December, 1921

She was supposed to be writing. Edith's editor would expect an article for her column to be done by sometime tomorrow, but instead of putting pen to paper, she sat at her desk and stared out the window above it. That the sun shone in a bright blue sky and made the gardens look warm and inviting gave Edith only a stronger impression that even Mother Nature mocked her pain.

Even nature is described as a mother, Edith thought, shaking her head. Glancing down, she saw a corner of a letter which bore the scribbled signature "Michael Gregson" protruding from beneath the blank sheet she'd placed on top in order to write. She shifted the paper so that the entire missive was hidden from her eyes.

If only she could so easily hide all the things in her life that caused her pain.

Michael's letter came in the morning post. Edith carried it upstairs to open it, as she wasn't sure if this epistle from her editor would be related to work – or not. She didn't want her father to see any reaction she might have to a personal letter.

This proved a wise decision, as Michael's communication was most certainly not about her column. He wanted her to move to London.

Wild thoughts chased one another around Edith's head. On one hand, she would love to be closer to him – and, at this point, away from her family. On the other hand, even in London they would not be able to be open about their affair. He was married. There was no getting around that.

Not that their affair had gone very far. Edith had been very careful about not crossing certain lines. She knew that if she became pregnant by her married editor…. She may as well shoot her father right then and there. Quite possibly her mother as well.

Edith had to make a decision that she simply did not know how to make.

At the knock at her door, Edith gave herself a little shake. "Yes?"

"Edith," came her mama's voice. "They'll be here any moment. Aren't you coming to greet them?"

"I'll be down in a few minutes, Mama." Edith sighed and stood up. Making sure Michael's letter was completely covered, she left the room.

Edith stood back while her family members kissed and embraced and pressed one another's hands in welcome. She watched the display, but felt detached from it. She may as well have been in the line of servants on the other side of the door. Except even they received warm greetings, particularly from Mary. After a few moments, the family group started going inside, pairing off. Cora linked arms with her eldest daughter, and Matthew gave his own mother his arm. Rosamund – with whom Mary and Matthew had spent several days in London upon their return to England, and who decided to travel up (a bit earlier than she normally would have) with them for the Christmas holidays – walked with Robert. Violet magnanimously allowed Tom to accompany her, Sybbie perched on his hip.

Feeling dejected and invisible, Edith followed them inside to the drawing room for tea. She'd suspected Mary and Matthew's homecoming would not help her out of her recent blue funk. So far, she was right.

Violet waved her hand at Edith. "Stop moping. It's very unbecoming." She gestured to the place beside her on the settee.

Several weeks had passed after Robert and Violet's clash at the Dower House before the Dowager Countess condescended to grace Downton with her presence again. She refused to talk directly to her son, and her icily civil exchanges with Cora rankled Robert – and reminded him all too well of his daughter's continued behavior toward her mother. Violet was hardly much warmer to Tom, and her conduct toward Isobel remained unchanged. The only person Violet seemed able to tolerate for any stretch was Edith.

At first Edith took this as a compliment – and as a welcome distraction. As her mother's pregnancy began to show, it made the whole thing seem more tangible. This delighted her parents, who, if it was possible, grew closer and – to their daughter's great chagrin – more publicly affectionate. Violet's attention to her granddaughter, her inattention to Robert and Cora, came to Edith as a relief.

But in the past week or so, her granny's company had begun to wear on her. She asked questions that Edith would rather not have answered and spoke of things of which she did not want to be reminded. She criticized her granddaughter, and every strike of her razor-sharp tongue drained Edith of strength and color and warmth until she thought she would turn blue with cold.

Despite this, she sat at Violet's invitation. Within a few moments Sybbie approached her and tugged on her dress. "Ann-ee-dit hold Sybbie!" It didn't matter that the little girl looking up into her face had mostly likely come to her aunt as a last resort because everyone else was too busy or engrossed in conversation to pay her any attention. Edith lifted the toddler onto her lap and cuddled her close.

After a time, Violet's voice broke through Edith's thoughts. "Edith, you haven't heard one word I've said, have you?"

Edith blinked to bring her focus back to Violet's face. "I'm sorry, Granny. My mind was wandering." She wrapped her arms tighter around Sybbie, who was nearly asleep against her chest.

