Thanks to all the lovely people who found the time to read that little story - I hope you liked it so far! By the way, I have not given up - nor I ever intended to - on 'Don't fall in love, dear..." - new chapters are in the making, I just got a little stuck on writing a particular event!

I'll leave you with this short piece, set in the morning of Christmas Eve, before we get to The Big Dinner Party Of Doom.

...

When they got down for breakfast, in the morning of Christmas Eve, a clean expanse of snow stretched white and twinkling as far as they could see.

"Oh, dear" Edith said, staring out the window, biting her lips. "I hope the snow isn't blocking all the roads, or they won't be able to come tonight."

'They', Anthony knew, were her parents, her sisters and their husbands, Isobel Crawley, the Dowager Countess and Lady Rosamund Painswick. All she could think about was that damned dinner - Anthony almost wished three feet of snow had fallen during the night, instead of those few inches. How nice and cozy it would be, to be snowbound at Loxley, just him and Edith, with the Crawleys effectively snowed-in, and the Dowager Countess unable to pester them for at least a month...

"Don't worry, it's just a light dusting. They'll manage just fine." Anthony stepped closer to her and briefly kissed the top of her head. "Besides, what would an old-fashioned Christmas in the English countryside be without a bit of snow?"

Edith smiled weakly. "You're right."

He tilted his head. "Please, stop worrying. Everything's going to be fine. Now, do sit down and have some breakfast."

"All right." She did sit down at the table, but her stomach was in a knot and she couldn't eat a thing. Instead, she poured herself some tea and stirred absentmindedly at it.

"What's the menu for tonight?" Anthony asked, in the hope that talking about it would ease her worries.

Edith raised her eyes from her cup. "Oh, I kept all the traditional dishes and added a few new ones – there'll be oyster soup and roast turkey, of course, and then braised belly pork, slow cooked pigs heart in red wine, and roast quails. And pheasant pies, and sausages -"

"Golly!"

"For dessert, we'll have the plum pudding, with the ring and the bachelor's button and all the rest of it in it – it's Sybil's favorite -, and all the old desserts, the Elvas plums and almonds and raisins, and crystallized fruit and ginger. I thought about adding a coffee blancmange or a jelly, but I decided not to. Cook'll be busy enough as it is."

Anthony chuckled. "I expect we'll all have frightful indigestion by tomorrow morning."

Edith turned serious. "I hope not. You don't think it's too much, do you?"

"Of course not." Anthony decided it was best to distract her from her worries about the dinner.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you yesterday: everyone was talking about your letter to The Times, in London" he said, spreading some butter on a piece of toast.

"Really?" Edith frowned. "What did they have to say about it?"

"Some people liked it... and some people didn't, of course. Viscount Branksome was indignant, but his son – I think you know him, Evelyn Napier? - thought it was very interesting. He -"

Edith's face relaxed a bit. "Oh, Evelyn was there? He's a darling. Send him my love if you see him again."

"Uh-oh. Should I be jealous?" His mouth was twisted in a subtle upward quirk.

"Shut up!" she laughed. "He's an old friend."

"A handsome old friend." he looked at her across the table with a sparkle in his eyes.

"Oh, stop it, you!" she threw her napkin at him, chuckling. She shook her head as she took a sip from her cup of tea. "Who else was there? Anyone I might know?"

"Let me think about it - the Callender-Becketts were there, and Lord Savident… oh, right, and Lady Jervas. She was thrilled about your article, and she asked us for dinner, next week" he cracked an egg open with a spoon.

"That's so nice of her." Edith smiled. "Well, I must say I'm glad we're not being shunned by society as Papa predicted. He told me neither of us would ever be received in London again if I wrote on a newspaper using my name. 'Every door in the City will be slammed in your face' were his exact words."

"Your father, bless his soul, has always been prone to exaggeration, my dear. And, if you remember, I told you I couldn't care less if it happened - I never liked London much, anyway" he stretched out his arm across the table to touch her hand. "Listen. You have a right to speak your mind, and to hell with what anyone else thinks." He smiled. "Anyway, my dear, the world is changing."

"Not that much, and not fast enough." She smiled back. "You amaze me, you know. I never thought you'd encourage me – I mean, writing is not a very ladylike occupation, and it puts you in a - a rather awkward position." She nibbled on a slice of toast.

"Does it? I thought having a journalist wife made me look all the more interesting!" his eyes crinkled at the corners. "All the ladies in London were chasing after me, asking me all about you." He cackled. "I must admit, I was puffed up like a peacock."

"Well, if that's the case..." Edith smiled and bit into another piece of toast with renewed appetite. "But I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with a horde of London ladies following my husband around."

"Now who's jealous?" He shook his head and snorted. "Did you ever hear from the editor of The Sketch again, by the way?"

She nodded, with her mouth full. "Yes. He has written back, repeating his offer, but I'm not sure what to do. He asks if I'm ever in London."

"I think you should go and see him. It seems rude not to…" the bridge of his nose wrinkled. "… and my charms would be impossible to resist if I could say my wife is a columnist for The Sketch!"