked away. Silence stretched and Mary looked at where Anna was staring at her plain boots as if the laces held all the answers to the great questions of life.

"Gonorrhea, I presume?"

"I – beg your pardon?"

"Gonorrhea, the clap." Matthew went on awkwardly. "It's a social disease."

"I'm more than aware of that. Where do you get the nerve to-."

"Before I went to university mother put me through the worst two hours of my life and made me sit down with her and a friend who works in charitable public health clinics in the East End. There were books with photographs clearly chosen to horrify and frighten all involved. She was determined that, even if I didn't behave as a gentleman should in university, I would at least behave in 'an intelligent manner' and not make myself ill for want of 'basic and sensible precautions."

"She – Cousin Isobel sat you down and educated you in regards to venereal disease?"

"Yes, my mother had a very detailed talk with me about that subject when I was seventeen."

Mary grappled with that mental image. On one hand, she could certainly see Cousin Isobel doing it. On the other? How utterly horrifying for Matthew. Or, for that matter, for anyone's child facing something like that.

"On reflection I believe that I shall take up the same practice as a mother." Mary shifted uncomfortably, the paste inside her burning a bit more with the movement. "However, I would far prefer if we never speak of this again and you went home."

"I can hardly leave you here."

"Oh, I think you can."

Matthew's mouth opened just slightly and the little wrinkle between his brows bunched up. He looked like nothing so much as Pharoah when denied a treat. Mary felt rotten for an instant, and then angrier still for feeling so poorly.

"Mary, I gave your father my word-."

"I am twenty-one-years-old and it is neither my father nor your business what I do with myself!" Mary shot back. "Besides, what do you think is more likely to cause scandal and embarrassment? Edith and I slipping away with her taking twice the attention and my supposedly being at a reputable spa – or you and the rest of the family rushing about like a kicked hornet's nest?"

"I think-."

"Your presence, Matthew, is a far greater danger to my reputation than anything else here and I would thank you to remove it!"

Matthew gawped at her for a moment, then stood, the small chair rattling as he did so.

"I see we won't get anywhere today. I understand you're upset, Mary, and I'll be back to talk tomorrow. I'll send your father a telegram-."

"Did you near nothing-."

"I said, I will send your father a telegram saying that you're doing fine at the spa and that he overreacted." Matthew went on seriously. "That you and Edith really were just off for an irresponsible holiday, and everything is fine."

"With all that he knows now, do you think he'll believe it?"

"We agreed beforehand that "everything is fine" was to mean that you were not pregnant and nothing illegal had been done. Likewise, "overreacted" would mean to calm down lest undue attention falls on the family in Yorkshire."

"A – you and Papa agreed on a code?"

"Considering that Sir Anthony is sending his messages and letters back via his brother-in-law in political cyphers it seemed wise to employ something of the sort, yes."

"The mind boggles." Mary muttered and looked away from his searching face. "Either way, please do go, Matthew. I have treatments to receive and, frankly, would prefer to have privacy for them."

"But Anna will stay?"

"Yes, she will, unless you require a servant's assistance?"

Matthew took that bolt with a dry look, but said nothing. Reaching down he collected his bag from the door and looked around the plain little room. Mary refused to meet his eyes.

"I will be back to check on you, Mary."

"Don't put yourself out."

"For you, always."

Seething, Mary glared at the man as he took his exit. It did her very little good. When the door closed the room was still utterly bare. Anna, however, at least had the grace to step forward and move the chair over to the corner and produce some knitting. Settling back against the pillows, Mary stared at the ceiling and silently cursed everything in existence she could think of to damn properly at that moment.

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"I'm sorry I almost got you in so much trouble, Thomas."

Thomas Barrow nearly jumped out of his skin at the quiet voice at his elbow, but relaxed after shooting a brief glare at the interloper.

"Hey now, moppet, aren't you supposed to be on punishment today?"

"I am, but Edith said I could come apologize, and I am very sorry." The words tumbled like water over rocks as the little girl spoke, her voice quiet but her smoke-blue eyes intense. "I shouldn't have asked you to help me with Adrian's friend. It wasn't fair to you, and it could have gotten you into terrible trouble, and I liked to Edith and I shouldn't have done that."

Thomas, to his surprise, found he didn't have to dwell on his answer. A part of his mind was twisting it, seeing if he could get something out of it, but that was just what that part of his mind did. The largest part? Just smiled crookedly down at the kid and carried on as he reached out to tug sharply on the liver colored plait hanging down her back.

"Ah well, I knew what I was getting into. I could have told your sister just as well."

"You know we're not upset about any of it, right?"

Your sister's got me under the microscope, so I hate to tell you that 'upset' might not be the best word.

"Or," Adelaide Kavanaugh went on, her voice quiet and earnest, "that it's not any different than Adrian. There's nothing wrong with you, either, and Edith thinks so too!"

Barrow had to swallow past the lump that was forming traitorously in his throat. Clearing the blockage away, he cast a quick glance from side to side. He'd been given a small room to work in, tucked away and secluded in the bowels of the hotel. It was here he was trying to put together the travel itinerary that would take the moppet, her sister, and himself to Austria. As it was, it was nearly noon and he'd had some luck and was starting to get a feel for the thing of it, but that didn't mean the room was the best place for this conversation. At least, if I can't avoid it altogether.

"I know, Addie." He agreed quietly and, after a moment's indecision, offered up a smirk and lied. "Then again, I've always known there's nothing wrong with me. It's the world that could stand a bit of work."

The kid smiled back, looking concerned and earnest, her eyes large in her thin face.

"And you know that Sir Anthony didn't mean anything awful and won't do anything bad, right? He was just worried because of all the money we took out."

I don't know any damned thing. That man is a menace and a danger wrapped in bad tweed and pretending to be harmless.

"Of course, I do." Thomas agreed blithely. "Has Sir Anthony come over to visit, yet?"

"Yes, he and Edith are talking now. That's why I was allowed to come down." The child sent him a look that was positively martyred. "We're going to be doing lessons all day. Mostly math and piano."

"Well, that's what makes it punishment, I suppose. Why do you hate Piano so much anyway, moppet?"

Thomas' mind was racing ahead even as he prompted a familiar series of complaints. As Addie expounded on the fact that she didn't hate playing piano, she hated playing boring music, which was the only kind anyone ever wanted her to practice. This included a complaint about how Europeans had no appreciation for the obvious value of ragtime and that everyone over the age of fifteen was stuffy and tiresome.

Barrow's mind was elsewhere, focused on his situation. He felt as if he was standing on tip-toe on the edge of a razor. Yes, on one hand, he had it better than he'd had in his life, but only if the Quality were being honest. To his complete surprise… he genuinely believed that Edith Kavanaugh was. She'd been furious over some of the confession she'd dragged out of him in the midst of his shock, but she'd given her word and… he thought she'd keep it. If he kept himself honest this time, he'd keep his job, and they wouldn't give a damn if he was bent.

That reminded him…

"Addie, how well do you remember your mother?"

The little girl blinked up at him in surprise, then smiled shyly.

"Not perfectly, but I do remember. Edith helped me, and my brothers." Addie explained. "She was their stepmama, technically, but Mama raised them too from when they were little. I was just the only one of Mama and Daddy's babies that survived."

"You've told me that before. I meant… what was she like?"

Thomas couldn't quite help the curiosity there. Not when Miss Edith had specifically credited her with the understanding attitude she gave what most of society would deem his perversion. Then again, how much could a child remember about a parent they'd lost when they were barely seven?

"I look a lot like my Mama." Addie went on happy, sitting down on a stool near the plain deal table where Thomas had his notes and several brochures and three big index books spread out. "She had hair that was thick like mine, but hers was more a dark brown rather than a dark red like mine is. Papa's hair was the same color as Edith's before it turned gray, and his Mama had bright red hair."

Thomas decided to keep things from heading off on a tangent and put his elbows on his knees, thinking through the usual paths of keeping a ten-year-old girl on track when talking about family.