Violet gave a "humph" of annoyance. "Perhaps you should acquire a leash for it," she snapped. Before Edith could reply, her grandmother was hoisting herself up with the aid of her cane. Tom sprang forward, but she waved him away. "I'm going home now," she announced to the room.

Cora turned from where she and Mary were ensconced in a corner together. "But you'll be back for dinner, Mama, right?"

Sparing only the briefest of glances for her daughter-in-law, Violet made her way to the door. "I think not. All this frivolity has given me a headache."

Mary cut her eyes at her mother knowingly. "I'll walk her out, Mama. She'll complain for ages if no one does, and she's already shooed away the only other volunteer." Putting her tea cup down with a smile, she joined her granny at the doorway of the drawing room.

In the middle of the last course, Edith wondered if anyone would notice if she left the room for all the attention she got. Everyone seemed to be in their element. Isobel couldn't stop smiling to have her son home. Robert monopolized Mary, asking to hear of their escapades in New York and Newport. Cora ate unbelievable amounts of food, she and Tom entertaining Rosamund with stories about Sybbie, and the three of them discussing plans for the baby. Rosamund, it was discovered almost three weeks after the news, had never received the telegram; one of her footmen had misplaced it. He was her footman no more, and Rosamund had immediately sent a very elaborate gift to express her congratulations and excitement over the news.

And as if being ignored by all her family weren't enough, throughout dinner Mary and Matthew made eyes at one other. If they were trying to be surreptitious about it, then they'd failed, at least so far as Edith was concerned.

Her parents, too, made eyes at each other across the table, her mother blushing and both of them grinning. Neither of them seemed to care to be discrete. It was almost more than Edith could bear.

Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Rosamund blurted out, very loudly, "Robert, that's the third time you've kicked me tonight. Kindly either stop that or aim a little farther to the left. Your foot, though unshod, still hurts."

For a full minute, no one said a word. Robert grew bright red, while Cora's own blush deepened. Isobel looked blankly from Rosamund and Cora to Robert, and Tom grimaced with the effort of keeping a straight face. Rosamund merely began eating again, her point having been made. Mary and Matthew broke the silence as they started laughing, prompting everyone – except Rosamund and a mortified Edith – to laugh with them.

Edith decided she could take no more. Standing abruptly, she threw her serviette down beside her plate. "If everyone will excuse me, I'm not feeling well, and I'll go to bed now," she declared over their laughter, hurrying out of the room before anyone could stop her.

Once upstairs, she slammed her bedroom door behind her and, without even bothering to turn on a lamp, curled up on her bed, pulling the blankets over her head, willing the blue darkness of the room to swallow her whole.

A silence fell over the dining room after Edith's sudden exit. Cora looked at Robert. "I should go to her."

Suspecting he knew what had triggered his daughter's precipitate departure, Robert shook his head. "She'll be fine, Cora. You can check on her later."

Cora appeared torn. "But –"

Robert kept shaking his head. "Please, darling, don't let this interrupt the rest of dinner." He knew he probably sounded somewhat unkind, but he couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. Edith's behavior of late made him disinclined to accept her outburst as anything other than a fit of pique at her family.

Sighing, Cora settled back in her chair, an expression of mild concern still on her face.

Cora pleaded fatigue not long after everyone had assembled in the library after dinner. Now it was Robert's turn to look concerned. Meeting her at the door, he took her hand and bent close to her, speaking in a low voice. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand. "Yes, my dear. It's just been a long day, and I want to check on Edith before I ring for Perkins."

"I'll be up in just a while, Cora." He lowered his voice even more. "You'll have Perkins start you on your bath, and I'll relieve her before you're done? As we've been doing?"

"Yes, thank you, my love." She kissed his cheek, then let go of his hand. "Goodnight, everyone," she repeated in a louder voice before leaving the room.

Going upstairs, Cora knocked on her daughter's door. "Edith? Darling?"

Edith sighed. The last person she wanted to see – besides possibly Mary – was her mother. She stayed silent, hoping her mother would go away.

Knocking again, Cora called, "Are you alright? I just wanted to make sure you're not ill."

Hearing the worried edge to her mother's voice – even through the door – Edith pulled the covers down low enough to disclose her face and call out, "I'm alright, Mama. It's just a headache. I'll be fine."

"Well, if it doesn't go soon, let someone know." She paused there, her head bowed, hoping a headache was all that was wrong. "Goodnight, darling."

