The first storms of autumn seemed to arrive early that year. It was barely September when the wind picked up and the skies grew dark with tumultuous clouds, sending everyone indoors for days on end. Edith and Anthony were perfectly content, having an excuse to sit near the fire in their library for hours, reading and talking. When Anthony was working, Edith was usually pouring over some new novel he'd suggested, or learning the ins and outs of estate management from him. He made a good and willing teacher.
She was painfully aware that her role as lady of the house was not nearly the success her role of wife had been. Edwards, Anthony's butler, found her youthful ardor unfortunately lacking in propriety and her skills in house management wanting.
The cook, Mrs. Dunfy who was ancient as Methuselah, was forever huffing and grumbling below stairs. When asked to select a menu Lady Strallan's usual response was, "Whatever you think is best," before skipping out the door behind Sir Strallan as he visited tenants or ran errands in town.
She didn't care to change a thing about Locksley Manor except the arrangement of a few rooms, including hers and Anthony's, and the arrival of some two hundred books from her father's home. She was either blissfully happy with everything or completely disinterested in the great house, either prospect the housekeeper, Mrs. Watson, found disturbing.
Edwards and the staff also found it quite alarming that Edith did not wish to hire a proper ladies' maid. "I'll really only need help getting in and out of evening dresses," she explained. The new style was much more manageable and secretly Edith couldn't bear the thought of anyone but Anna helping her. Given that Anna had recently left Downton, ready to give birth any day to Mr. Bates' first child, there was definitely no chance of that.
Most regrettable of all, Edwards always seemed to walk in on Anthony and Edith in the most awkward times. This didn't bother Edith in the least, or even seem to fluster Anthony like it would have in the past. But poor Mr. Edwards was always staring at rug or ceiling now, and triple checking before entering rooms.
On this particular day, with the rain blowing sideways against the great windows and the fire doing little to heat the capacious library, Edith watched her husband from a blanket near the hearth. The latest collection from some American poet named Pound was open before her, but she hadn't turned a page in quite a while.
Anthony was using his typewriter to add to his logs of figures and tenant notes and whatnot. The latest catalogue of farming equipment was open next to the daily paper and his well-worn farmer's almanac. Edith watched his eyes travel from one document to another, the way his brow shifted in response to what he read. She assumed, thinker that he was, at least a dozen things were being considered in his mind at the moment.
"Anthony?"
"Yes, my love?" he asked distractedly, not looking up at her.
"How much work have you got left for today?"
"Oh, I'm still catching up from our holiday I'm afraid. Probably another hour at least."
"Very well."
"Do you need me?"
"Always. But not urgently. Finish your work. I don't wish to be a distraction."
"I'd hardly call you a mere distraction, sweet one."
Edith was suddenly warmed through. "Sweet one" was not an endearment he used often. It was saved for only the times he felt particularly gentle and tender. He did not use it in lust, or worry, or for the everyday things. Only when they felt those quiet, honeyed exchanges, that unobtrusive, encompassing fondness and care for each other. When Anthony called her his sweet one, she knew it meant that he was utterly gratified just to be in her company, and vice-versa. She never, ever tired of hearing it.
Smiling uncontrollably, her heart swelling until her chest ached from trying to contain it, Edith bit her lip and turned back to her book. Each clack of Anthony's typewriter was another reminder of his presence.
And in one of those thoughts she'd been having more and more lately, she wondered what he might call their children. If they had a daughter, perhaps she would be his "little one," a son perhaps "my boy." She could picture so clearly, the two of them doing this exact thing. Only instead of a book of imagist poetry, Edith would have a gurgling baby, or possibly a stuffed toy and a child beside her just learning to walk. And oh, how she longed to know what they might look like; a girl with her proportions and Anthony's eyes or a son who would grow to Anthony's height but have the defined Crawley jaw.
And then her heart ached again but for an entirely different reason.
"What's the matter?" Anthony asked, causing Edith to jump. She was totally unaware he'd been paying any attention to her at all.
"Nothing," she said after a moment, forcing herself to smile.
Anthony rose from his desk and came to her, sitting on the edge of the sofa so he might examine her face properly. She didn't look at him, instead busying herself with folding the blanket she'd be using and stacking the floor cushions. She knew that he'd be able to read her as easily as one of his ledgers.
"Please tell me. I can tell something is on your mind."
Edith threw the cushions in a fit and turned to him, hands on her hips as she knelt before him. "It's as infuriating as it is endearing that you know me so well."
"Well as long as we're acknowledging that I do, won't you tell me what's the matter?"
Edith sighed and leaned over, folding her arms under her chin and lying across Anthony's lap. "I'm really perfectly content," she began. Anthony was rubbing her back and waiting for the "but" when Edwards came in with a note.