"What was your Mama's favorite song?"

"Mama used to sing 'My Wild Irish Rose' to Papa in the kitchen after dinner, if we didn't have any guests. He'd talk to her and dry the dishes while she washed and sang."

Thomas blinked at that. He'd heard Adelaide say before that her mother had done more around the house, on nights when it was just the family, than you'd expect of a millionaire's wife. He'd brushed that off, mostly, as Kavanaugh trying to make his family seem as if he hadn't clawed his way up the ladder. The mental image, however, of a once-actress singing and washing dishes as her husband, the millionaire dried… well, it was hard to wrap his head around. Addie was going on, however, visibly warming to the subject.

"Mama always said that she made her best friends in the theatre, but that you had to be careful because not all friends are real – especially in the theatre."

"Did she now?"

"Yes."

"What did your father think of her theatre friends?"

"Some of them he liked, some of them he didn't."

"Did you meet a lot of her friends?"

"No, they usually met them when Daddy and Mama were in the city. Daddy didn't take many visitors in Annapolis, and if he did, it was a special occasion and I had to go to bed early. Edith used to sit up with me and we'd read because she wasn't old enough for parties yet, though Edith always said that she'd have been too young for parties at forty if Daddy had his way."

"What did your Daddy say to that?"

"Usually he agreed with her."

Thomas snorted lightly at that, but he felt the painting in his head of the family that the girl sitting beside him had lost expanding. The more he learned of it, the more of a bloody contradiction it was. A father who had moved heaven and earth to get his bastard child home and then put her through university on the basis she'd wanted it. A man who'd wash dishes with his wife, the retired actress, yet would turn around and take her up to Manhattan for social events among Society even as he shamelessly stifled his daughters with overprotection.

I can bet which 'friends' from the theatre that old Kavanaugh disapproved of. Any men too handsome, too fast, or too precious for him to feel comfortable around. I'd put money on Katherine Bauer knowing that her stepson was an invert and supporting him, teaching him to keep it quiet. No wonder he figured he'd wait out his old man; he loved him, but knew where to draw the line to keep his nest feathered.

"Thomas?"

Barrow shook himself out of the brown study he'd fallen into and reached out to ruffle Adelaide's hair, getting his hand swatted at for his trouble.

"Am I bothering you?"

"Only a bit. Got a lot to do." Thomas shrugged and offered up a half-smile. "You should probably head up, Sir Anthony and your sister are probably done talking by now."

None of which changes that the baronet is a danger to me given what he knows and how the self-righteous bastard and his smug valet act.

"Oh, and Addie?"

She turned to look at him, all big trusting eyes and Thomas clamped down on the tiniest flare of guilt. If Strallan and his valet had their way he'd be straight out of his job. Then who would look after the moppet?

"Ask your sister if I shouldn't be planning for guests too, since Sir Anthony's come this far with us, hm?"

Addie smiled as if that was a brilliant idea, and nodded, setting off at a jog to head back upstairs. Turning his mind back to his list of who to telephone to arrange for what, Thomas Barrow smiled sharply to himself. It was hardly mischief when it was such a necessary question, was it?

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"Robert, I can understand why you are angry at me." Cora took a deep breath and spoke quietly as she dismissed O'Brian from her boudoir and followed her husband back into their bedroom, where he was hunting for something he'd misplaced in drawers of the 17th century console table standing beneath the window. "You must know that I kept the secret out of love for both you and Mary. Above everything else she was beside herself at the belief that she would be reduced in your eyes."

"I'm not angry about that, Cora. Or, well, not any longer."

"Then why are you so quiet."

"Worry, horrendous, unquestionable, overwhelming anxiety!" The earl of Grantham bit out as he shut one of the delicate drawers a shade too quickly and a shade too hard and caught his longest finger in it. "Damn!"

"Oh, darling, come here!"

A moment later and Cora had coaxed her husband into sitting beside her on the bed, his hand wrapped in hers. He'd only bruised the finger slightly, it would be fine. It was his feelings she was concerned with.

"All I can think about is that I let this happen to her in our home, then everyone blamed her for it."

Cora closed her eyes.

"Did – Cora, I don't blame you given everything, but did you ask?"

"Yes, more than once, Mary – Mary made it sound as if it was her own choice." Cora swallowed. "But I should have kept at it. We both know Mary's pride. She'd rather be vilified than vulnerable, and I just – I accepted the idea that she'd indulged herself at the price of her honor without question."

"It's our own fault. We've always let her be too masterful. Too proud of her beauty and pride by half, isn't that what your head-shrinker said?"

"Yes, and he was speaking of us, though I do like to think we've made some progress." Cora felt her lips turning up at the corners. "If nothing else has been achieved here, at least look on the bright side, darling."

"And what precisely might that be?"

"Edith and Mary did work together rather well, didn't they?"

Despite himself, and clearly displeased with it, Cora's husband smiled at her. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and curled up against his side as his arm came around her shoulder. Cora took a moment then just to thank God to have all of her family again, even if not all under one roof as she wished.

"I'm just… I'm so damned afraid for her and I can't do a think about it." He finally murmured into her hair.

"It will be alright. Matthew already said he'd do whatever he has to, to keep Mary safe. You know he means it."

"I do, but that's what I'm half afraid of some moments."

"What do you mean?"

Robert surprised Cora by standing then. He quit her arms to pace restlessly in front of the windows in his suit. He'd planned, Cora knew, to take some time and go up to York on business. Glancing at the clock she wondered if he was going to make it.

"We both thought that Mary might be – be pregnant." The last two words were whispered. "And about to do something precipitous to avoid the shame of it. Matthew's… grandly sacrificial promise in that regard runs rather contrary to the information we have now, don't you think?"

"I fail to see how. Sick or pregnant, if Mary were wed then her reputation would be far more secure, Robert."

"Yes, but the title might not be, Cora."

"What are you talking about?"

Robert Crawley looked to his wife, biting his lip and shaking his head slightly to himself as he paced. Finally, he stopped and stood at attention before her, his hands coming to rest at the small of his back. Cora immediately felt her own hackles raise. She'd never had a decent conversation with her husband when he felt the need to adopt parade rest just to get the words out.

"Complaints like Mary's shameful situation aren't just transitory, Cora. Not always. Yes, thank God her current indisposition is curable. That said, the methods they use can be – they can be harsh."

"I'm fain to ask you how you know the specifics, husband."

Robert flushed and narrowed his eyes, huffing out a breath.

"I never indulged in low women, my time in the army aside, Cora, so you were never at risk. The – the military merely insists a man in command have some knowledge of it so he can handle it when the inevitable comes up!"

Cora, despite herself, barked out a laugh. Her husband's blue eyes widened and he puffed up as he caught onto his accidental pun. Cora started to giggle.

"Cora, be serious!"

"I'm trying to, darling, but then you go and say things like that!"

"Cora, you are the Lady Grantham and you need to get your mind out of the gutter!"

"Well, you took it there, Robert, it's hardly my fault it's keeping bad company!"

Her husband managed to look serious for a moment longer then huffed out a reluctant chuckle, that became a full laugh, and, finally, he sat down beside her again, linking their hands.

"Cora, seriously, I am concerned."

"I know, darling, but you said yourself that it's curable."

"Yes, but – well… those cures, they can have a very negative effect on a woman's fertility. Or, rather, that's what I've been told."

Cora looked at her husband in surprise. It took a full thirty seconds for her to realize what he was saying. It took another ten to put together the full meaning. Taking her hand back, she slid further away from him and turned sideways on the bed to face him.

"Robert, am I to gather that your concern isn't for the painful and humiliating treatments your daughter is going through, or her reputation, but the – the idle thought and distant possibility that she might some day in the distant future endanger the succession?"

"I – well, I – if she marries Matthew-."

"As far as I know she has no plans to do so, but if she does I would have thought you would be thrilled! You dote on the boy as if he was your own son and I had thought you utterly adored our daughter!"