"Goodnight, Mama." Relieved that she seemed to have convinced her mother not to come in, Edith pulled the bedclothes over her head once more and screwed her eyes shut, wishing the wave of sadness would either disappear or drown her in its deep blue depths.

Cora went on to her bedroom and rang for Perkins. While Hazel's presence calmed her – as it always did – Cora still felt as if her daughter was hiding something, and it troubled her.

"Sweetheart?" Robert called when he closed the door to the bedroom behind him a while later.

Hazel stepped out of the washroom with a smile. "She's just gotten settled in the bath, my lord."

Her kind face drew a smile from Robert. "Thank you, Perkins. I'll take over from here then."

With a nod, Perkins turned to bid Cora goodnight and gather the dirty laundry, bid Robert goodnight as well, then left the room.

Robert went into the washroom, taking off his jacket and laying it across the back of a chair. Kneeling next to the bath, he gave his wife a tender kiss and then leaned back to bask in her answering smile. "How are you, my love?"

She nodded, touching his hand where he had it on the edge of the bath. "I'm fine. I'm just worried about Edith."

"She's not ill, is she?" He wondered if he'd been wrong about her reasons for leaving the dinner table.

"I don't think so. When I went to check on her, she said it was just a headache and she'd be fine, so I let her be." Cora watched her forefinger trace along the back of his hand. "But I'm not worried only from tonight. She's become so distant, Robert. Hasn't she?" She looked up at him.

Robert nodded slowly. "She has." He thought back to the day he confronted Edith, remembering how unhappy she'd sounded.

"I feel as if it's my fault somehow," she whispered, lowering her eyes. "I don't want to lose another daughter, Robert."

Her statement jabbed him in the heart. He moved his hand under her chin and tilted her head upward so he could look into her eyes. They shone an almost impossibly bright blue with tears. "Cora, you've done nothing wrong, and I hope you won't let yourself think that you have. And Edith may well be a bit lost right now. But she'll make her way again. I don't think she wants to be lost. It may simply be one of those things where she can't see clearly – can't see that people are extending their hands to help lead her back. She'll have to find her own way." Robert hadn't actually thought about it in quite that way until he said it, but it rang true to him. Caressing her cheek, he added, "You haven't lost her. She may have lost herself."

"Oh, Robert. If that's true, then I do wish she'd find her way again. It breaks my heart to see her distant and sad."

Robert pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Mine too, darling. Mine too." He gazed at her again, his thumb running lightly along her cheek. "Will you be alright while I get ready for bed? I'll hurry Bates as best I can and come help you out."

Cora nodded, giving him the faintest smile. But at least it was a smile. He stood and picked up his jacket, walking out to his dressing room.

In the week leading up to Christmas, Edith remained detached from the others, her mood gloomy. Instead of feeling joyful because of the upcoming holidays, her blue funk became worse, particularly in light of Mary and Matthew's being home again. She avoided speaking to everyone, and – with the exception of a few failed attempts on her parents' part to include her – they barely deigned to acknowledge her existence. Even her granny had found a new conversation partner in Aunt Rosamund.

Being nearly invisible has its advantages, though, she thought several times over the week. People did things in front of her they didn't think she paid attention to. The most interesting were the looks that Mary cast her mother – and the now obvious baby bump – when she thought no one else was looking. Edith would not have been surprised if Mary's expression had been jealous. But it wasn't. It was more like…resentment toward her. A resentment that, apart from these unguarded moments, Mary kept very carefully hidden.

The other thing she noticed was the sadness on her mother's face. It was the same look that Edith had noticed before she'd found out she was pregnant. Her mama didn't have the expression very often, but when she did, somehow Edith suspected she'd been the one to cause it. When, on Christmas Eve, she caught her mother staring at her, this very same look on her face, she was sure.

She hated knowing she was hurting her mother. The awful part was that the more she realized this, the more withdrawn she became.

Michael's letter still sat on her desk, unanswered. She'd read it so many times that she had it memorized. But somehow its contents did little to cheer her. He, too, was yet another reminder of what she did not have – and could probably never have with him. The letter taunted her.

If she had not been so depressed otherwise, Edith might have genuinely enjoyed Christmas Day. Sybbie was old enough to understand now, and having her in their midst – with her joyful squawking and delighted clapping – simply gave a magic to the day that hadn't been there in a long time. The year before, Tom had taken Sybbie to see his brother in Liverpool for Christmas, but even if he hadn't, she would have been too young to be the self-selected leader of festivities that she was this day.

