A/N: HAPPY ANDITH FEST 2016! To prove I can write in canon, here's yet another reconciliation—the one we were all cheated out of by a certain panel of writers… This song has screamed Andith at me since the first time I heard it, so I just had to do a fic for it. (Broken into two parts because it got so long, part two coming tomorrow…)
Dedicated to all who hold steadfast to this lovely ship. You are all wonderful and talented and I'm so honored to be among your number.
Y – You and I & You and I (Reprise)
Music by: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus
Lyrics by: Tim Rice
From the musical Chess as sung by Idina Menzel and Josh Groban (among others).
PART I
XXX
This is an all too familiar scene.
Life imperceptibly coming between
Those whose love is as strong
As it could or should be…
XXX
Anthony squared his wide shoulders, broadened by the correct cut of his morning coat, and thrust himself forward with swift long-legged strides. He felt as though he were pushing against a tide, a current made up of the scandalized embarrassment and affronted disdain of the congregation gaping at him as he hurried past; and the powerful undertow of the rejection and confusion he knew was tearing through Edith at this very moment. His shoulders tightened and he set his jaw, pushing hard towards the end of the aisle, the oppressive waves spilling over his shoulders like water over a ship's prow—until suddenly he was squinting in sunlight.
He inhaled the fresh country air, and exhaled in a silent sob, as self-loathing and bitter remorse sliced through him like so many deadly arrows. Hot tears slid down his cheeks as he pressed past his waiting chauffeur, and turned down a side-street, hurrying for privacy, for a corner, a sanctuary, better still an oubliette-a hole where he could collapse into the misery that grew keener with every step away from Edith.
Because with every step, the truth clawed at his heart and threatened to tear a hole in his chest. The truth that Edith meant so much more to him than he had ever allowed himself to admit. It wasn't just that she made him laugh, or listened to him with sincere interest. It wasn't that making her happy blotted out the darkness that he had carried home from the front. It wasn't simply that he was fond of her and that she had invited him into a life of comfortable companionship, mutual care and family, in which he could share in the joys and woes of Crawleys young and old. It wasn't just the natural physical attraction—even infatuation-that any man might feel for a young vibrant woman like Edith.
He'd proposed to Edith all those years ago because he'd found her pleasant company, and because he thought they'd "do well together," as the saying went. He'd allowed himself to be proposed to, allowed this tragic farce in which he played the clown to take him all the way to the altar—not for any of these reasons, but for the simple undeniable truth that he loved Edith. Loved her deeply and utterly—and he'd pushed her away forever.
He continued on, as if chased. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Edith as possible, knowing his resolve could so easily break and he'd go running back to her and beg her forgiveness. It had been easier there in the church, with everyone watching, been easy to see things as they were, rather than through the rose-colored glasses of Edith's determined optimism. There, he had felt a fool, the lecherous vecchio marrying the young Isabella. But if he allowed himself to hesitate, allowed Edith to get him on his own, then he'd fall under her spell again, and when the illusion eventually faded Edith would face years of bitter regret.
There was a grove of trees on one end of the town, too small to be called a forest, but Anthony plunged into their cover, steadied himself on a cedar trunk, and heaved with silent despair.
XXX
How can I love you so much,
Yet make no move?
There will be days and nights
When I'll want you
More than I'll want to.
More than I should.
Oh, how I want you.
XXX
It was curious, Edith thought, how abruptly vulnerable one became at bedtime. Anxiety—like the knot that had been forming in Edith's stomach since morning—could be ignored, denied, and suppressed during the daylight hours, as if sunlight were a talisman against the shadows of one's mind. She'd kept herself busy that afternoon, shopped, chatted with Aunt Rosamund. After dinner the quiet solitude of her bedroom had begun to corrode her defenses, but there had been changing into her nightgown, brushing her teeth, smoothing on lotion. But as soon as her head hit the pillow, the knot gave an angry throb and the tears began. As if a spring had been released by the redistribution of gravity, hot tears welled from the corners of Edith's eyes and slid down her cheeks, some wetting her ears before they stained her pillow. Strangled sobs escaped her throat, the knot now constricting painfully around her heart.
She couldn't do this. Why did she ever think she could do this? Why did she ever say yes?
She'd met with Michael Gregson that morning, discussing edits to her first article for The Sketch. If she were honest, the edits weren't particularly significant, but the small criticisms had blasted a hole in her already fragile confidence. Michael had been terribly nice about it, even teased and flirted with her as he'd picked apart her opening structure and the scholastic tone of some of her observations.
Another sob choked from her and the tears flooded down her cheeks. She closed her eyes against the image of Anthony.
Oh, Anthony.
Longing surged through her with agonizing intensity. That was what had really upset her, she realized. Not the criticism of her work, but Michael's evident attraction to her. To be flattered, listened to, admired, by a man—it felt good, but it also felt—wrong, bitter, hollow. She didn't want the admiration of just any man. She wanted—wanted so much she thought her heart might combust with the pain of it-the man who had first admired her, valued her, loved her.
And I loved him.
Her face contorted and the silent sobs erupted from her once more.
Oh Anthony, Anthony.
XXX
You and I,
We've seen it all,
Chasing our hearts' desire,
But we go on pretending
Stories like ours
Have happy endings.
