"I think Papa's trying to talk Tom and Sybil into staying at Downton indefinitely," Edith said, nodding in the direction where Robert stood with the young and reluctant couple across the room.
She and Anthony were leaning against the sofa table together, somewhat separate from the rest of the party, enjoying the cake Mrs. Patmore had created. It had been beautifully decorated, with a light apricot icing, delicate white piping, and a collection of jasmine blossoms spread around the base. The filling was an apricot mousse, and the cake vanilla—Edith's favorites, Mrs. Patmore had remembered.
"You would like that, having Sybil back home, wouldn't you?" Anthony wondered.
"I'm fairly certain Sybil secretly wants to come home. But she'll never betray Tom. It's going to be a sacrifice for him, and I only wonder if he'll make it."
"You're kind to worry about them," Anthony said, admiring his wife's goodness.
"Not really. I just want to avoid any conflict. This family seems inexplicably drawn to it."
"You're lovely, and generous, and you may have the others fooled but I know how much you love them," he whispered, setting down his plate so he might run his hand along her lower back to her side. He gave her hip a daring little squeeze as he pulled her closer to him. "I know you."
"Mm-hmm," she hummed, running her nose along his jaw. They risked the exchange, hoping no one would see it with their backs to all of them, but they were not so lucky.
"Edith, dear, tell me again where you're going for the honeymoon?" Lady Violet called from her chair. Her gray eyes peered knowingly over her hands atop her cane as she waited for a response.
Edith sighed, breaking from her Anthony, and whispered "Well, don't go giving away all my secrets." Her double meaning was clear when she ran her finger along the top of his trousers as she passed him to sit by her Gran.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered and gave that crooked smile he always got when Edith did something to surprise him. Of all his many communicative expressions, it was probably Edith's favorite.
It was the same look he gave when Edith, adventurous creature, suggested they break from their honeymoon itinerary to take an un-chauffeured, servant-free excursion along the Mediterranean. "Don't you think it would be brilliant, just the two of us? Even if it's just for a week or so?" She gestured to the footmen carrying trunks into their room, knowing her maid was down the hall in a room of her own, waiting to be summoned. "Without all the...company?"
"Of course, sweet one, I just don't know how we'd manage."
"Anthony Strallan, you're a decorated war hero and supervisor of the most successful estate in Northern England, I'm a brazen political columnist who has an intimate understanding of tractor operation. Surely we can manage to go on holiday just the two of us."
Anthony laughed warmly, realizing how silly she must have thought him. "You're right, but it's just this blasted arm."
"What?" She was genuinely confused about how his arm factored into this endeavor.
"What if we encounter any trouble? A flat tire, or worse, and what of the luggage? I can't haul it about. And without a valet you'd have to dress me each morning."
Edith thought for a moment, feeling badly for not knowing ahead of time he might be nervous about the logistics of independent travel. He'd managed before her with very little help just fine, of course, but he'd also been much less active. Depressed and self-loathing as he was, Anthony had mostly stuck to reading, rarely shaved or took dinner or went out of doors, except to conduct business that couldn't possibly be handled by correspondence.
Now she was asking him to run about the South of France with only a car and a bag and he was worried about being a burden, or worse being unable to protect her. Again, they failed to see his injury in the same light.
"Well," she said stepping closer to him, "I can't imagine we'll have more than one case each, and Tom taught me the basics of car maintenance long ago. We won't venture too far from the main cities, there will always be bellmen and footmen at the hotels, and if something really dire happens, Edwards and Samson will only be a phone call away, won't they?"
"I suppose," he said.
Knowing he was still hesitant she laced her arm through his and leaned up to whisper seductively, "And I've been getting rather good at undressing you. I suppose it couldn't hurt to practice the reverse as well."
"Well, how can I argue with that?" he asked, relieved and delighted to appease her.
After giving each of the staff a generous bonus and leave to enjoy themselves, the Strallans were off in Anthony's new open Austin 20. Their first night they ended up in a quaint little hotel outside of Nice.
The hotel owners, a small couple with over-sunned skin like brown maps, were incredibly warm and generous, honored to have newlyweds among their guest list. Anthony and Edith ate like kings and got tipsy from the heat and the cold dessert wine the waiter kept pouring.
All alone with no schedule and no risk of servants waking them, they made love until the small hours of morning and slept in the nude. The smell of salt and oleander clung to the breeze as it blew in from the sea through their open window. It was just cool enough to keep them comfortable as they lay together atop the mess of sheets. They woke feeling like the late Mediterranean morning—languorous and drowsy and sated.
By the time they were hungry for breakfast it was nearly eleven, so the Strallans decided to dine in their little suite. Sitting across from each other at the small round table under the window, Edith in her silk robe and Anthony in only his trousers, they shared the newspaper and ate fresh fruit and sponge cake and iced coffee.
When an attendant came to clear it away, he took a quick glance around the suite and laughed. The thin young man muttered something to Anthony when he took his tip and slapped him jovially on the shoulder before leaving. Anthony, in response, looked mildly horrified.
"My French is admittedly rusty," Edith said, stretching her over-worked muscles. "What did he say?"
Anthony looked slightly awkward, flexing his hand in the way he always did when he was trying to be delicate. "Well, he said that the English are cold as fish by day, but that he hoped for your sake I did not waste such beauty by night."
"That doesn't seem so bad," she said with a blush, still unused to being called a beauty despite Anthony's many sincere complements.
"He added that, judging by the current state of our room, I did not," Anthony muttered regrettably. He didn't wish to embarrass his young and comparatively naïve wife. But Edith just laughed.
It was over dinner that evening that Edith finally explained her wedding gift to Anthony. They were at a fine restaurant, perched over the sea with muslin umbrellas over each table and white lights strung between them. The waiters brought roasted pheasant with peach glaze and figs stuffed with spiced goat cheese and rich breads with olive tapenade. They ate with their hands and never experienced a lull in conversation. "The benefit," Anthony pointed out, "of marrying your closest friend."
Between the final course and dessert Edith pulled the first letter from her clutch and handed it to him.
"Your letter," he said faintly, turning a slight shade of gray. He took it from her hands, handling it like a temperamental weapon that may go off at any moment, and set it gingerly on the linen-covered table before him.
"Yes. We're going to read them. Not all at once, but over the next several weeks. We'll get through them together, while we've got the time."
"This is what you wanted for your gift?" He seemed almost hurt that she would want to relive it all, as though she were exacting a sort of penance for what he'd done.
"I want you to know, finally and without doubt, exactly how much I love you, and that I always loved you, even during our lost year."
"Then, they're not angry?"
"Oh some are, without a doubt, but people can love and be angry simultaneously. We'll read them together, and you'll see what you mean to me."
"We needn't go through this for me to know that."
"I think we do, my darling. Because you've always thought you love me more than I do you. You won't say it, but I know you think it's true. I just want you to understand the depth and breadth of my feelings. Please, won't you do this for me? And when we're done we'll be able to forget all of it."
"If you wish, Edith," he muttered.
"I know you don't believe me, Anthony. But trust me, please, and I promise it'll be alright."
She reached under the table to take his damaged hand, pulling it into her lap and squeezing it with both of hers.
"I trust you," he decided, "And I love you." They picked at the dessert, both of them quiet and contemplative. After paying the bill Anthony stood and, holding the letter tightly said, "Shall we?"