Chapter The Sixth: In Which January Arrives

"Tell me about your London life."

It was an odd question to ask, surrounded as they were by beautiful Yorkshire farmland. Still, Anthony looked down at the lovely companion on his arm and asked, indulgently, "What would you like to know?"

It had become a pattern, this - walks, and teas, even a concert a couple of days ago. Edith seemed to be taking his father's instructions to get to know one another rather seriously and Anthony had to admit that - well, that it was so frightfully easy. Easy to answer her questions, to ask his own, to… just to be with her, like this.

It was - an awkward admission for a divorced man to make - a rather unfamiliar sensation. Living like this for the rest of his life… an intoxicating idea.

If Edith felt the same, that was.

Her smile certainly didn't suggest that she didn't, at least. "Where you live," she prompted. "How you live. Your friends. Your club, your hobbies. Your work - what little you can tell me."

Anthony stepped back to allow her to pass ahead of him into his mother's walled garden. "In the interests of getting to know one another?"

Now her smile had a touch of the flirt about it. "In the interests of getting to know one another," she agreed peaceably and perched on one of the wrought-iron benches and patted the seat next to her with one gloved hand, rather imperiously.

Obediently, Anthony sat. "Well, I live in a little flat on Piccadilly."

"Not Strallan House?"

"No. Maude never wanted to live there when we were married, and… I didn't want to go back after the divorce."

Not quite the truth, old boy. Still, Edith didn't need to know that he felt unworthy even of crossing its threshold these days, let alone spending even a single night under its roof. There were certain things he wouldn't even mention to a wife, let alone… let alone whatever Edith Crawley was to him.

"I see." Edith tilted her head to one side, bird-like, considering. "I visited your parents there, once, you know, for dinner. It is rather… large and intimidating for one person, I suppose."

"Yes, quite. As to the how… well, very quietly, all in all. I like to read, I like concerts - as you know. But my work consumes the majority of my time."

"Intelligence work."

"Yes. I can't say more than that." And then, because it felt right, he added, "Sorry."

Maude had hated that, hated that he could hardly tell her anything about what he was doing, where he had been - had been half-convinced that he was hiding things from her just for devilment, no matter how many times Anthony had tried to explain. He couldn't blame her, really. What wife would accept such an arrangement calmly?

"I think you have that rather backwards - that's twice you've apologised to me for not breaking the Official Secrets Act!" Edith laughed. "I'm assuming you have signed it?"

"I'm afraid I can neither confirm nor deny… etcetera, etcetera."

"Spoilsport," she grinned, and bobbed her tongue out. Inwardly, though, Edith was almost weeping. He has such an empty life. His work and books and the occasional concert and then coming home to sleep in a tiny little Piccadilly flat? That poor, darling man.

Anthony's voice shook her out of her unhappy reverie. "Now, tell me about your Manchester life. My mother says you own a house."

"Yes. I - I inherited it from C-Captain Gregson, when he - when he passed away." Emboldened by Anthony's encouraging smile, Edith added, "I visit as often as I can - going next week, in fact. I cook for myself, I go to the theatre, I dine with friends, I write… Heavens, if I thought for a moment that my father wouldn't make life Hell for me if I tried, I'd live there all the time."

"He sounds… rather patriarchal, your father. Makes one glad for Papa, I suppose."

Edith tutted. "He'd be different if we were boys, I suppose." As if seeking to excuse him, she added, somewhat hastily, "He isn't a bad man. Just… stuck in his ways. And I imagine your father would treat you differently if you were a girl."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Anthony chuckled. "Diana ran wild - gave the governor more than a few grey hairs, I can tell you." Thoughtfully, he wondered, "Is there anything he could do, to stop you, if you really wanted to set up your own establishment? Legally, I mean?"

"No. But Sybil isn't twenty-one yet - he could do an awful lot to keep her from me if I tried." Edith attempted a smile, but it came out as rather a damp squib. "And as she's the only family member I - I really get along with… I wouldn't want to risk it. Not for a few years yet, anyway."

"No. I - I quite see." What an empty existence! Anthony thought, suddenly furious. She's treading water in a life she hates, for people who have no hope of understanding the first thing about her. That poor, darling girl.

"Edith, would you like to stay for luncheon?"

"Do you wear this jacket anymore, darling?" Lady Strallan wondered, holding up the battered old tweed with a critical eye. "Or can I pass it on to Flora's Belgian refugees with a clear conscience?"