XXX
Edith opened her eyes, instinctively sensing the slowing of the train as it pulled into Downton Station. She'd just returned from two days in London, an invigoratingly productive series of meetings and workshops for the next edition of The Sketch. Last night, she and Laura had even gone to musical revue at the Palladium. She sighed happily. Life was good. She had an occupation that fulfilled her, something she was good at, a female friend (which, discounting her sisters, was a blessing she hadn't enjoyed since she was thirteen), and of course, Marigold, who was no longer a secret to anyone in her family, and who would be there, in the nursery when she arrived, ready to jump up into her arms and give her a curly-headed kiss.
Edith felt the grin on her face falter. What had made her think of Anthony?
But the more she tried to shake him from her mind, the more insistently he clung. Memories of Anthony nagged her all afternoon until she finally acknowledged that there was one thing missing in her life to complete her contentment. She wanted to see him again.
Just see him,that was all. He was a friend, a part of her old life that had never gotten a resolution. She just needed to set things to rights as far as Anthony was concerned.
And the feelings that began to stir in her chest would do better to go back to sleep. She would not be so foolish as to let herself be hurt again. She just wanted to see him.
That was all.
XXX
"Lady Edith!" his cornflower eyes were wide with astonishment, apology, and unabashed pleasure.
"Hello, Sir Anthony," Edith said politely, though the formality came to her lips like a foreign language. She returned his warm smile. "It's so good to see you."
"I couldn't agree more. Will you have some tea?"
So they sat, and drank tea, and they filled one another in on what had happened in their lives in the five years since they had parted as almost husband and wife. Anthony had traveled some more, working for the foreign office, and had spent the last year overseeing much-needed improvements to Loxley. Their conversation was polite, interested, but not quite the open easy report that had once existed between them. Edith felt as though they were standing on either side of dam, unable to remove the barrier between them or be drowned in a tide of emotion.
"Did you never marry?" Anthony asked, another casual question in the catching-up chatter.
Edith hesitated before answering, the embers of twice smothered hopes flaring slightly. "No," she murmured. "And you? You've never married?"
He gave a self-deprecating smile and nodded. "Almost."
In response to her furrowed brow he said,
"You remember my sister, Elizabeth? She had an old friend. A war widow."
Edith was surprised to find herself registering a faint pang of indignation. If he hadn't married her, how could he marry someone else?
He fell silent. He sipped his tea. His mouth twitched agitatedly. "You see—I'd known Caroline since before she was married, she was quite a dear friend of Elizabeth's, and she had three sons." His face was pinched into a perfectly pitiable grimace.
Edith nodded. She knew him well enough to know that the boys, the children he had never had, were an important part of the bargain.
"It was to be a marriage of convenience," he continued softly, "she knew that I was not…in love with her."
His eyes locked with hers and one corner of his lips hitched upwards in a small, profoundly sad smile.
Edith held his gaze for a few seconds, then dropped her eyes to her teacup.
"But you didn't marry," she prompted gruffly, swallowing the lump that had risen to her throat.
He shook his head. "She died. Cholera."
Edith immediately thought of Marigold and her heart lurched. Those poor boys… Some of this must have shown on her face, because Anthony murmured,
"I'm sorry, Edith. I was just…trying to be happy. I'm sorry if I have hurt you."
A sudden and unexpected anger welled up inside her. He was trying to be happy? What about her? She'd tried desperately, all of her adult life it seemed, to find happiness. True, she had finally found it, but look what she'd had to endure to get here. And he had been the one to throw away their happiness.
"And what about me? Don't you think I've been trying to find that? I feel like my heart has been broken so many times that I can't remember how all the pieces fit together."
She met his anguished gaze, and for several seconds there was a breathless interplay between them.
Then Edith sighed and her anger diffused into sorrowful regret. Tears gathered behind her eyes.
"Edith," he said thickly, "I'm sorry. I meant for you to be happy."
"I know," she said, and then his eyes were blotted out by her streaming tears.
XXX
Each day we get through means one less mistake
Left for the making…
XXX
Despite the pain of their first meeting, Edith had continued to call upon Anthony once a week. At length, their previous cordiality returned, so that they could talk openly, so long as they avoided the most painful subjects. It was as if they'd made a tacit agreement to accept what was past and start afresh. Which was not entirely possible, as memories followed them both everywhere they went at Loxley. For his part, Anthony lived for the day of Edith's visit, long lazy afternoons filled with rambling strolls, or endless conversations, or drives… To be with her again, to have the supreme pleasure of making her smile or laugh, or blush when he complimented her, to share her agile mind. It was pleasure and it was torture, maddening to be so near her without being allowed even the chaste affections they had enjoyed when engaged. And after all these years, Anthony wanted to have done with propriety. There were several moments when he would have loved nothing more than to seize her and kiss her, to gather her to him and never let go…
One afternoon, Anthony's hopeless heart jumped quickly to hopeful. Edith had been climbing into her car in the drive, but had hesitated, and turned back to him, a meaningful look on her face.
"Anthony, would you mind...that is…I should like you to meet Marigold. If you would like that."
Her uncertain face reminded him palpably of a much younger version of herself, chasing his hesitant affection one evening after a dinner. But to meet Marigold, Edith's ward, who she obviously cared very deeply for, to bestow the honor upon him…this must mean that she felt something…
Striving to keep his heart out of his throat he said. "I would like that very much."
XXX
And there's no return,
As we slowly learn,
Of the chances we're taking.
XXX
To be continued...