"I do, Cora, listen to me! If they end up together, I would have everything I hope, but you have to understand my concerns!"

"I would, if those concerns were for our children!"

"Cora, I am concerned."

"You didn't even entertain the thought of standing up for Mary over the entail, but I thought that was merely an expression of your traditionality. I hadn't-."

"Cora, listen to me! No, listen to yourself! You agreed with me over the entail not that long ago, something I should add that we both now know was motivated by your appraisal of Mary as too irresponsible and impulsive to hold the title!"

"That was before I had all of the information!"

"I would counter that."

"With what?"

"If Mary had truly been responsible, she would have sought medical assistance immediately, not months after the fact. She also would have accepted her shame and turned to her parents or grandmother for help when she was in need, not a younger sister – no, cousin – whose own past and reputation is perilous."

"She was young and frightened, and you know as well as I do that we never speak of these things nor tell young ladies about them!"

"For a reason! As has been demonstrated, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!"

"Really? Because I would say that this entire situation could have been avoided with less ignorance on all of our parts." Cora's temper flared right back, and she stood up, poking her husband roughly in the chest with her finger.

"Cora-."

"Don't Cora me, Robert Crawley! I would remind you that I wanted to give the girls' the keys to their rooms so that they could have privacy, but you said it would just encourage them to keep secrets."

"Yes, but you are also who invited Evelyn Napier and that blasted Turk into this house!"

"Yes, I did, and I will regret it until the day I die. I, however, also wanted to put aside money for trusts for all of our daughters when they were younger if you recall. Trusts that would make it far less essential for the girls to marry soon and marry well!"

"Cora, I told you that the estate couldn't afford to have that set aside then! We were retrenching in our early marriage and we had to be mindful of everything we spent."

"Yes, Robert, we did, and now what? It's been twenty years since our marriage and my fortune is still utterly supporting this estate! What happened to making the farms more independent?"

"Cora, you don't understand how estates are run and we both know it!"

"Yes, and I acknowledge it. I'm not telling you what to do, I am asking why this thing we both agreed on never happened?"

As expected, Cora's husband just stared at her without an answer. He never had been able to tell her why their daughters' couldn't have trusts set up. He never had managed to explain to her what was stopping him from reorganizing the farms, or what he was doing to make the estate more successful. Cora knew part of the fault lay with her refusal to press him on the subject, but at that moment she couldn't bring herself to take the responsibility for deciding to be obedient to the point of handing over her fortune and her life to her husband all those years ago.

"Either way, Robert, our daughters have been raised ignorant of the steps needed to protect themselves when the worst happens. They have been raised ignorant of economy and income, for which I will take some responsibility. They've been sheltered so that they are ignorant of the perilousness of their situation in the event of your death. Can't you see what I'm saying here?"

"Yes, of course I can, Cora, but have you considered that I don't agree with you?"

"Oh?"

"Yes! It's our job as parents, especially mine as a father, to shelter the women in my family from the harsh truths of the world."

"And yet let's take a moment to compare which of the children we raised seems more capable of dealing with them? Mary and Sybil, who took the invincibility of rank and youth into bed and a riot alternately, or Edith, who we failed to love properly and who threw herself into danger and scandal and has come out of it with a college education and confidence enough to raise a small child on her own?"

"Cora, you know that is not a fair assessment!"

The truth was that Cora did. Edith was by no means perfect, and Cora had watched, silently, and refused to offer up any censure in those moments for the last few months where Edith had noticeably stumbled in her pursuit of life and adulthood. How could she risk offering any kind of advice or being seen as hostile when it had taken so very long simply to be called Mama again by the girl she'd raised?

So, Cora hadn't said anything when she'd seen Edith letting Adelaide run a bit wild. She'd even, she admitted with some chagrin, backed her up against Violet on several occasions when she should not have. The same as true about Edith's racing about in that car her brothers had gotten her. While it would have been cruel and wrong to suggest Edith give the vehicle up, a gentle insistence that she take a better chaperone with her than her ten-year-old sister, or not go about alone with Sir Anthony should have been the very least that Cora was doing as a mother.

She'd done none of that, however. Just as she'd helped Mary get a dead man out of her bed. Just as she's encouraged Sybil's rebellion against her father and her interest in suffrage. Quietly, subversively, as Cora had always found it was the best way to oppose authority in general, she'd worked for what she wanted in the way she always had been taught to work for what she wanted while still being a Lady.

Now, well, Edith should have known better than to race off the way she did! As soon as she realized Mary's complaint she should have let her parents' know what was happening. Then, well, they could have made more proper arrangements just as quickly, or nearly so. Violet could have gone to the spa in France, or Rosamund could – God knew she owed them – and nobody would have whispered a word of question with Mary tagging along. Instead they had this to contend with and the only way they could deal with it was by acting as if it was youthful high spirits! Which, really, wasn't much better than outright scandal to begin with!

"Fair or not, I stand by it, Robert." Cora smoothed her hands over her skirt. "We won't get anywhere arguing, though, so perhaps its best if we don't discuss it any further."

"I find I quite agree."

Cora refused to let him loom over her and turned to a mirror to check her hair, knowing the dismissive gesture annoyed him during a quarrel.

"Well, in that case, I'll go on with my day then. Have a nice time in York, darling."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Granny what are we supposed to be doing right now?"

"I am teaching and you, should you choose to apply yourself, Sybil, are learning."

"And what, precisely, am I learning?"

"A great many things about how one lives within our world. Now do stop fidgeting."

Lady Sybil Crawley shot a sharp look at her grandmother, but it had all of the effect you would expect upon that formidable lady. She was wearing her least comfortable tea dress. The visiting dress was, in her opinion, entirely too much lace and white fabric and sweet little bits of embroidery. Coupled with a broad pale straw hat onto which a plethora of fresh spring flowers had been pinned that morning by Gwen, Sybil felt like some pointlessly virginial fashion plate or a walking cliché.

"Granny, you don't even like Sir Hugh Gervais, or his wife and you most certainly don't like their guests."

"Sybil, please do not pretend ignorance. I have neither the time nor the patience for it today. Now, perhaps you can tell me why I've invited you along, hm?"

Sybil stared at her grandmother. Lady Violet had rousted her youngest granddaughter from a comfortable nook in the library where she'd settled with a series of suffrage pamphlets that Branson had been kind enough to get for her in town. Without a word of encouragement or justification, she'd had Gwen under orders in less than three minutes and Sybil found herself sharing the redheaded maid's mystification as Sybil found herself poured and then bound up in a stiffer corset than was her wont and then wrapped in lace and fine linen.

Sybil wanted to tell her grandmother that she had no idea what was going on. She also wanted to have a good pout and complain a bit. She certainly hadn't wanted to be hauled off to a morning visit at Mrs. Henry Evans' home. The MP's widow was very nearly Granny's age and was extraordinarily active in various charities and social events a bit below them on the social scale from her comfortable home in York.

Sybil also wanted to know what was going on, so she answered honestly.

"You either want me to see what you're doing and learn how to do it myself, or my presence is somehow going to help you get whatever it is you want from Mrs. Evans and her guests."

"Very good. Now, a more difficult question. What do you believe that anyone at a long-dead MP's widow's sad little false chateau could possibly have to offer a Countess?"

"Information."

Sybil didn't even have to think on that.

"On whom?"

That was more difficult, and for a bare moment Sybil had no answer. Then a light went off behind her eyes. Sybil sat up as a miserably boring day suddenly seemed slightly less so.

"You want to see what people are saying about Edith and Mary because Mrs. Chetworth wouldn't tell you anything."

Sybil had not yet had a chance to go to Loxley and find out if Mrs. Chetworth might say more to her than her parents and grandmother, sadly. She caught her grandmother's eye, expecting approval to shame back at her. Instead, she got a sardonic eyebrow tucking itself beneath the band of the dowager's considerable hat.

