Anthony went from Rugby to Cambridge to the Inns of Court Law School to Chambers to the Crown Court. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't known his life would take such a course. It was inevitable he would be barrister, a silk, a judge. When one was so completely, inexorably caught on a particular path it was easy to discount the aspects of the world which could not assist in the journey.

Edith Crawley fell squarely off the path. He wanted her to paint his portrait because he wanted it to be different and remarkable. He wanted to stand out amongst all the other High Court Judges John's had produced. That was his only requirement of her. So, the minute she told him that she couldn't paint he should have let her leave. He had no use for an artist who couldn't paint.

But she didn't leave. Not because there was no opportunity for her to do so – she stood up, she nearly had her coat on. But because he stopped her.

Now he sat looking at her, waiting to see if she would try for two weeks to see if she could manage a sketch. Just a sketch – just a try at a sketch, in fact - that was all he'd asked and he'd put all of his powers of persuasion into it. He might waste a fortnight with her and he'd be no closer to the portrait at the end of it.

He ran his index finger around the corner of the heavy cardboard of the portfolio. A moment before he had held her hand within his and fought an urge to brush away her tears. Her eyes were cast down to her lap; she drew her alluring bottom lip between her teeth. For a reason he didn't care to acknowledge he silently willed her to agree.

"Alright then."

She spoke so quietly it took a moment for the words to make themselves known across the expanse of the desk. Relief washed over him and he felt the tension rise off his shoulders. Her deep brown eyes looked at him and he smiled broadly, "good. Excellent."

"I can't make any promises."

"I know, I wouldn't ask you to –" he feigned indifference, "if you can't do it I'll get someone else, it's not a problem."

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece begun its hourly call. Six chimes. They sat in silence amidst the precise sounds. She was happier now. The tears had dried, the, somehow endearing, red splotches beneath her eyes begun to recede. There was such delicacy in her. He was surprised that she could have produced the pictures. She was so slight, diminutive, with pale skin, hair neither blonde nor brown, not beautiful yet far from ugly. The pictures were alive with colour but she could almost blend dead away into the background. He suspected it was by design. The way she pushed her shoulders back into the chair and held her hands clasped in her lap, chin slightly too low – it gave her away. This was not a woman who wanted to be seen. He wondered if she ever showed the colours she was capable of, other than on the canvass, and what it would take to bring them out.

He scolded himself for his thoughts. "They'll want to lock up." He helped her into her coat, his hand brushing across her cotton-covered upper arm. Busying himself he gathered the few weighty law books he needed into his holdall.

A solitary book sat on the coffee table, he recognised it as the one she'd been grasping when she emerged so unexpectedly from behind the bookcase. He picked it up – The Bell - and held it out to her, "would you like to borrow this?"

Frown lines darted to her nose, "oh – I – no. I have my own copy at home. It's just that, well, that's a first edition, I was curious. Reverent actually."

"I interrupted your worship?"

"Something like that." He returned her smile, delighted to have caused her some amusement.

"I don't get to my fiction section much any more."

The smile was gone, "you don't read the books?"

"I read them all when I was at University, but I long ago replaced works of fantasy with works of reality." He tapped on the sexual offences textbook on his desk, "sometimes brutal reality."

Now she looked downright displeased and a bubble of unease spread in his stomach, "How long has it been since you read a novel?" Her tone accused.

Lying would be easier than confirming the harsh truth about his lifestyle, but he wouldn't lie to her, "not since before I took silk – which is becoming Queen's Counsel."

Edith's fingers tapped a gentle rhythm on top of the leather chair, "And that was?"

He winced, the answer would age him. Or rather, it wouldn't, it would simply confirm the truth about his age. He was much older than her. It was a ridiculous thing to be concerned about, she would know that people didn't become High Court Judges without the advantage of experience, "15 years."

Her hand went to her cheek and her lips pouted a misshapen heart of disapproval. He imagined brushing it away with a kiss. The thought came from nowhere and he quickly shoved it aside.

"You have such a wonderful collection! And the books you've missed in the last 15 years. There has been some magnificent writing. I'll do you a list."

He laughed then, "will you?"

"Yes and you'll find time to read through it. You can't possibly go to the High Court with such a gap in your education."

He couldn't help a wry smile, the plain wallflower was issuing demands. She didn't write him off because of his literary failings – she had a plan to fix him, "Can't I? I'm not sure how much assistance I'll derive from modern fiction when I am considering conviction appeals and judicial review applications."

"You need to understand more than the law – you need to understand people and novels are a means of doing that. They'll help you stop being jaded." Her voice was raised and firm. A flush crept into her cheeks. Perhaps she was beautiful. He turned around to pack up, what the hell did that matter?!

"I should –" she made a vague gesture towards the door, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Anthony put the last of the books into his bag. He paused a moment and put the Murdoch in as well, "how did you get here?"

"Tube."

"Me too." He heaved the bag onto his shoulder, "Are you going back to central London?"

"Yes. Well, Brixton."

He teased, "Fancy that, an artist living in Brixton."

"And where do you live?"

He caught himself before he said Sevenoaks, old habits died hard. "Notting Hill."

Her smile was sweet as she mimicked his dry tone back to him, "Well, fancy that, a judge living in Notting Hill."

He laughed and raised his hand, "alright, we are both clichés." He was delighted that they were going in the same direction. He told himself he was simply pleased to break the daily tedium of a solitary commute, "Care for some company on the journey?"