The poor butler saw only Anthony's back and Edith's feet extending from the side of the settee and turned white as a ghost. He nearly dropped the tray that held the letter and began apologizing profusely. Oblivious as Anthony could be, he did not understand the old man's horror until Edith sat up and Edwards nearly fainted.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Anthony muttered mildly, "Please bring me the letter, Edwards."
At first Edwards seemed afraid to approach, but upon doing so he was able to see the floor cushions, Edith's confusion, and the innocence of their locations. He said nothing but stared blankly out the window while Anthony quickly read the note.
"Lord Grantham will be coming over later to meet with me, Edwards. Please have tea ready in the study at two."
"Very good, Milord," Edwards whispered before leaving. He very nearly ran out the door."
"What on earth was that about?" Edith asked when they were alone again.
Anthony looked quite displeased. "I believe he thought you to be in a rather compromising and private position when he walked in," he managed, standing and walking to the window.
It took Edith a minute to understand before she burst into cackles. "Surely you have to see the humor in that," she managed, surprised at Anthony's sudden surliness.
"I do not. He'd never have jumped to that conclusion if we—if I—were more cognizant of our public behavior. I have shown you too little respect in front of the staff."
"Anthony, what's this about?" Her voice was soft, but worried. She sensed the sudden change in him. He was no longer relaxed or amusable.
When he turned to her, an all-too-familiar regret was pulling on his handsome face and shoulders. "I've failed you in so many ways, my darling. I bedded you before we were married, which I did without a church, on a Thursday no less, knowing all the while I don't deserve you. I've completely forgotten all discretion in my conduct towards you in front of others, particularly my poor, scandalized staff, and I think perhaps worst of all, I've yet to give you children, which I know you want more than anything."
Edith had been building her angry retorts one by one as he counted off his list. After all the healing they'd been through, to be back at square one, she could feel the frustration bubbling over. But then the last part, about the children, washed it all away.
"Anthony, come here," she demanded gently, pulling him to the sofa. He dropped down heavily, an exhausted and defeated sigh escaping him. Edith sat against her husband, feet tucked beneath her so she might face him assertively.
"Anthony," she began again, taking his hand in hers. "I should be mad at your for drudging all this up and for essentially saying you've married me and loved me against your better judgment. And especially for regretting your unbridled affection. But I'm not."
"You're not," he repeated quietly.
"No, my dear husband, I'm not. Because it's what you do. It's part of who we are. You worry, all the time. You worry for both of us. And I realize it's a great burden for you to carry. But it's your job, too. And I am so grateful to you for it." She ran her hand through his hair then, in the way she knew he always found soothing. "And it's my job to reassure us, darling, both of us, that we are happy, that we are good for each other, and that we are perfectly well."
Anthony turned those marvelous blue eyes on her, the storminess in them clearing at her words. "And the children?"
"Do you want children?" She asked, finding it difficult to believe it took them this long to broach the subject.
"I do," he whispered.
"As do I. And we'll have them. I know we will. So worry, darling. Worry for both of us as you must. But let me do my job as well and reassure you once in a while, alright?"
He buried his face against her for a moment, out of relief and surrender. When he lifted his head again his lips were on Edith's, soft but desperate somehow. And so, she did indeed reassure him.
They made love frantically then, not bothering to get each other undressed, sitting on the couch. It was so profoundly curative, so powerful. When they had finished, breathless and gratified, Edith did not immediately move from his lap. She held his head in her hands and looked down at him, conveying so much in those moments of silence.
When Edwards came in to announce Lord Grantham's arrival he did not seem so shocked to see Edith sitting with Sir Anthony on the couch. Even if the butler had been able to see over the back of the couch, her skirt puddled around she and Anthony to sufficiently cover them. But as it was, all Edwards saw was Edith's hands clasped behind his master's head and a perfectly calm Lady Strallan responding, "Thank you, Edwards. Sir Strallan will be right out."
"Thank you," he said to Edith as they parted. She helped him with his trousers and gave him an appraising once-over before sending him to meet her father. His hair was slightly mussed in the back, but nearly anyone that knew them as the Strallans knew it wasn't unusual.
Edith was leaning against the arm of the settee, looking out the great windows at the gray, wet day, slightly flushed and smiling to herself about what had passed when Anthony came rushing back in. The look on his face was one a school master might give a student that said something terribly clever but still inappropriate—halfway between appreciative and admonishing.
"Anthony, what—" she managed before he bent over her, kissed her forehead and pulled something from his pocket. He placed it into her hands subtly. As he left he was blushing profusely and looked her in the eye sternly as he called, "So sorry, Robert. I'll be right with you."
Edith couldn't help but laugh out loud as she unfolded the silk nickers her poor, flummoxed Anthony had just returned to his rather brazen wife.
Thank you so much for continuing to read and review. I've fallen in love all over again with these two in every chapter I have the pleasure of writing. Even if there's no justice in the 'real' D.A., these two seem like they're sticking it out for the long haul...
Much more to follow, I think. I promise it won't be too tedious! :) Thanks again.