"Close, Sybil, but not quite. Try again."

"What do you mean? Who else would they be gossiping about that would interest you?" Sybil sat back and crossed her arms. "Granny, you hardly care what anyone thinks, or what anyone's saying unless it's of use or harm to the family!"

"Don't do that thing with your arms, child, it makes you look like some frustrated Irish nurse."

Sybil uncrossed her arms, but not before catching Branson's sympathetic and slightly amused glance in the mirror. At least someone's having fun.

"Fine, but Granny, you know I'm right!"

"About my opinions? I'm afraid you'll need at least another forty years of living to come even close to understanding that, my dear, but do keep thinking. As I said, you are close."

Sybil was about to argue further when she sat back. Instead of arguing, she thought. She also nibbled lightly on her lip as she did so. Both she and the dowager missed their driver's appreciative glance in regards to that when it flickered briefly in the mirror.

"Are you – Granny, you asked about Sir Anthony before. Are you trying to find out what people are saying about him?"

"Better."

"Yes, but why?" Sybil looked at her and her grandmother huffed slightly, gesturing with her hand as if beckoning in a misbehaving spaniel that had wandered too far from the appropriate lap.

"I'm hardly going to do all the work for you, Sybil. Do think on the situation."

"I'm happy to, Granny, as it is far better than being left in ignorance of it!"

"You will note that I corrected your parents' efforts to leave you in the dark, I hope, before taking that tone of accusation with me, young lady."

"I'm sorry, Granny, but it would help if you would point me in the right direction."

"Tell me why it is important that we know what is being said about Edith and Mary."

"Well, that's obvious!" Sybil shook her head slightly in wonder at the simplicity of the question. "If we know what people are saying we can either counter it, or at least prepare a response to it. Hopefully we can control it entirely."

"Yes, but it's always foolish to base one's life on hopes rather than reality. Now, apply that same logic to Sir Anthony Strallan's current actions."

Sybil considered it and, only a moment later, flushed.

"He has been acting a bit unlike himself, hasn't he?"

"Oh?"

"Well, he's been the very soul of a gentleman with Edith. She's told me so, and of course Mama and Papa trust him in their courtship even when they're alone."

"And do you think courting a young lady of Edith's age without a chaperone is normal for a man of Sir Anthony's character?"

Sybil paused and blinked.

"I… hadn't actually considered it. I mean, I simply couldn't imagine him doing anything inappropriate."

"Neither could I nor anyone else with sense. Their entire family was like that and his father – well, he was the most dreadful stick-in-the-mud in Yorkshire. I have no idea how he and his wife – who was the most appallingly modern woman – managed to get through life without tearing each other's eyes out! Let alone be the tiresomely devoted couple that they were. Utter nonsense."

Sybil reflected to herself that she needed to talk to Mrs. Chetworth more often. She was interested in hearing about a couple that involved a boring gentleman and a modern young woman. Be honest, Sybil, you're just interested in hearing about a happy marriage of your grandparents' generation. Grandpapa and Granny got along well enough, but calling them 'happy' would not have been honest. Not the least because it implied that their lives intersected more than they did…

"Well, if no-one can manage to picture Sir Anthony doing anything inappropriate, Granny, I would think you'd be relieved. That means there will be fewer questions, doesn't it?"
"Credulity only stretches so far, and when it breaks, Sybil, people become curious."

"Oh." Sybil felt a snake of misgiving slither up her spine and coil about the stiff collar of her dress. "Granny, you mean… you think that with him rushing off after Edith people will be more inclined to gossip now? That it puts Mary and Edith in danger…"

"See, Sybil, you're learning already." The Dowager offered up a pleased smile, then turned and frowned out the window. "The simple fact is that we need more information, and we need to begin considering the best way to handle whatever we find out."

"Handle how?"

"We shall decide that after we gather the information."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Diana Chetworth reflected that it was just her luck that she'd barely settled in and got comfortable on Mrs. Evans' sofa when the Dowager Countess Grantham swept into the room like a vulture on the wing with Lady Sybil following her like a recalcitrant swan in poor company. There really was no escaping that woman if you were in Yorkshire, just as her Mama had once complained.

"Lady Grantham, I'm so glad to see you!" Mrs. Evans stood with what grace her age and a bad hip leant her and walked over to collect the required greeting from her unexpected guest. "And this must be one of your charming granddaughters! Lady Mary, I see you finally grew into your chin!"

Diana raise her teacup to hide her smile and cut a sideways look at Claudia Gervais. Sir Hugh's wife met her look with dancing eyes and Diana decided that the visit might not be that miserable after all. If anyone could deal with the dowager it was Elaine Evans. She hadn't clawed her way up from being a gasfitter's daughter to an MPs wife for nothing, let alone become one of the most active people in the county in terms of charity without having an iron spine. The fact that she had once been one of Anne Strallan's bosom friends didn't hurt, either.

"Actually, I'm Lady Sybil, ma'am?" Sybil, at least, seemed to be having fun as she greeted her hostess and got a breezy smile in return.

"Oh, are you? Well, yes, you do look more like your mother. Fortunate thing really, though it is a pity about your sister's chin. I suppose that's what happens when you inherit that Crawley jaw, however. Far better thing for sons than daughters, don't you think so, Lady Grantham?"

"Having had one of each, I can say so."

"Though, if I do recall, your daughter Lady Rosamund favored you rather heavily. I don't recall her looking a bit like your lord husband."

Diana maintained her facial expression only through her long years as a diplomat's wife. Beside her, Lady Gervais' shoulders shook just visibly. Lady Sybil's eyes widened a bit then, as she was invited to do so, she took a seat and settled in to watch the ensuing social battle. Diana and Claudia, though decades older than the young lady, settled in to do the same. A clash of titans, when it happened, was a thing not to be missed.

"Oh, I don't know, she did have my husband's eyes. Then again, some things do tend to slip the mind as we get older and I would understand your own unfamiliarity with children, dear, as I know you had none of your own."

Mrs. Evans' smile was all sweetness and light.

"Yes, and sometimes I count myself rather lucky! Children can be such a trial, can't they?"

"Oh, I've always held that those moments are what nurses are for." The Dowager turned and the other ladies present. "But we are being rude. It's been nearly a year, Lady Gervais, how is your husband?"

"Oh, Hugh is just as he always is, bless him, and our boys are both in university now so it's blessedly quiet about the house." Claudia wasn't one to miss a moment, just as Diana had known she would be. "Do the earl and your daughter-in-law have any plans to travel?"

"Oh, you know what a homebody Robert is." Lady Grantham replied. "Nothing like his father. Lord Grantham and I traveled quite a bit in our early marriage. The young do like to see the world, even though it is inevitably just to discover that the only differences are in the wallpaper and the statuary."

"Speaking of, aren't your granddaughters abroad?"

Diana bit her tongue and tried not to curse. She should have known. She'd ventured out despite every instinct telling her to enjoy the summer with her boys while she still had it. Loxley in the summer was so lovely, and it was home and with all the traveling they did it often felt as if her childhood there had become ancient history; no more present than the pyramids. Archie was bound to get a distant assignment soon, too, and then they'd have to leave at least David in Harrow and travel who knew where with only Anthony in England to keep an eye on her eldest rascal…

But the fact remained that, despite her considerable similarity to her mother, Diana Chetwood was still Diana Strallan at heart. Her father's blood never would have forgiven her the lapse of duty it would have been to stay entirely at home and play with her children at a time like this. As such, she'd set out to find out what Anthony's friends really were saying about his absence. She'd already fielded a few curious telephone calls – usually delivered at the volume of a person not sure how to wrangle the new technology – and three morning visits. Anthony lived a very quiet life in Loxley, but he was a man with a great many friends and no few were already curious after hearing that he'd taken up courting a young woman half his age, and that was before they'd heard it was that Miss Edith Kavanaugh being courted!

