DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.

Edith hadn't really intended to write anything. She had thought that she would scribble for an hour or two and then give up. Then, she would be able to tell Walter that she had tried but that it turned out writing wasn't for her and he would give up on the whole idea. Instead, what happened was quite different.

She returned home from her lunch and found her fingers itching for a pen. After telling Billings that she was not to be disturbed, she retired to her bedroom and sat at her desk, fizzing with possibility. She thought about making people laugh, and she thought about the need to escape that seemed to haunt England. Suddenly, the idea came to her. Edith remembered a garden party in what felt like the last real summer, when the sun had shone and all the women had worn dresses in pretty, pastel colours that they had then packed away for four years. In her mind, it seemed to be the last day when people were unreservedly happy, completely oblivious to the horror that would consume them over the next few years and claim their sons, brothers and friends.

But Edith also remembered more about that day. She remembered being one-upped by Mary, yet again, and that defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. The loss of Sir Anthony had been a bitter blow (not heart-breaking, though, for after Patrick's death her heart was too shattered to ever be properly repaired), but with hindsight Edith could see that perhaps she could make the incident comical. Yes. A last, glorious garden party in the last Edwardian summer and a humorous tale of upper-class sibling rivalry. Wasn't that what Walter had told her people wanted to read? Edith tucked her hair behind her ears, pulled her notebook towards her and picked up her pen.

She wrote for three hours, smoking six cigarettes and using eight sheets of paper. Day turned to dusk and the fire needed lighting, but Edith didn't notice. She was caught up in the act of writing. She had forgotten how cathartic it was to put things down on paper, and was reminded why she had spent so much time writing about Patrick. An incident that had festered away inside her for years was suddenly out on the page as a moment of humour. It would be something inconsequential for a woman to laugh at in one of her magazines, and then set aside.

In the story, Mary became an exaggeratedly beautiful, malicious older sister while Edith parodied herself into a mouse-like, down-trodden, plain and pathetic middle sister. She turned Sir Anthony into a man that nobody else could even consider marrying, a figure of fun that made Edith's character seem even more pitiably comical. After she had finished it – with an exact copy of reality; Mary raising her glass across the crowd in a salute of victory – Edith sat back on her chair and sighed. Writing had felt like a physical exertion, and she was proud of herself for having started and finished a story in one sitting. After a moment looking out onto the darkened street below, she lit another cigarette and began to read over what she had written, marking mistakes and improvements with a pencil.

OoOoO

"Dorothy?"

"Yes, darling?" Dorothy was sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading a magazine. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were both killing time before getting ready for that night's excursion. They were going to a masked ball to celebrate the 30th birthday of Dorothy's boss. He had hired out a whole theatre for it, including backstage and the balconies, and both women were expecting a very grand evening. He had even hired a chef to cook breakfast at dawn for those who had made it through the night, and Dorothy had already told Edith that they would definitely be there.

"I was wondering if…" Edith began hesitantly, "if you would read this for me? Give me your honest opinion on it."

Dorothy held out her hand for the black notebook that Edith was holding. "Of course. Did you write it? Is this what Walter has been nagging you for?"

Edith nodded. "Yes. It's only a bit of silliness. I did it to shut him up more than anything." Her heart was in her mouth as she watched Dorothy's eyes begin to scan across the page, and she could feel her pulse quicken. Every time she laughed it felt like a small victory.

"Edith! That was marvellous!" Dorothy exclaimed when she had finished. "I didn't know that you could write so well. It was very funny!"

Edith looked at the floor and smiled, happiness bubbling up inside her. "I'm glad. I'd like to make people laugh."

"Are you going to publish it?" Dorothy asked eagerly. "You really should you know."

"Oh I don't know about that. Walter mentioned that he might know someone who would put it in their magazine, but I shouldn't think it's good enough for that."

"It really is, darling." Dorothy looked down and began to flick through the pages again. Slowly, though, her face changed. "Did this happen to you, Edith?"

Edith's smile also vanished. She didn't want Dorothy's pity. She had liked it better when she had been funny.

"Oh darling, it did." Dorothy shook her head. "This isn't you, though. You know that don't you?" She ran her finger down one of the pages until she found a particular line. "Jane had never been a particularly pretty girl, and even her Grandmother had told her that she should not expect to marry a very handsome man. So, although Sir Howard was quite old and sentimental and not especially interesting, Jane knew that she was lucky to have caught someone at all." Dorothy read aloud and looked at Edith very sadly. "You have ever such a low opinion of yourself."

"I know my weaknesses." Edith said quietly.

"You need to start knowing your strengths, too."

After Dorothy's praise, Edith retired to the hallway to telephone Walter. There was no harm in letting him know that she had done what he asked, even if it was still unlikely his editor friend would want to publish the story.

"Walter?"

"It's the delectable Edith Crawley!" Walter responded, and Edith rolled her eyes at the phone. "To what honour do I owe this conversation?"

"I just thought I'd let you know that your bullying paid off. I've written something."

"Really?" His exaggerated demeanour dropped and he sounded surprised and pleased. "Gosh, that is wonderful. When I can I read it?"

"I don't know. When do you want to read it?"

"Monday. I'll take you for breakfast at a little café I know. Shall I pick you up at nine?"

"If you want." Edith said coyly.

"Nine sharp." He paused. "Edith I am so glad that you've written something."

"So am I." She replied before disconnecting.