"Hmm." Phillip didn't turn around, but continued peering out of the library window, towards the terrace.

"What are you watching so secretly?" Anne wondered over Phillip's shoulder. "Or should I say whom?"

"Oh, Anthony and Edith. They went for a walk."

"Unchaperoned?" There was a decidedly unladylike grin in his wife's voice. "Heavens." That had been happening more and more often, over the last few days. Only last week, Anthony had vanished extremely early in the morning and come back hours later, bearing a serene expression and the rose-scent that their young friend tended to favour.

Phillip tutted. "Nonsense. They're perfectly trustworthy children." At Nancy's snort of laughter, he slid a hand around her waist and squeezed. "If Anthony hasn't already offered by the time they get in, will you ask her to stay for luncheon?"

Anne kissed his cheek. "Of course." Her voice grew more serious. "If only to spare myself from witnessing another pitched battle between you and our eldest." That had been happening more and more often too. The problem was that Phillip and Anthony were simply too alike to live together in harmony - not without extreme effort on both sides, anyway.

Phillip sighed. "Nancy, my dearest… I only want them to be happy."

It was starting to become thoroughly boring, that phrase. Nancy gritted her teeth and forced herself not to snap. "I know. The only problem is that it still hasn't occurred to you that they might know best what will achieve that."

"Anthony at least has already proved that he doesn't." Phillip scowled, most unlike his usual genial expression. "And poor little Edie's been tricked into thinking that the answer to that question is 'whatever makes the House of Grantham happy'." He gathered his wife close. "Much better to leave the whole sorry business to us."

The front door clicked open. "Mama?" Anthony called down the library passage.

"Through here, my darlings!" Nancy called back, not lifting her head from Phillip's collar. "Edith, dearest, you will stay for luncheon, won't you?"

Still, the holiday had to come to an end sometime. January 1918 dawned cold and damp and thoroughly unpleasant, and found Anthony shutting his suitcases and double-checking that he hadn't left his shaving kit in the bathroom.

Emerging back into his bedroom, he noted his valet, bent over the re-opened case, neatening shirts. "Ah, Stewart, good." As his man clicked the case closed, Anthony hooked his good hand into the leather handle. "I can manage this, but can you take the valises down?"

"Of course, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, I think so." Anthony paused, and then dropped the case to dig into his pocket, pretending casualness, and drew out a folded piece of paper. "Oh, except… well, if you have time, Stewart, you could run this note over to Downton Abbey for me."

Stewart accepted the note, only asking, a touch impertinently, "For Lady Edith, sir?"

"Yes." Stewart, Anthony had often observed, had the most expressive eyebrows. Just now, they were being employed in a most eloquent - although silent - enquiry as to why his master might be sending notes to unmarried young ladies. Anthony gave up, adding, "Just… to say goodbye, and to thank her for such a lovely holiday. Only polite, you know."

"Oh, of course, sir." Stewart hesitated. "Perhaps if the young lady is ever in London, sir…"

Anthony gave him a rather old-fashioned look. "I couldn't possibly comment, Stewart."

"Well, darling - safe journey." Nancy kissed her son's cheek as Stewart hovered, the car door held politely open for his master. "I'll write at the end of the week."

"Yes, Mama. Thank you for… a lovely holiday."

His mother's hand cupped his cheek. "You always used to say that before you went back to school." Her smile faded a little. "But you were happy, then."

Anthony covered her hand with his. "I'm happy now." He paused. "Happy enough."

"Your papa thinks you could be happier still, with Edith. How are things, there?"

"She's a lovely girl, Mama. We get along well." Pointless to deny it at this point, really. Anthony smiled encouragingly at his mother. "We'll see."

"You know best, dearest. Now, I'll fetch your Papa and let you get on your way. He won't want to miss you."

"In my professional opinion," announced Dr Georgina Stone, sliding into the chair opposite Edith, "you look exhausted." She smiled up at the neatly dressed nippy, one of Lyons' finest. "A pot of tea and some scones, please." Returning her attention to Edith, smiling wanly at her across the table, she observed narrowly, "I diagnose a severe case of Grantham-itis, and prescribe… let's see, a week in Manchester living on your own terms. How correct am I?"

"Full marks, as usual."

"And yet you look as cheerful as a wet Wednesday to be here. Is it…" Georgie hesitated. "Is it being at Michael's house? You could sell up, you know. Buy somewhere chosen by you."