"Yes, I'm afraid that both the girls' nerves were entirely shot with all that's happened in the last few months."

"Oh?"

Mrs. Tabitha Kirby was a veritable annoyance in Diana's opinion. In her early thirties she'd married Mr. Kirby despite the fact that he was closer to seventy than he was sixty at the time of their nuptials. Her grown stepchildren quite hated her, but she was utterly comfortable in her husband's very fine house and with his tidy little fortune in textiles.

She was also, however, a good barometer of what people were saying in Yorkshire in general. As nobody particularly liked the fortune hunter no-one of any value passed on decent information to her. What she found, she gleaned from the general talk of the county. It was why Mrs. Evans had invited her and Diana settled in unhappily to hear what she had to say.

"Yes." The Lady Grantham sipped at her tea and turned towards the younger woman with a look that managed to wipe the open, bloodthirsty curiosity right off of the partridge-plump Mrs. Kirby's face and replace it with one rather reminiscent of an underfed and morose greyhound. "Why do you ask, dear? France is hardly a journey to Japan these days, and we all know that the young are just clamoring for the Orient. I really don't understand what's wrong with a proper continental tour. That was more than enough in my day."

"Oh, I think it would be quite interesting to see parts of the world so different from home, Granny, for the variety if nothing else."

Diana blessed Lady Sybil and smiled, leaning forward to change he subject. She'd be happy to hear whatever the gossipmonger were peddling, but she had a terribly bad feeling about the Countess. Normally the dowager wouldn't even acknowledge someone like Mrs. Kirby. Now? She was actively speaking to her. It just wasn't normal…

"I have to agree. Archie's work has taken us all over the empire. We even spent time in Hong Kong of all places, that first year we were married, and I must tell you that it is really quite unlike anything you can experience even as far east as Istanbul."

"Which is really quite amazing. When Hugh and I were young we went to Istanbul, and it really is so very odd next to Paris or Milan or even Rome, and both places have a very strong sense of religious history about them. Though not as much as Jerusalem. Have you ever been, Diana?"

"No, but I have been to Egypt. Lady Sybil, didn't your parents go there on their honeymoon?"

"Yes, and you have no idea how much I've wished since then that I redirected them elsewhere. It quite went to Robert's head." Lady Grantham replied dryly and turned back to Mrs. Kirby, having effortlessly drawn all attention to her. "Mrs. Kirby, I believe you were going to ask me something? Forgive me, my hearing isn't what it once was. I do have trouble separating conversation when they're all going on at once these days."

"Oh, no, entirely understandable!" Kirby simpered and leaned forward in her seat. "I was asking after your poor granddaughters. I do imagine they must have been rather shaken with that awful business with that Turkish diplomat back in March."

"Yes, quite." Lady Dowager took a sip of her tea and blew all of Diana's expectations into tiny pieces. "You won't mind telling you, of course, that I'm quite displeased with where doing our diplomatic duty went."

Mrs. Evans cast a single look toward Diana, and then surprised her by leaning forward.

"My dear, I had wondered about Lady Grantham inviting that fellow along with Evelyn Napier. He is, of course, an utter sweetheart of a boy."

"Yes, you are his godmother, Mrs. Evans, aren't you?"

"I'm that lucky, yes. He and his mother have been friends for years. We were all in the literary society, you know." The older woman's smile was genuine as she turned towards Diana. "Your mother, Anne, myself, and Beatrice. We had such fine times in those days, and were quite rebellious you know."

The last was directed at Lady Sybil, who chanced a smile.

"Were you?"

"Oh, terribly. We even went to political rallies." Her eyes wrinkled. "You must get Diana to tell you the story of the one her mother got poor Phillip to take her to in their second year of marriage that ended in a fist fight."

"He swore he'd never go to another afterward, but he was still escorting Mama to them when I was little." Diana laughed in warm memory, putting away the bittersweet tinge of sadness that always came when one thought of a loved one lost. It was easier to do with Lady Sybil smiling at her in delight. "So, just take that as instruction, Sybil. Do marry a husband that knows his place in the scheme of things."

"A statement I approve of in terms of content, if not delivery." The dowager drawled.

"Yes, but you were speaking of diplomacy, my lady?"

Kirby, of course, would not be put off by any number of polite subject divergences. Diana hid a frown behind her teacup and caught Claudia's eye. The other woman was becoming curious as well and Diana felt a shiver of unease. What was that rotten old dragon up to? You'd think she'd want to talk about anything else.

"Well, we've already got them to sign the papers and sent them back across the Mediterranean, so I doubt it much matters now, but the fact of the matter is that we were doing Mr. Napier a favor and the government one besides." The Dowager waved a hand. "You know how it is when some young fellow without a brain in his head inserts himself into politics and, because of his father, he must be allowed to come along."

"Oh, yes, of course."

Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but Claudia perked up.

"That does actually make perfect sense. My Hugh is more involved in industry, mind you, but he did say that Mr. Pamuk, God rest his soul, was more of a hinderance than a help to negotiations. Getting him out of London might have been better for everyone."

"Things did wrap up more quickly afterward." Diana allowed, catching the dowager's eye and silently sending across a query she doubted would be answered.

To her utter shock, the woman tilted her head just barely noticeably in acknowledgement.

"It's little wonder considering that the man killed himself under our roof. One can only imagine what would have happened had he chosen to abuse such substances somewhere more delicate, right in the midst of negotiations rather than a hunt!" Violet Crawley could project entire storm fronts of disapproval when she chose and her mounting disdain spread out like dark clouds all across the ceiling of the room, throwing the ladies into willing shadow as they absorbed it. Lowering her voice, she added. "He put away a terrible lot of brandy after dinner, Robert said, and had asked for vodka, of all things, to be sent up to his rooms after. Then, well, I'm sure you've all heard that he was found with a great bottle of powdered cocaine, nearly empty."

"No!" Mrs. Kirby didn't even have the sense to pretend to know, she was so spellbound in finding out such a thing.

"Yes! We had quite a job hushing it up." The lady in question turned her seamed lips into a moue of displeasure and then waved a hand, dispersing the clouds. "But there's no sense in discussing it anymore. The whole household was distressed, weren't they Sybil."

"We'd never had anyone die at home before, Granny." Sybil agreed instantly, not nearly dull enough to miss where it was going now. "And, of course, Mary blamed herself since Papa had asked her to keep him distracted so he wouldn't cause trouble."

"Distracted?"

"A bit of flirtation, always with a servant watching you understand, as you cannot trust a man who swears to God never to pollute his body with intoxicants and then does so to the point of death."

"I agree entirely, my lady."

"Well, that's an excellent reason for young ladies to travel." Claudia added, her eyes bright. "So, it was an anticipated trip?"

"Oh, quite. Edith had planned to take her younger sister to Austria to see her mother's people since before she returned to us from the States." Sybil answered instantly, her eyes bright. "She was going to leave originally in July, though."

"Yes, but then she had to change plans." Diana laughed softly and joined in the minimization of everything.

Despite herself, she was impressed. After all, Diana had assumed that secrecy would be the Crawley's guiding principle for the next few months, or at least until they got the girls back and well settled. It was the most obvious solution.

There was an undeniable brilliance in throwing up an entirely new cloud of confusion to replace their own befuddlement with the situation. One that, honestly, would likely be more effective than just passing the whole thing off as nothing and carrying on. Diana herself wouldn't have done it, but the more she thought about it, the more she could see the sense in it.

While it was far from decent to besmirch the character of a dead man, it wasn't like Pamuk had any character to besmirch. He had been a hypocrite who happily indulged in all manner of vice while still hiding behind his rank and position in Turkey. He'd also been the kind of soulless bastard who would defame a young woman in her own bed after blackmailing her to get there. While Archie would no doubt groan at the diplomatic tangle this might create, Diana doubted it would cause much trouble. The man was months dead, he had died of a congenital heart defect compounded by alcohol and cocaine, and the treaty they were after was signed and sealed. The Turkish embassy would offer a token protest and life would go on with the gossips happy to eviscerate Pamuk's character and speak of how good the Crawleys were to manage the blackguard so the government could get things done.

