A/N: On the Eighth Day of Christmas, Tarlea (finally) gave to me: part III of a fic that is set before Christmas and really ought to have been completed before the New Yearrrrr…

Abject apologies, Spottedhorse and All. Thanks to family dynamics we had three Christmases this year, and everything got crazy this last week preparing for and then celebrating Christmases #2 and 3. I shall strive to get as many updates in before Twelfth Night (Jan. 6) as I can. You're all the most wonderful darlings and I don't deserve you.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Part III – French Hens

Anthony was being extremely foolish. Childish, even. Luckily not illegal since he owned the property, but even so… It was not the height of manners to spy on one's tenants. Especially when one was doing it from inside the hedge across the road. Where one, a grown man, was sitting on his silly ass like a child.

But he couldn't help himself. After two evenings spent wondering how Edith and her daughter had liked their gifts, he'd decided to watch as they received today's delivery. He knew it was a weakness; vanity. True altruism didn't need thanks. And yet it wasn't praise he was after—he just wanted to witness their enjoyment, to know firsthand that he had brought some happiness into Edith's seemingly hopeless situation. And heck, it was only human to give a gift and want to see it appreciated, right? It wasn't like he was using a telescope on her window. He would watch the front of the house when she got home, wait until they'd gone inside, then leave. If for no other reason than that it was getting rather cold sitting here in the yew.

Of course, yesterday was supposed to have been his last festive offering. But he'd reasoned that three gifts had such a nice trigonometry to it—like the three magi bringing gifts to the infant Jesus. However, he'd only just placed the order for his third offering, when fresh sparks lit his imagination for "four calling birds," and he knew he was going to see it through, right down to twelve drummers drumming. It was just too much fun! He hadn't had anyone to give a really thoughtful gift for years (his sister Elizabeth sent very specific lists and one merely had to choose), and engaging in a little charitable conspiring was making it feel more like Christmas than it had in a long time.

The sound of tires on gravel made him lift his head, and he trained his gaze on the tidy brick residence. Edith's blue Honda turned into the drive and came to a slightly jerking halt. Out came Edith, bending inside to retrieve an overstuffed satchel, her shoulders heavy with fatigue, her movements stiff with exhaustion. Her daughter appeared, bundled into a puffy red parka and carrying a sky blue backpack with a rainbow-tailed unicorn on it. The girl trotted towards the doorway eagerly, and presently he heard an excited "Mama, mama!"

Edith's tired but happy laugh carried on the breeze and he felt it like a benediction. His grin became so wide that he was certain it would soon begin to fluoresce and reveal his presence. He couldn't be sure who was enjoying this moment more—himself or the girl, who was now hopping around the package like an excited chicken. Edith now knelt to examine the two packages. Damnably, she'd turned her face away from him, but he trained his gaze on the back of her head, the line of her shoulders, for any sign of enjoyment. The first gift was fitted into a black thermal bag, which, when unzipped, released a little curl of steam. He could almost smell the appetizing aromas of lemon honey and rosemary himself. He'd ordered a full chicken dinner from one of his favorite restaurants, where the chicken was so tender and flavorful it could melt in your mouth. He'd registered after the fact that he'd eaten the dish once while dining with Edith, on what had been one of the best evenings he'd ever spent in her company; or anyone's for that matter. As he watched, Edith discovered the contents of the other parcel, two more farm-raised chickens ready to go into her freezer, with a booklet of recipes which were quick, easy, and budget-friendly. Edith straightened with the parcels carefully balanced, satchel still hanging from her shoulder. She appeared to be having some difficulty reaching her keys, and he leaned forward instinctively, wanting to go help her. He remembered himself just as Edith's daughter reached into her mother's pocket and retrieved the keys, pushing the door open. Mother and child disappeared into the house, and Anthony was aware of a pang of disappointment. He imagined Edith and the girl, sitting in their cozy dining nook, sharing a gourmet dinner in the light of their Christmas tree…

Swift, keen longing opened a small cavity in his chest. How he would love to be at that modest table; sharing the simple delight of good food enjoyed in good company. He pictured Edith, pear lights casting a soft glow over her already luminous smile, and a less definable daughter, shoveling forkfuls of scrumptious chicken into her mouth, making her mother laugh and scold her good-naturedly. A wistful burst of air escaped him, not quite a sigh. He levered himself to his knees, maneuvering his long limbs to a standing position. As he walked towards his car, the familiar lines of music passed through his head. On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Anthony mentally scoffed at himself. He didn't love Edith Crawley. He certainly wasn't her true love. He was just… But what was he? They'd been companionable once, close in their fair-weather way. He wrinkled his nose. That wasn't quite right either; it didn't seem to describe what they'd been to one another. As he contemplated Edith, his chest softened and warmed. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit there had been times when they'd broached something deeper than just friendship, something that tempted him more than he should allow… But that had been almost eight years ago. Picking up the threads of that relationship, whatever it was, would be…well certainly awkward if not a challenge. Better to remain anonymous. And ignore the urge to go knock on her door. And anyway, he needed to get home. "Four calling birds" was going to take a little extra skullduggery…

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Flavor blossomed on Edith's tongue and melted into the roof and sides of her mouth. Her lids fluttered closed and she couldn't resist a low "mmmmm." She swallowed, a ridiculous grin blossoming on her lips. Three French Hens. Very clever. And scrumptious. Thank you, friend. Or perhaps she should call her benefactor "true love." She'd suspected yesterday with the matching turtledove necklaces (that both she and Marigold had worn today), but this confirmed it. Whoever her mystery Santa was, they were following the lines of the old carol. Edith couldn't repress a thrill of anticipation at the thought of the gifts continuing for the next nine days. She certainly didn't need to be showered in gifts, but as long as they kept coming, she felt less alone, like someone was watching over her. She fingered the notecard in her pocket that said "I thought you might find this dish a favorite, as I do. Bon Appétit!"