Even Cora seemed able to keep the far away look off her face today. She kept exchanging happy glances with Robert, no doubt dreaming of a few years off, when their own toddler would be squealing with glee over dolls and tea sets or blocks and teddy bears wrapped in colorful paper. Watching her mama rest her hands over her stomach and lower her eyes with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Edith felt herself soften toward her. She remembered this about her mother when, for those few short weeks, she'd known she was pregnant with the baby she then lost. And Edith imagined that she had been the same way when she'd carried Mary or Sybil – or herself. Already protective and loving and glowing as she thought of the small life inside. The realization nearly brought Edith to tears.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of royal blue. Mary wore the tissue-fine blue silk embroidered shawl that their papa had given her for Christmas the year before. And Edith saw the same expression of resentment cross her sister's face. It made Edith wonder.

As Sybbie had begged her papa, grandmama, and grandfather in most vehement tones to let her eat Christmas dinner with the adults, she now sat with them, holding court as she had all day. The only one who seemed immune to her charms was Violet. However, her great-grandmother kept her complaints largely to herself, simply rolling her eyes every so often and muttering about how the little girl had wrapped the lot of them around her finger. That she didn't merely get up and leave for the Dower House served as a testament to how much Sybbie had Violet under her spell too.

When Sybbie fell asleep with her little cheek resting on the table before the second course, Cora laughed lightly and suggested Tom take her up to bed. Before he left he brought her over to her grandmother for a kiss on her flushed cheek and a whispered, "Happy Christmas, my little angel. Grandmama loves you."

After they finished dinner and the men had joined the ladies in the library, nearly everyone appeared as exhausted as Sybbie must have been earlier. They'd not had a small child in the house for Christmas morning in a long time, so they'd gotten used to sleeping in. They had forgotten how much the day could wear on them when they got up early. Isobel and Violet left first, followed by the others, one by one or two by two, until the only one left in the library was Edith.

All of the other lights in the room were turned out for the night, so she stared into the fire, ruminating over the day, the past week, the past several years. She sat close to the hearth, but the night had turned bitterly cold, and she couldn't seem to get warm. Spotting Mary's blue shawl that she'd left on the settee, she wound it around her neck, smelling her sister's perfume. She had tried to get along with Mary after Sybil died. Sometimes it worked. They forgot the past long enough to try to see the people they'd each become. But most of the time it was a tiring stalemate.

Edith tensed when she heard voices. They increased in volume as the owners of the voices approached the library entrance on the opposite side of the room from where Edith sat. Mary and Matthew. Edith stared in wonder as they stepped into the library, obviously not aware that she still sat there on one of the settees. They stopped just inside the door, caught up in their argument. The subject of their quarrel was clear within a few moments, and Edith found herself unable to move.

"Don't you understand how ridiculous it is, Matthew?"

"Mary, there's nothing we can do about it. Your mother and father didn't do this on purpose." He endeavored to remain calm.

Mary, however, raised her voice. "Of course they didn't! But how can you not be upset? What if the baby is a boy?"

"We've been over this for more than a month. If the baby is a boy, then he is the heir. Plain and simple."

"What about all the money you put into the estate? What about our children, Matthew, our sons?" Her hair was disheveled and her face red in her upset state.

"Mary," Matthew's voice began to gain a dangerous growling quality as he began to lose his patience, "I never wanted that money to begin with. You wanted me to take it, and you wanted me to invest it. I am ready to take my place as the Earl of Grantham if I must, but I was not raised to that expectation, and I'm more than content to go back to law and a quiet life somewhere."

"I can't stand to think that after all this you won't be Earl. No, I can't bear it. I love my papa and mama, but this is too much. They should have prevented this. If they have a son, I don't know how I'll ever speak to Mama again." Mary's hands shook, balled up in fists at her sides.

Edith could be silent no longer. She stood up and walked to the pair. Mary's face took on a look of horror as she realized that they'd been heard.