"Why did she change plans?" Claudia finally asked, turning to Diana with the openly curious expression and warmly teasing countenance she'd been expecting all evening. "The last time I checked Anthony was going red about the ears if we so much as mentioned the charming young lady."

"Miss Kavanaugh, you mean?" Mrs. Kirby, of course, was all but drooling as she sat up straighter in her seat, her ample behind wriggling on the poor cushion beneath it. "I had heard that Lady Rosamund's daughter was back, of course, and I do hope she's well? I mean, so many very distressing things have happened to her… Though I hear she was very well-compensated for them through her father's estate."

"One does not imagine that any number of millions can replace the bulk of one's family dying in the space of a week, Mrs. Kirby."

Mrs. Evan's words, spoken in a low and level tone, carried more threat than a proper broadside did in Nelson's day. Mrs. Kirby paled beneath her excessive facial powder. The dowager took a sip of her tea and picked swept aside the silence with a tiny smile, her blue eyes sharp and bright with pleasure at the opening.

"Oh, Edith's certainly comfortable, as that little sister of hers is. She was gracious enough to pay for a Spa holiday for Mary, you see. I do wish she hadn't rushed off early when a reservation opened up early."

"Is that what happened, Diana?"

Diana looked over at the other women and wondered what in all the world that Violet Crawley thought she was about putting her on the spot like that. Everyone knew that Edith and Lady Mary had been her guests when they'd left abruptly. She'd made no secret of it as she was, frankly, getting her social set used to seeing Anthony and Edith together. It was utterly apparent to her, at least, that Anthony had outdone himself and fallen head over heels for the young woman. She'd been anticipating her proposal in another three or four months, when he'd felt enough time had passed and they knew each other well enough for it.

Then again, Diana had to reluctantly admit that controlling the narrative was exactly what she'd come to tea at Mrs. Evans' to do. Claudia and Hugh were some of Anthony's best friends. They'd both hinted at wanting to know what Anthony had been thinking, running off like that, and what it had to do with Edith. Diana had wanted to find out what they knew and were saying, but she'd also hoped to drop a few hints that would direct the flow of gossip. Now, to her deep annoyance, she found that the Dowager Countess Grantham had maneuvered her about until she had to follow the old woman's lead!

"Well, that and a bit of a miscommunication from Austria." Diana felt it best to keep some of the original narrative intact. "Apparently the spa called that morning, so the girls were going to wire home about getting Lady Mary's luggage together and arranging a chaperone, and then Edith got a telegram from Miss Adelaide's relatives in Austria saying that her grandmother had taken a fall. The poor child was in an utter panic for her grandmother."

"Well, who can blame her!" Claudia Gervais puffed up with a mixture of sympathy and defensive compassion that was all the more potent for its genuineness. "From what Anthony's told me, in the last three years the poor child has buried her mother, lost both her brothers, and her father as well! Of course, she'd be beside herself if she thought her only living grandmama was on death's door!"

"Fortunately, it was something of a mistranslation." The Dowager offered up and Diana nodded with a smile.

"I was so relieved to hear that it was a failure of English on the part of the woman's son. She had taken a fall, but he was wiring to say that they weren't planning on traveling as a result, so they needed to amend plans for the girls to come to Austria instead of for everyone to meet in France. Instead, the note basically read as a summons and poor Edith panicked."

"The young often do."

"Oh, those poor girls!"

"Did Sir Anthony go along as their escort, then?"

"Well," The dowager drawled before Diana could get a word in edgewise, "it would have hardly done to send them alone, would it?"

Diana seethed and vowed that she would be getting to the bottom of this as she accepted Mrs. Evans' offer to refresh her tea.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Mrs. Chetwood offered to see her home via Sir Anthony's car and the Loxley driver while Branson took Sybil straight home, Violet didn't even try not to smile. It suited her entirely well, and as she settled in opposite the quietly furious blonde, she reflected that it was still nice to get one over on the ladies of the Strallan family. They were just so utterly irritating what with being correct so often, and in the worst way.

Contrary to Lady Anne Strallan, née Treskillion, didn't offend Lady Violet Crawley because the late Lady Strallan was a curate's daughter who'd married above herself. The woman's lack of respect for society's stratum had been annoying, but in another situation… Violet could have overlooked it in the fun of having a woman about who was as genuinely amusing as she could admit that Lady Strallan had been. It wasn't her pretentions of being "modern", either, tiresome as that was. Violet had little use for the complications of advancement and thought it was a fool who didn't recognize the cost that came with such change. The destruction that came with building something new was no less vast than the damage it said it intended to repair, after all.

Though Violet would never admit it, what motivated her lifelong distaste of Sir Anthony's mother was nothing more or less complex than jealousy. Violet herself was the daughter of a baronet with less social grace than economic talent. She too had married above herself in wedding Patrick Crawley all those years ago. The difference? Was where those marriages had taken them.

Violet had loved her husband, despite what her daughter thought, and would have reminded Rosamund of that had she been inclined to stay and listen. It was not, however, the sort of love that the young ever seemed to understand. It was one that grew rather than withered on familiarity.

It was also utterly devoid of passion, little did she or Patrick realize where that was headed when they married. Violet had wanted to do her duty and wed well, as she'd promised her father she would. She'd succeeded and, for a few months, she and Patrick had been entirely happy. He with his beautiful bride and she with her high ranking, gentle-hearted husband.

Then the inevitable happened and they got to know each other. Violet discovered, to her chagrin, that Patrick Crawley was indeed a kind man. He was also, sadly, not one that nature had shaped for particularly deep thought. Her husband had been born into a long line of men who did as their father had done and questioned nothing. He was happiest when awakening in the morning to complete a routine so static that clocks could be set by his actions. He did not care for reading or discourse. He was not interested in history or literature. The closest thing he got to investigation was a bit of mild gossip about his small circle of friends within the county. Imagination did not exist between Patrick Crawley's ears.

Violet, who had inherited her father's passionate, methodical, reaching intelligence and ambition was hopelessly bored within the first six months of her marriage. When, out of desperation, she began to push her husband to change, it had made them both miserable. He'd tried, of course, with a European tour that took them all the way to Russia and very nearly into disaster, but in the end they were too fundamentally different to mesh the way that the fairy tales spoke of marriage. Instead, Violet was happy to say, they'd ended up with the sort of marriage that at least endures in affection, if not passion.

So Violet had married Patrick, who had been good friends with Phillip Strallan for the length of their lives, and settled in to do her duty. She'd silently accepted when he'd taken a long-term mistress, with the understanding that it never be spoken of and the affair was of the quietest sort. Likewise, Violet knew that Patrick hadn't been blind or death to one or two misalliances that occurred on her part.

Meanwhile, Violet had seen Phillip Strallan bring home a girl half his age of no rank whatsoever and make her his wife. Anticipating disaster on the part of the girl as well as her staid, older, husband, Violet had set herself up to offer much needed advice to the younger woman. Then, quickly and resentfully, she'd realized it was… unnecessary. For no reason she could discern, Phillip and Anne Strallan had gone on to find a happiness together as complete as it was boggling. Then they'd brought into this world a son and daughter of their own and as Violet struggled to find her own way as a mother, never sure of what she should feel or how to express those feelings as strong as they were, she'd watched as the Strallan family seemed to roll on effortlessly.

While Patrick and Violet managed to be tolerable and fond acquaintances, Phillip and Anne were passionately in love. As Violet felt confused by her children's behavior and warmed by the order of her hour long daily visits to the nursery, she saw Lady Anne down in the village leading little Anthony about by the hand, laughing and darting about with him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if motherhood was… no effort at all. While Violet watched Patrick strain and fret in incredulous confusion as Downton lost more and more money in its running, Phillip made Loxley and his own family wealthier though investments he never even bothered to boast of.

