"If I didn't know any better I might become jealous," Bertie whispered, leaning slightly toward Edith but without looking at her. She could hear the smile in his voice.
Edith, who had been anxiously scanning the crowd, gave her husband an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. It's just... he should be there by now, shouldn't he?" She glanced at the empty seat next to the Mertons. When Isobel met her gaze she shrugged: Edith had confided in her and she was eager to be of help, as usual.
"Give him time," Bertie replied. He tipped his hat at an elderly matron swathed in fur coming towards them. Edith nodded and smiled, though for the life of her she could not remember who the lady was.
"He promised he would come, didn't he? Now, please, darling, don't look so anxious: Her Majesty will think we're plotting a coup."
Edith smiled faintly. "Tom would love that. Speaking of whom, where has he gone?"
"No idea." Bertie raised an eyebrow. "But wherever he went, Mary was tailing him like a bloodhound."
"I have no trouble believing that." She turned to her husband: she still had a perfunctory smile on her face, but her voice bore a hint of concern. "You don't think he's up to anything really bad, do you?"
Bertie's lips pressed together into a slight frown. "I certainly hope not."
"Mary said he would never be disloyal to us."
"I know." Bertie cast a quick glance at her. "But she still followed him."
Edith had no answer. Tom was like a brother to her and she hated to think ill of him, but that Chetwood fellow worried her. What if Tom had been roped into some kind of plot to ruin the King's visit? Not necessarily something dangerous - but even a harmless prank could become very embarrassing for the Crawleys.
She turned to look at the crowd again, and her heart made a quirky little flip in her chest when her eyes fell on a familiar tall figure.
Funny, she thought, that the mere sight of him was still able to make her a little weak in the knees… even with her loving husband was just a step away.
But you know what they say about one's first love, she smiled to herself.
Isobel's hand was on Anthony's arm and she was asking him something in a warm, cheerful tone: Edith could not hear the words, but Anthony was smiling and looked grateful for the attention. Even from a distance, it was clear from the tension in the back of his shoulders that he was uncomfortable being in a crowd, but the change he had undergone in the last few days was nothing short of astounding.
He was still precariously thin, of course, but he stood ramrod straight and his tailor had performed some kind of miracle on his clothes: he wore a sharp, new morning suit that fit him well, unlike the sagging clothes that hung loosely from his shoulders the week before.
While sitting down, Anthony looked up: when his gaze met Edith's, she gave him a bright, welcoming smile. She had to stop herself from waving hello like a schoolgirl. Instead, she lightly touched her husband's arm: Bertie got the drift. He turned to Anthony with a hint of a smile and nodded a greeting. Anthony nodded back, looking quite relieved.
Everyone stood as the King rode to the parade ground, followed by a multitude of mounted officers in shining uniforms. The Yorkshire Hussars, awaiting inspection, were dazzling to see, the sun reflecting off stirrups and sabers and thousands of medals. When the band started playing the national anthem the dozens of little Union Jacks dotting the crowd waved a bit higher and a bit more cheerfully. It really was a sight to see.
For the rest of the parade, Edith was busy following the King's every movement, and she assumed Anthony was, too. But as soon as the event was over and the crowd started dispersing she managed to find herself at Anthony's side. She and Bertie exchanged a few words with the Mertons, which gave Edith the chance to formally introduce Anthony and her husband. They shook hands and how-do-you-dos, and a long pause followed.
"My wife tells me we have shared interests," said Bertie politely, to break the silence. Then, seeing an alarmed flicker in Anthony's eyes and realizing this could be misunderstood - to mean Edith - he quickly added: "I mean, history. And, and farming, of course. Brancaster could use some modernization in that area."
Anthony murmured something unintelligible and Edith suppressed a smile: her husband could be marvelously awkward, at times. "I think Gloucester wanted to talk to you, dear," she said, offering her husband a way out.
"Of course." Bertie looked relieved. "I hope to see you again, Sir Anthony." He touched his hat and left, hurrying through the green toward a group of men. A faint chorus of ah, Hexham and there you are, Hexham drifted over the grass as he approached them.
Edith watched him walk away with a smile. "Grand events like this still make him awfully uncomfortable," she said. "I'm not sure he'll ever come to appreciate them."
"I'm not sure anyone really appreciates them."
"Well, you came," she said, still smiling. "Up until the last moment I wasn't quite sure you would."
He smiled back. "Neither was I."
"You look well," she said, and she meant it. The sharp, angular features of his face had an energy that wasn't there before. "How did Poole manage to get you into a brand new morning coat with such short notice, by the way?"
He chuckled. "Now, that's a rather funny story. He just had one made for Sir Cathcart and the poor sod, uh," he scratched his nose "died a fortnight ago before he could collect it. Poole only had to make minor adjustments to the sleeves." He thought about it for a moment. "Well, that's not too funny a story for Cathcart, now that I think of it."
Edith chuckled. "No. But it was a stroke of luck for you, wasn't it?"
Anthony bobbed his head. "There's only one problem. Cathcart was a good deal shorter than me, and Poole couldn't very well make a new pair of trousers for me in a week, could he?" He looked down at the hem of his trousers, which left a good inch of sock uncovered. "I can only hope people were too busy watching the parade to notice."
"I'm sure nobody was looking at your – wait, here he comes." The King, who was talking with his equerry, was walking in their direction. He didn't seem to pay much attention to them, but as he was walking past them he stopped and stared intently at Anthony's face for a few seconds.
"As I live and breathe, if that isn't Tony Strallan!" he called out.
Startled, Anthony gave a sharp neck bow. "Your Majesty," he said.
The King seemed pleased. "I haven't heard anything about you in ages! I thought you had joined a monastery - or emigrated to the West Indies."
"I don't think I would enjoy the climate of either of those places, sir," Anthony replied after a moment's hesitation, with a hint of a smile.
"Heh. Well, it's good to see the old guard is still running strong." The King gave him a firm pat on the arm and started to leave. "Oh, we will be having tea shortly at the Abbey. Will you join us, old fellow? I'd like to have a few more words" he casually added.
Anthony was stumped. "Well, I..." He cast a furtive, questioning glance at Edith.
"Of course he will, Your Majesty," Edith was beaming. "I'll see that he does."