"Mary, how can you be so selfish?" Edith's voice trembled, but it became ever steadier as she continued, meeting her sister's eyes unabashedly. "Do you really think that Mama became pregnant to hurt you? To take something away from you and Matthew? Do you think she did it deliberately? I've seen how you look at her, Mary. The bitterness and resentment you aim at her when she's not looking." Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, remembering her father's words to her, hearing herself repeat many of them now to Mary, and recognizing now how true they were and how horrible she must have sounded to him. "Don't you understand that they're happy? That they want to share that happiness with us? We're their children. And we're Crawleys. Crawleys are supposed to stick together." She shook her head as Mary gaped at her in shock. "But you – you apparently don't know what that means anymore. I think you did, once, but now…. For the first time, I'm truly ashamed to call you my sister."

Unwinding the blue shawl from her neck, she threw it on the floor at her sister's feet. Then she rushed out of the room, practically running up the stairs.

When she got to her mother's door, Edith couldn't keep herself from knocking repeatedly. "Mama, please open the door. I need to talk to you," she cried, knowing she was about to sob.

"Just – just a minute, Edith," she heard from her mother.

Edith pressed her palms and forehead against the door, unable to check her tears anymore. When Cora opened it a few minutes later, Edith threw herself into her arms so hard that it almost knocked the breath out of her.

"Edith, darling, what's the matter? What's brought this on?" Cora held her in a tight embrace, pulling her more fully into the room and closing the door.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so very sorry," she choked out through her sobs. "I've been dreadful to you, and… I didn't mean it, Mama. I didn't mean it."

Cora rubbed her daughter's back consolingly. "Oh, Edith," she whispered, not sure what else to say.

Edith wound her mama's dark tresses around her fingers as her tears dropped on the shoulder of her dressing gown. "I didn't know how to be happy for you – for you and Papa – when I was so desperately unhappy."

Swallowing against the lump forming in her throat, Cora whispered, "I wish I knew how to make you happier, Edith. You're my daughter, and seeing you so despondent makes me ache for you. I love you so much, you see."

"Oh, Mama. I love you too. I don't want to be selfish." She sniffled. "You've always been here for me, and I need to be here for you too."

Cora withdrew her arms from around her daughter so she could put her hands on either side of her face and wipe her tears gently. "My darling girl, I'm so happy I haven't lost you."

Edith met her mother's blue eyes, finally calming down. "No, Mama. You could never lose me. But I might have been lost. I might still be a little lost."

A shiver went through Cora at hearing Robert's words repeated nearly verbatim by Edith's own lips. He had perceived something or heard something from their daughter that she had not. "I'm sorry for not paying more attention to you, Edith."

She shook her head gently, her face still cradled in her mama's hands. "No, Mama. You tried."

"If you need help, to find you way, please let us, dearest girl. Please." Cora gave herself over to her own tears now.

Edith took one hand from Cora's hair and pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, wiping her mother's eyes. She chuckled lightly. "I will, Mama. If you forgive me for how I've acted."

Cora smiled. "Of course I do, Edith. I'm your mama, and I will always forgive you." Drawing her daughter into a tight embrace once more, she sighed against her hair. "I'm so happy I haven't lost you," she repeated in a nearly inaudible whisper.

"I love you, Mama."

Within a half hour, Edith had gone back to her room, splashed her face with water, and changed into her night dress. By the soft light of her desk lamp, she took up her pen.

The communication was brief, spelled out as clearly as Edith knew how, in deep blue ink.

Dear Michael,

I'm afraid I'll be unable to move to London. Not at the current time, and not any time in the foreseeable future. My family needs me, and my loyalty and my affection lie with them.

You have been very kind to me, but I cannot continue this way. I deserve more than you can give me. It's simply taken me this long to realise it.

If you need to terminate my contract with the newspaper or assign me to a different editor, I understand. However, I hope you know that I do not require this, and my friendship for you remains steadfast. Even if it cannot be anything more.

I do hope you understand, Michael. I wish you only the best.

My sincerest regards,

Edith

Edith read the letter over again before carefully folding it and placing it in an envelope. She sighed with a profound contentment that she'd done the right thing. Turning off the lamp, she went to her bed and slipped under the bedclothes, wondering if her parents' child would be a boy or girl – a brother or sister. She would be happy with either. She had a feeling her parents would too. She wasn't so sure about Mary. Shrugging, she nestled her head against her pillow and, her mind clearer and heart lighter than they had been in months, fell into a restful sleep.

Blue: "trust, security, loyalty, stability, affection, depression" – also, the color representing the Virgin Mary (just to throw that in there – although, I guess as she's not slept with Michael Gregson….)