Really, Violet thought, it's a wonder the whole county didn't despite them. Perfection like that is the most miserable sort of excess. Why should God make anyone so happy if he can't share it with the whole of his creation?

Then again, wasn't she the one who always reminded her children and grandchildren that accepting the unfairness of life was the key to surviving its inevitable miseries?

"May I ask just what you think you were doing, Lady Grantham?"

"Shall I say, 'Having tea.', and frustrate us both or do you suppose we might dispense with the irony of it and just get on with the truth?"

"I would say that between us I have more time for small talk, so out of deference to your considerable age, I'll allow that we just get on with it."

Violet resisted the urge to either glare or smirk at the pert response. She'd have said much the same thing, after all.

"Due to events we're both aware of my entire family's reputation and that of all of my granddaughters' hangs by a thread. I'm doing what I can to make it a rope that shall hold up to the usual fair weather friends society has to offer, Mrs. Chetwood."

"I gathered that." The younger woman shot back. "I even supported you and agree with your story about Mr. Pamuk. The man's character hardly deserves protection and God knows that society is shortsighted enough to ignore the chance to insult an Englishwoman in favor of running down the character of a dead foreigner who cannot defend himself."

Violet inclined her head in agreement and waited for the inevitable.

"But what I want to know is why in God's name you think it's a good idea to imply my brother is acting as some kind of escort for your granddaughters!"

"You don't think it makes perfect sense? He left on the same ship they did. He basically shadowed Edith all the way to Paris. It's simple enough to suggest that he was delayed on the coast with business, and his presence certainly grants a more credible angle to the narrative than the idea that a twenty-one and twenty-year-old girl were allowed to run off without any protection from family or friends."

"My brother is an unmarried man. Your nieces are unmarried young ladies. He's hardly the most appropriate of chaperones!"

"Oh, dear me, you're right." Violet couldn't resist any further and tilted her head to the side, opening her mouth slightly in an expression of utterly false alarm, as if the reality of it had just occurred to her. "It sounds rather more like an elopement than a family emergency, doesn't it?"

Diana Chetwood gaped at her and Violet smiled quite contentedly at the expression.

"Do close your mouth dear. Even with the top up I've always had the most terrible experience with insects in these motor cars. One of the reasons I favor horses."

"Horses attract more flies, I've found."

"Yes, but they don't attempt to enter your nostrils at quite the same speed in a carriage, do they?"

There was clearly no answer to that. The younger woman just went back to glaring. Flatly and implacably – as if Violet would be impressed with that in a girl younger than her own children – the dowager was stared down with all of the comparable effectiveness of a dog barking at a brick wall.

"Why precisely would you want anyone to think that? Edith and my brother are not eloping!"

"A pity, because it would be a rather handy explanation, wouldn't it?"

Seeing that she'd struck the little imp silent again, Violet took full advantage. Wrapping both her hands around her cane she leant forward. Raising an eyebrow in challenge, she went on.

"Let us consider the situation, Mrs. Chetwood."

"And that situation is?"

"While I will own that it appears your brother is not nearly as much of a turnip as I took him for, the fact remains that his utter humility and that dreadful sense of privacy he inherited from your father means that he lives a remarkably quiet life. Barely anyone in the county is even aware of his wealth, let alone his academic achievements or the political and industrial connections that those have brought him. People even seem to, quite conveniently, forget how well-travelled the man is."

"He really hasn't travelled so much in the last decade or so." Diana argued. "The trip to America last year was quite out of the ordinary for him."

"Yes, I recall you saying something to Cora about how you argued to get him to indulge himself with the trip, and then the diplomatic corps reordered it to everyone's annoyance."

"Which doesn't lead to any reasonable reason why you would want to bring attention to him being in France!" Diana spread her hands in exasperation. "Lady Grantham, you don't want anyone questioning why the girls are there. Or, at least, I wouldn't imagine you do given what Lady Mary is currently actually getting treated for."

Violet felt her lips compress tight and softened the expression. She wasn't about to admit distress or weakness. Besides, doing so served no purpose. She did have an utterly sensible explanation.

"Precisely, and the more interesting Edith is at the moment, the less anyone is going to care that Mary's off on a spa holiday."

"But – that- the girls aren't even being blackmailed!" The younger woman spluttered, her hands now fluttering as if she desperately wanted to smack something and obviously could not. Violet dis sympathize a bit; she'd gone through most of her life feeling that, if she could smack a few more people about the head better decisions would be made all around. "Anthony ran off with absolutely no need, and Edith's plan to distract everyone was unnecessary and an overreaction as well! Far better for the girls to have handled it quietly from the beginning and told Lady Mary's parents, for goodness sake!"

"Yes, but they did not make the best possible choice nor confess to my son and daughter-in-law, so we're left with the usual situation parents are."

"And that is?"

"Cleaning up after their messes." Violet summed up simply. "Now that people are asking after your brother's absence, speculating on his courtship of Edith, and wondering how the trip to France is related we might as well use it to our advantage. If people think Sir Anthony Strallan has done something so interesting as chase off to France to elope with a bastard heiress half his age they certainly won't be interested in Mary's current nonsense, will they?"

Diana Chetwood stared at the dowager in blank astonishment and Violet smiled.

"I do enjoy our little talks, Mrs. Chetwood, they remind me so much of your mother. Tell me, how are you sons doing?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So, you see, Edith's shown some actual sense and sent me a proper telegram asking for advice after all, Carson." Robert Grantham accepted the telegram with relief as he read it over again, the lines in his face softening. "And there are letters on the way as well, which is even better. Proper letters, I'm sure. Edith's always written prolifically; God knows Martha uses that against Cora now and then…"

The Downton butler hummed in thoughtful agreement, as his Lordship no doubt desired, and waited as the man continued to think aloud. He'd already glanced over the telegram and so knew what requests would be coming. That said, it was nice to have his knowledge and beliefs reaffirmed by such conversation.

"And thank God, but Matthew's seen to Mary and she should be alright. Everything – the treat – well, in a few weeks it should all be back to normal here, as it should be."

"A relief so great it is hard to frame in speech, sir."

"Yes, Carson, quite."

Carson cleared his throat.

"William's repaired the unfortunate accident with the door, sir, I thought I should mention."

"No need for a workman, then? Very good."

Carson was quite glad that no further reaction was forthcoming. He was still torn between indignant protest that his reaction was understandable and a great deal of embarrassment over the fact that he'd accidentally broken the handle off of a door downstairs while guarding the Family's privacy. Either way, having the whole thing tidied up without further comment was by far the best solution. As was the knowledge that Lady Mary would indeed be alright, and that they'd never have to speak of that horror again.

Carson had to work to tamp down his worry for her. If anything, he wished desperately that he could have gone in young Mr. Crawley's place. To think of poor Lady Mary, alone and with no protection and no-one to see to her needs but quiet little Anna… his worry was entirely justified, thank you!

"Carson, we both know Edith took Barrow on as a butler, and I can't help but approve of promoting from within." Lord looked up from the telegram and frowned, shaking it lightly between his fingers. "But I think we both know that the man's perhaps a touch above himself at times."

"Thomas always had a great deal of confidence, sir." Carson rumbled dryly. "Warranted or not."

"Quite, well, she says that – given his position and access and what – she'd be more comfortable if you and Mrs. Hughes wouldn't ask around the staff and record some things you've noticed about him. Anything he stepped out line on, or some stand out moment in his character. A post-facto reference, if you would."

"That is very easily done, sir. Mrs. Hughes and I would only need to ask a few of the staff." The butler raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps we might catch Mrs. O'Brian before dinner. Your wife's maid has always been something of a friend to Mr. Barrow."

Carson and Lord Grantham had a shared understanding of the lady's maid in question. As such, neither particularly cared for the woman. Given her antagonism towards Mr. Bates, which Carson allowed he had originally shared due to the man's crippled leg, the earl's feelings of dislike for the redhead had rather intensified.

