Snaresbrook Crown Court stood proudly in the middle of a green field, like the small manor house of some minor lord in the 18th century. It was gothic; all turrets and pointed roofs in light grey stone. Not completely unlike Downton. Edith had seen the outside of numerous courts, waiting for her Father or Matthew or Mary, and, before she discarded all thoughts of a domestic practice, even Sybil. Snaresbrook was the first historic one. Most were homages to horrendous 1980s architecture or faux Georgian, double-glazed and lacking in spirit. Snaresbrook was handsome and intimidating, it looked like the kind of place justice should reside. A swarm of haggard barristers clustered to the left of the entrance, some smoking, others discussing conspiratorially, black robes occasionally catching in the breeze.

Mrs Hughes's distinctive voice replayed in her mind. "The Judge would like to meet you, how would Monday at 4.30pm suit?" She'd wanted to argue, to question. Why on earth would he want to meet her? She'd sent no portraits, save for one of a large black dog. If he wanted to reprimand her for wasting his time she'd be happy to have a phone call. Perhaps he wanted to interview her, although she couldn't imagine why one would need to interview a portrait artist. The paintings were supposed to do the talking.

An unpleasant aspect of this experience had occurred to her then, if she was to paint this man, she would have to talk to him. Presumably they'd need to spend hours, possibly days together whilst she made a study of him and captured his likeness. Her throat was dry. She didn't want to make his acquaintance, to grope hopelessly for a thread of conversation and fail, brought to red blushes by her inability to fill an uncomfortable silence. Her whole family had the art of small talk. Edith realised at a young age that she had not been so blessed.

A film of sweat covered her forehead; she brushed aimlessly at it with her fingertips. Charging forwards up the drive she put on a brave face. It didn't matter anyway. She couldn't paint; this was a pointless trip she was unlikely to repeat. She would forget the humiliation and return to normal.

The beauty of the outside of the building was entirely absent on the inside. An absolute travesty had taken place. The ceilings had been lowered with panels and strip lighting, which purported to brighten a room but actually just cast everything in a shade of muted yellow-grey. The floors were plastic, the walls had been pebble dashed. The soul was gone. Perhaps this was what the hotel company was doing to Downton at this very moment.

Introductions were made at the front desk and the Judge's clerk emerged from a courtroom. She was as brisk and efficient as her phone call suggested she might be, but there was an immediate affability about her countenance, Edith's nerves lifted slightly as a result of being in her presence.

Mrs Hughes chatted as she led Edith down a narrow corridor, which had also been assaulted with the foul strip lighting, "They're still sitting I'm afraid. Bit of a row brewing. We haven't even panelled a Jury yet." She stopped outside a light wooden door with crooked stickers set out across the middle, "HHJ Strallan QC". So this was her Judge.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She opened the door and turned back, "yes dear?"

Edith ran her fingers across the first three letters, "H? H? J?"

"His Honour Judge – in this case - Anthony Strallan of Queen's Counsel." Mrs Hughes pointed at the 'Q' and the 'C'.

Edith laughed, "that bit I know." She'd been in the midst of countless conversations, usually with Mary at their centre, about the lofty ambition of every barrister on the planet; the much lauded appointment to Queen's Counsel. A long application form, with a big fee and, if you got that far, three interviews before a panel even considered your name for the list. If successful you were at the top of the profession. Mary, in work, as in every aspect of her life, wanted to be at the top.

Mrs Hughes smiled and ushered her into the office, "I have to go back to court. You can wait here, he'll be with you when they've finished."

There was something peculiarly personal about being inside someone's office. She wondered if the Judge realised someone he didn't know would be alone in here.

The room was charming. Untouched by the renovations which had ravaged the rest of the building. Two large gothic windows looked out over the expansive grounds which surrounded the court. The old glass was flecked with imperfections and the dying light dappled onto the floor. A substantial mahogany desk with a red leather top was positioned behind the door, a modern leather chair sat behind it and a green leather wingback chair in front. The desk was scattered with files, stacks of loose paper and smart red books. A ball of pink ribbon perched next to an open inkpot. There was pleasant clutter everywhere. The mantelpiece was covered in a variety of brightly coloured paperweights and a number of vases filled the space where the fire should be. This space was well lived in.