Edith bit her lip. "I know you didn't like him - "

"No, I didn't!" Georgie agreed, emphatically. "I didn't at all like the fact that he slept with you, put you in the club, had to be badgered into doing the decent thing, and then broke it all off when… well, you know."

"When I lost the baby. Yes. Thank you, Georgie." It wasn't, after all, the first time Edith's friend had expressed such sentiments towards her late fiancé. Edith shrugged, swallowing down the reflexive, horrid swoop in her stomach every time she thought of Michael, the baby, the whole bally mess. Crying butters no parsnips, as Mrs Cox would probably say. "It would just feel… wrong, to sell. Inheriting it was all… well, not quite above board, anyway."

"Nonsense." Georgie's voice was sharp and protective. "He didn't bother to change his will back after he called off the engagement, did he? He knew damn well what he might be facing. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

"Perhaps. It just… complicates things." Edith fiddled with her napkin. "You know, everyone assuming that we were still engaged, and that everything was rosy in the garden until he died, and I know that I probably ought to have made it clear to them from the off, but - "

Georgie was staring at her all through this unhappy little monologue, and now: "You've met someone!" she accused.

"I - n- well, I - well, I sort of have, I suppose."

"Who?" Georgie looked thoroughly delighted. Edith waited until the returning nippy had set down their tea and assorted cakes before replying.

"The son of some neighbours of mine, in Yorkshire. You might remember them - Sir Phillip and Lady Strallan?"

"Oh, yes. The thoroughly dear old thing and his wife who used to visit you at university. And their son…" Georgie cast a speculative look into the distance. "Unmarried?"

"In a manner of speaking." At Georgie's curious expression, Edith elaborated, "He was divorced two years' ago."

"Oh, bad luck. Has your father had an apoplexy over him yet?" Georgie's lips quirked, a sure sign she was about to come out with something thoroughly outrageous. Sure enough: "I sometimes think he must have been a Methodist minister in a previous life."

"Well, he doesn't approve." An understatement. But then, when has he ever?

"But, really, darling, do you need him to?" Georgie wondered. "You're twenty-eight, you own your own house, and if you stopped messing around with a hundred other things, you could make a nicely comfortable living from those scribblings of yours. It isn't as if you're dependent on him. In fact, I think you'd be an awful lot happier if you just let the old sourpuss disown you and be done with it."

"Thank you, Georgie."

"And if you married the handsome divorcé."

"Married him? I barely know him!"

"What's he like?" Georgie shot back.

"As I say I barely - " At Georgie's insistent look, Edith sighed. "Oh, a military man - thoroughly competent, thoroughly traumatised, after the last couple of years. Kind. Decent. Rather funny, when he chooses. He sent me the loveliest note, when he went back to London, after Christmas."

"Did he? Darling, your whole face lights up when you talk about him. That's more than a good enough basis for marriage, if you ask me. And his parents adore you - you wouldn't be plagued with a horrid mother-in-law, at least."

"Ah." Edith squeezed Georgie's wrist in sympathy. "How is dear old Mrs Younge?"

Georgie spread jam and a truly obscene amount of cream on her scone, looking thoroughly unconcerned. "Probably at home encouraging Adam to divorce me, post-haste, as we speak." Georgie rolled her eyes comically. "Her poor little grandchildren clearly need a proper mother, not a sawbones who spends most of her time up to her elbows in other people's organs."

"Isn't it lucky that Adam adores you, then?" Edith felt her throat growing suddenly raw as she added, "He's rather… one-of-a-kind in that regard, I think."

"Well, much as wifely pride encourages me to agree, I do hope we're both wrong - for your sake." Georgie took a thoughtful bite of her scone. "What's your scandalous divorcé like, on that score?"

"Nicely modern, thank you."

"Ha!" Georgie pointed a triumphant finger at Edith. "So you don't deny that he's your divorcé then!"

"I - " Edith began and then stopped. She'd been about to say 'I don't know what you're talking about, Georgie', but that wasn't quite true. Everything had been rather quiet since Anthony had gone back to London. And he was so easy to talk to - he spoke to her as no other man ever did, without Papa's snide disparagement, nor even Sir Phillip's doting kindness. In short, he spoke to her just as he would to another man, and she liked that.

So she smiled, took a sip of her tea, and said, "I couldn't possibly comment, Georgie."