"Yum!" Marigold expressed enthusiastically, munching away at her portion of the feast, "Santa's elves are good cooks!"

Edith laughed. "They are, aren't they?"

But in fact, the meals had come from Nugent's Tavernin Richmond. The packaging had proclaimed that loud and clear. Surely she could put a call in to the gourmet tavern and ask a few discreet questions….

"Mama, aren't you going to eat?" Marigold queried, tucking into a perfectly roasted potato.

"Yes," Edith smiled lovingly at her daughter and raised her fork with a flourish. "I think even you will finish all your dinner tonight!"

Marigold nodded enthusiastically, her mouth too full to respond.

As Edith had prophesied, Marigold cleaned her plate without any cajoling, and was allowed to have a candy cane she'd received at school that day for dessert. Then Edith shepherded her through brushing teeth, putting on pajamas (which included wearing her dove necklace, of course), climbing into bed and saying prayers. Adorably, the girl offered enthusiastic thanks for the presents from Santa—"especially the yummy chicken!"

Edith kissed her daughter goodnight and withdrew from the room with a soft chuckle. How nice it was to have their prayers focused on something so whimsical—after months of praying for a good night's sleep and "for my tummy to get better." After all that Marigold had been through, pain and embarrassment and ordeal and fear, this secret Santa had reminded her there was magic in the world. Edith felt her heart swell with gratitude. Thank you, dear, dear friend.

She contemplated her anonymous benefactor as she slipped beneath heavy covers, burrowing into the snug embrace of cotton and wool. What did she know about them? Really nothing. Presumably they were from somewhere nearby. And somehow they knew her financial situation. Maybe the office? But none of her coworkers seemed like the type to make multiple lavish gifts. After all, their salaries were fairly close to hers. That was, she supposed, the one thing she really knew about this friend. Whoever it was had money or they wouldn't be able to afford such gifts. Or to eat regularly at Nugent's…

Edith drowsily conjured the eighteenth-century façade of the gourmet restaurant-tavern. She'd only ever been there twice in her life, once with her mother when she was sixteen. Clearly her mother had felt guilty that she more frequently spent Saturdays clothes shopping with Sybil or getting mani-pedis with Mary and had planned a special mother-daughter day with Edith. Perhaps to make up for the infrequency of such days, she'd been especially generous, and had treated the both to lunch at Nugent's Tavern. It had been a good day. But the other memory of Nugent's was far more precious. Anthony Strallan had once taken her there for her birthday.

Well, it hadn't actually been her birthday. It was December 28, and she was born on July 16, but Anthony was at Downton for the holiday house party, and when he'd learned that her birthday had come and gone without much in the way of celebration, he'd insisted on taking her to dinner. Naturally, he'd chosen the fanciest restaurant in a 60km radius. That was the thing about Anthony—he rather overdid it to make her feel special because so often others endeavored to tear her down. If Mary sneered at her opinion over dinner, he'd come into the conversation so strongly on Edith's side that he bordered on political polemic; if she was sitting alone at a party, he'd challenge her to not one, but seven games of cards (and she suspected let her win at least once); if she was standing on the side of the room at the New Year's ball, he'd dance with almost no one else; if he heard her birthday had gone uncelebrated, he'd buy her dinner at £20 a plate. He was such a dear, the best of friends one could ask for, and she felt a pang of true regret that she'd let the friendship lapse. She directed her mind back to that perfect dinner, recalling the thrill of luxury and glamour, her best dress enhanced by Anthony's radiant gaze, as though she were the most dazzling woman in the world. She closed her eyes, basking in warm candlelight and Anthony's smiles, merry laughter and amity so strong it was almost sensual…

After that night she'd thought maybe, just maybe, there was something more to be had with Anthony than just friendship. But when she'd tried to suggest her willingness, either she'd been too subtle or he'd been uninterested, because nothing happened, and they continued on as before. Perhaps that was why she'd let things fall apart. Looking back, she could see that she'd become rather infatuated with Anthony Strallan, and his unconscious rejection had stung more than she'd realized.

And now? Could she try to reconnect after all these years? Probably he'd be embarrassed, if not annoyed. I mean, it wasn't like he'd done much to keep the friendship alive either. Maybe it was better to let her memories remain in the past.

Well, she thought as she drifted to sleep, visions of Anthony dancing in her head, if I have to live on memories, at least my memories are so damned delicious…

XXX