A lumpy coral coloured sofa ran along the far wall with a kettle and two tea cups on a round end table at the far side. Well-worn floorboards were covered by a huge, faded Persian rug. A large coffee table ran in front of the sofa. A black tin with gold edging balanced precariously on the edge. Edith nudged it to safety as she stepped into the centre of the room. His name was printed across the middle in golden script – 'Anthony G. Strallan Esq.' The perfection of the lettering had been eroded by chips in the paint and a large dent at the centre of the lid.

A few pictures adorned the walls. A large watercolour of the Bridge of Sighs, perhaps a compulsory purchase for any John's graduate, she was certain Matthew had the same one. Two rather gruesome chalk drawings hung behind the desk, almost obscured by a precarious tower of boxes. They were titled 'Crime' and 'Punishment' the first was a fox eating a chicken, the second was a dog eating the fox. They stood in complete contrast to everything else, a couple of Vettriano's and Monet's San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk. The Monet was one of Edith's favourites but there was nothing remotely modern and nothing which bore much of a resemblance to her style, the Monet perhaps, but she felt foolish even thinking that. A sense of foreboding fluttered in her chest.

It was laid low when she turned her attention to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. Books: always a comfort. However, in this case, there was nothing much with which to commend His Honour Judge Strallan's taste. There were yearly 'Criminal Law Reports' dating to 1908. Edith would bet the house that he'd never used any of the ones pre-1970, yet here they all were, taking up perfectly good book space. 'Archbold Criminal Pleading, Evidence and Practice' going back to 1981; they got progressively larger with each passing year. The 2013 edition was the size of a house brick. Then there were textbooks, hundreds of them, on seemingly every aspect of law. Terribly dull. She was disappointed, which was a curious feeling; she told herself she'd hoped to while away the waiting with a good book. Her Kindle was in her bag.

She turned away from the boring tomes and the glint of metal caught her eye. At the end of the bookcase was a step and a gap. If the tread on the stair hadn't caught the light she would have missed it entirely. She ventured up the step and found that the bookcase wasn't flush to the wall. Behind it was a corridor, a corridor lined with more books. At the end was an ornate wooden door. This, she thought, was more like it. Smiling, she ran her fingers along the spines of Austen, Dickens, Tolkien, Trollope, Mitford, Faulkner, Salinger.

Casting a look back, as if to check whether she was being followed, she tried the door and fell with a squeal into the space behind it.

A male voice exclaimed, "what on earth?!"

Biting her lip Edith turned guilty to the man who'd been spared a broken nose by a matter of centimetres. "I'm sorry – so, so sorry. I didn't expect the door to be open -" she gestured to at the treacherous object, "and doors like this always stick. This one just opened, just like that." She grimaced, "sorry."

The man was tall but stocky and round. He had slicked back hair; black, with darts of silver. His expression was solemn. He wore purple robes – judicial robes. The mortification swelled in her chest - she'd nearly broken her Judge's nose. And she was snooping around his office, trying doors and looking at books.

He solemnity gave way to puzzlement as he looked her up and down, "are you clerking for Strallan?" Presumably Edith looked as dumbstruck as she felt, he ploughed on, "covering Mrs Hughes?"

He thought she was an employee, because only an employee would be in the Judge's offices nearly breaking doors and noses. But he was not her Judge, so there was that, her humiliation somewhat curbed, "no. I'm here for a meeting with Judge Strallan though. Mrs Hughes is clerking, she told me to wait in his office." She hoped that, somehow, it would go unnoticed that she was no longer in the office.

"Ah, I see." He smiled warmly and shook her hand, "Charles Carson."