"Then that would be an especially appropriate place to inquire."

Carson nodded, then paused. Dislike and distrust were one thing. Carson, however, was a man of a meticulous nature. One that, among other things, compelled him strongly towards honesty. Despite himself, he found he had to add one more thing.

"I must admit, my Lord, that he has spent less time in her company since Miss Edith and her sister have joined us."

"Yes, I know. Cora found it rather sweet to send him out chasing a girl that age all day – and his distaste for the frog survey that Sir Anthony put Addie up to was frankly hilarious."

Carson's lips twitched. He could admit to himself, at least, that he had actively sabotaged Barrows rather frantic attempts to get out of wading about all of the ponds and creeks on the estate counting frogs. The man's aversion to getting dirty was well-known, as was his impeccable nature. Carson himself preferred to be tidy, so he did understand. That simply hadn't generated any sympathy when Carson had taken William aside and advised him that he was going to be too busy to offer his assistance – no matter what.

"It was that, my Lord."

Lord Grantham frowned thoughtfully and turned to look at Carson.

"How did O'Brian take getting less of Barrow's attention?"

"Neither possesses a transparent nature, my Lord, but from what I could tell, she resented it somewhat."

"Well, hm… we'll keep that in mind. When you've gotten the information, bring it up to me, and I'll include it in my next letter. I'll be writing it first thing tomorrow morning, Carson."

"Of course, sir."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The thing about outsmarting yourself is that it usually starts simply. It also usually resolves around the simplest of principles. That is, opening your mouth when you should have kept it closed.

So when Carson began to take the staff aside to ask for dirt on Barrow, Sarah O'Brian didn't do what all good sense compelled her to. That would have been to say something bland about the man. Details are always a mistake as they're specific. You can't change something once you've said it, not if you say something precise. O'Brian knew how to use implication and half-truths very well, so she really should have known better. The problem was, as with all devil's bargains, this one seemed too much of a good deal to pass up.

"Well, Mr. Carson, I hated to say anything before – you know how some of us would have a terrible time finding another position." Sarah did her best to look truly uncomfortable. "I wouldn't want it on my conscience to see someone turned out with no place to go."

"Of course not."

Sarah didn't care a bit that the man didn't sound particularly as if he believed her. What she was thinking of was that Thomas Barrow had proven the worst sort of friend. Lady Rosamund's bastard was paying better wages than her proper relatives, for all that working for her would have been an embarrassment in other ways. Lobbying the little brat and turning that into a butler's position with almost no duties and rank and better pay than the old hoot owl himself, sitting before her?

It just rankled. Sarah didn't fancy a position working for Not-A-Lady-Edith. Miss Kavanaugh hardly behaved as she ought, driving about in that wickedly fast foreign motor alone, visiting that old man from Loxley without proper supervision, and letting that little brat run about wildly with no proper governess or nurse to turn her bottom red when she wouldn't behave. No, Sarah O'Brian had more self-respect than that.

What that did not mean was that Thomas Barrow had any right to forget her after all she'd done for him. The sheer number of times she'd covered his sorry, perverted, behind over the years set her teeth on edge, when she thought about how little he remembered that when he got himself a nice fat new position. There was sure to be some advantage in it to be had for her, but the man wouldn't even hear of it. He'd gotten too good to talk to her no sooner than he'd stuck up his nose even as he'd run around acting more a nanny than a proper man. Then again, he ain't a proper man, is he?

"Mrs. O'Brian, do you have a specific complaint or event in mind about Mr. Barrow?"

Sarah smiled inside, but schooled her features into discomfort.

"I don't know if Mr. Bates has told you, but I know he caught Thomas stealing wine once. I – well, I know of more than one time I saw him with bottles he had no good call for, either."

There wasn't a bit of lie there. She had seen him with stolen wine. She'd even helped him drink it.

"I see." Carson's lips thinned.

"And, well, I don't know the details but I do know that Thomas was more than a touch upset when that thing with the snuffbox looked all cleared up last year. I can't say that it was anything, since it all came to nothing, but I know for a fact he wasn't happy that he didn't get chosen to be his Lordship's valet."

"Everyone in the household is aware of that, Mrs. O'Brian, but I thank you for your honesty."

"And, well, I had to take him to task for stirring up poor William." See if you ignore him teasing your favorite if I cast it in this light, then. "And I know for a fact that the only reason he ever paid a spot of attention to poor Daisy was to rile up the boy. We both know how poor William feels about the girl, and it's hardly right to antagonize either of them that way, just because he can."

Carson hummed and O'Brian carefully weighed her options. There were other events, of course. Other small thefts. She could, if she wanted, even reveal the worst possible of secrets of the man. Then again, that one carried its own risks. She hadn't reported him, after all. She decided to be content with the stealing.

"Is there anything else, Mrs. O'Brian?"

"Oh, just a few little things you might have noticed missing now and then."

So, Sarah O'Brian cheerfully used him as a scapegoat for a few things Barrow had never done. It seemed perfectly sensible to turn him in for her own crimes now that he was of no use to her. Besides, it presented a great way of making her own position more secure and it offered up some revenge for being slighted.

O'Brian, of course, had no way of knowing that Miss Edith Kavanaugh, while a bastard, had a bit more character than she herself possessed. In other circumstances, Lady Edith probably would not have, but a more varied life and wider experiences meant that Miss Edith's letter to Lord and Lady Grantham – even now steaming across the channel – carried Mr. Barrow's confession to the wine theft he had committed as well as the dirty tricks he'd played on Mr. Bates. It also contained underlined sentence suggesting he look into Mrs. O'Brian's behavior personally as Thomas had specifically confessed to having her as his accomplice, and admitted that she'd become hostile after he'd refused to participate any longer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Notes: Originally, I had planned to have Edith and Anthony have their first fight here about his basically stalking her to Paris (good intentions!) but then I decided that deserved more attention and shunted it to the next chapter. That one will feature Anthony and Edith having their first fight, then some lovely interludes in Paris, and the beginning of the trip to Austria. (Not to mention Diana catching him up on what Violet's been up to and giving him a small heart attack of the metaphorical sort!)

So, what do we know now? Diana is quite ready to call up a seance so she can discuss with her mother all of the things that make The Dowager intolerable.

Likewise, Lady Violet is her usual indomitable self and will do anything to keep her family safe, in her own way. In this case we see her trademark practicality. Edith's reputation shall never really recover from her origins, she is in a gossip-worthy May/December relationship… so why not exploit that to Mary's benefit, as she isn't settled in marriage yet? (Also, forgive me for going into my fanon on Lady Violet's marriage, I just couldn't resist. I have a lot of FEELINGS on how the Crawleys got so danged disfunctional!)

A moment of silence for Anthony's blood pressure when he gets Diana's next letter, please.

Robert and Cora meanwhile are in the midst of their own argument. Not a terrible one, but a difficult one that shows the difference in how they were raised. Cora just wants to worry about her babies. Robert considers the estate a parent and a fourth child, and has worried horribly about the entail a lot recently so he is concerned with whether Mary can carry it on if she marries Matthew. Not an unreasonable concern as the silver nitrate treatments used to kill gonorrhea at the time could have negative effects on fertility. (Or I hope I'm right. It's difficult to find information on defunct medical treatments! Hopefully Google hasn't done me dirty in my research.)

Meanwhile Matthew and Mary have talked and it didn't go well. Mary, reasonably, wants to be allowed to live her own life and doesn't want her whole family butting into her trauma. Matthew wants to take care of Mary because he's falling in love with her and knows she's been hurt. This will, of course, get worse before it gets better. Judging from your votes on the last chapter, thing were pretty split between Mary chasing him off and a fake engagement. I shall now try and combine the two!

O'Brian is causing trouble and, due to lack of information, likely hung herself. Don't implicate your co-conspirator, people, especially if they've taken a plea for immunity.

Again, thank you lovely people for reading!