"His Honour Judge-" Edith gestured at the outfit, "I presume?" He nodded, "Edith Crawley, sorry again, for nearly –"

"Causing me a serious mischief?"

"Yes." Sheepishly she tried to explain, "Curiosity got the better of me - a large wooden door, at the end of a corridor of books. I wondered where it led."

"Not Narnia I'm afraid." He pointed towards the end of the corridor, "judicial dining room at the end there, my office two doors down and-" he tapped on the door just beside them, "the facilities. Deeply unexciting, that is, until a young woman comes bursting in and nearly floors me."

"Again, I am very, very sorry."

"Do not worry yourself, it was a point of interest in an otherwise routine day."

Turning, Edith begun to retreat, "I should head back in."

He caught the door before she started to shut it, "you said Mrs Hughes is working today?"

"Yes. I assume that she's with Judge Strallan."

"Good then, lovely to meet you Ms Crawley." With that, he continued into his office and Edith went back to the corridor of books.

Just as she was telling herself she would ignore her natural curiosity and go and sit on the sofa and wait patiently, as had obviously been expected, she spied a number of Iris Murdoch's on the bottom shelf. Kneeling, she realised it wasn't a few volumes; it was every single book. Academic and fiction. Her hand shook as she drew out a first edition of The Bell, a happy young woman, surrounded by flowers and playing with a butterfly on its cover.

A door opened and slammed shut, accompanied by non-descript mumbling. Someone had entered the office, the Judge, presumably. So he would know she was snooping. She contemplated calling out to alert him that he was not alone but there was something incredibly awkward about the image that conjured; a bodiless shout from behind the bookcase - he'd think she was mad.

She crept down the corridor and back towards the gap, perhaps she should just emerge with casual insouciance, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about her presence at all. Edith was not really sure she could pull off casual insouciance. The incoherent muttering got louder and was accompanied by heavy footsteps.

She peered around the edge of the bookcase, but she couldn't see anyone. The muttering became more pronounced. She couldn't quite make it out, but she was fairly certain, from the tone, that it contained expletives. He didn't know she was in here; she needed to make her presence known. Casting her head towards the ceiling and trying to ignore the curl of nausea crossing her stomach, she took the step back into the office and spoke as evenly as she could manage, "hello." It was as close to casual insouciance as she was ever going to get.

The tall figure, started and braced himself against the desk with a loud exclamation of surprise. He disrupted the lever arch files and the two underneath gave way as the one on the top tumbled to the floor.

Edith raised her hand in apology and was going to commence a coherent and confident explanation. But she found she could not speak because, as she went to begin, she actually looked at him.

He was tall, much taller than she'd expected and broad, not too much, but enough - she suspected she could cocoon herself against his chest with space to spare. He had a flock of blonde hair, set too far back from his temple, exposing too much forehead and yet, perfectly situated. He ran his hand through it as he leant on the desk and strands spilled across his temple. His mouth moved, presumably words emerged, although Edith heard nothing but the thrum of her own body. Slight lines crinkled around his mouth as he talked. Then a smile spread across his face, the warmth of it filled the room and wrapped around her weary limbs. His eyes were pools of blue light, radiating intelligence and interest. This was a man like no other Edith had ever seen. She'd heard about this and read about it, about this feeling which crept through her and sped up her heartbeat and moistened her mouth. It wasn't a myth after all: this was attraction.

He pushed away from the edge of the desk and moved towards her, putting out his hand. She stared at it for a few moments; her mind whirred and finally generated the expected reaction. His grip was firm with warm, smooth skin.

The voice was in her ears then. It was as if Edith could only manage to comprehend his appearance if she excluded everything else, but now the adjustment was made and the words were finally permitted entrance to her addled brain. A lilting, slightly breathless cadence floated across the space between them. He cleared his throat, "you are Ms Crawley aren't you?"

She looked up from the sight of her hand in his and into his glorious eyes. He'd made the deduction on his own, she hadn't needed to explain, she hoped he hadn't said anything too important, "oh – I – yes, yes I am."