She worked at the buttons on her coat before undoing them almost immediately, "I-" she cast her eyes around the office as if looking for something, "yes, why not."

He popped his head back into the courtroom and shouted a goodnight to Mrs Hughes, although she was probably with the Judge next door and wouldn't hear his good evening. Casting his eyes down to Edith he opened the door for her. She didn't immediately follow him through, "I could carry one of those you know? Ease the load?" He didn't follow the meaning and she nodded pointedly at his lumpy bag.

"Heavens no – this is barely anything. I am quite accustomed to acting as a packhorse. You concentrate on the paintings. I would be upset if any harm came to them."

They walked down the poorly lit judge's corridor. She begun but didn't finish, "well, I-"

"What?"

"I was going to say I could just paint some more, but of course, perhaps I never will." She allowed herself a false laugh, undoubtedly to lighten the mood, but Anthony didn't buy it.

"Somewhere in that statement is a little bit of optimism, Ms Crawley."

"Edith – please -" Her tone implored and he couldn't refuse it, "was there?"

"Edith, then. Yes. You had a brief moment in which you thought you would paint again." They arrived at the heavy nineteenth century door at the end of the corridor and she couldn't manage the dead bolt. He leant past her to work at himself, "that's progress from only a few minutes ago."

The cold air of early March whipped around their feet and skirted through Anthony's hair and into his bones. He flicked up his collar for a little extra protection. That first step outside was usually when he commenced some semblance of detachment from his work. The elements cleansed the day from his skin and helped untangle the muddle of issues in his mind. Only when outside did he stop re-hearing the decisions already decided and picking apart the submissions already offered, only then did the various voices and verbal ticks of myriad counsel cease to be a veritable din in the back of his mind. Not today though, all of that had already stopped. Disconcertingly he realised that his mind had cleared when he'd seen Edith Crawley emerge from behind his bookcase.

He locked the door behind them and turned to find his young companion some distance away standing on the grass – just behind the sign reading 'No Walking On The Grass' – straining her neck to look at the building. A mist of moisture emerged from her slightly parted lips and the wind swept the hair from her face.

He too ignored the sign and moved to stand beside her, looking up at whatever was catching her attention.

"This is an extraordinary building."

He examined the peaks and valleys of her profile. The pink in her cheeks rose as the cold nipped at them, "Yes." She glanced over at him, he was caught and he turned away to look at the building, "shame about the internal renovations."

"Yes - they are terrible." They trudged up the grass towards the main road and the red circle promising quick transport. "You managed to save your office though?"

"I threatened to chain myself to the door. Mrs Hughes pointed out that there were three doors to the office – one from the corridor, one from the court and the one behind the bookcase - so I went with a peaceful protest instead. I lay down in the middle of the floor when they came to pull out the fixtures and fittings."

Her fingers went to her mouth and her eyes widened, "you didn't?"

"I did. The mania for cost cutting had gone too far. I would not let them take my office as well. Such a wonderful building costs a little more to maintain, but it's worth it, don't you think?"

She nodded and led the way into the tube station.

"My parents just sold our family home for that very reason." Anthony didn't follow and arched an eyebrow, "maintenance costs, that is."

"Ah - I'm guessing it wasn't a five bed semi then?"

"No."

They stood on the right and the escalators rolled them down towards the platform. Quite unintentionally he'd stepped on first, turned to continue and almost found his head directly in her chest as his step unfolded to the lower level. Fresh linen and traces of lavender filled his senses. He stepped away before he was tempted to breathe her in.

"Anthony?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Downton Abbey, have you heard of it?"

The cranks of his mind moved him back to the current conversation and away from the dangerous, cobwebbed alleys into which he had strayed. "I - as a matter of fact I have." Anthony was always staggered to realize how small the world was, "you're a Downton Abbey Crawley?!" He nearly fell off the end of the escalator, catching himself just on the precipice of embarrassment; he smoothed his trip into a large stride.

"Well, I'm a Crawley and I grew up there, so yes, I suppose, in theory, yes."

"You must know Mary?"

The grimace writ large on her face, she replied, "elder sister, do you know her?"

She was at Maud's Chambers. Maud had led her in two big fraud cases and a conspiracy to supply drugs. He knew quite a lot about the cool, calculating and extremely ambitious Mary Crawley, but only from Maud's dinner table conversation. Why not tell her? He didn't want to talk about Maud. He didn't even want to be thinking of her at this moment; so he didn't. "By reputation, she's only appeared in front of me a few times, fierce lady - fierce barrister. Your father's a solicitor, isn't he?"

"He is."

He ushered her onto the train. Not crowded but, as usual, no seats. They stood and grasped the yellow railings, "Is Matthew Crawley your brother?"

Edith levered her pictures in between where she stood and the side of the carriage and leaned against one of the plastic partitions, "no. Everyone makes that assumption and we did grow up together. He was just a neighbor, the surname is a coincidence."

"Goodness, and Sybil a barrister as well – my father was a barrister and eventually a Judge, but that's nothing compared to you - you have a better legal lineage than I do, you're surrounded by lawyers!"

She shrugged, "I'm the odd one out. They tried to talk me into doing law at Cambridge and then law after Cambridge. Every time I go home my father mentions it –" she lowered her voice and scowled, "you can still do it Edith, plenty of people go to the Bar late in life." The train drew into the next station and a melee of people rushed on, liquid bodies, starting to fill the spaces around them. Anthony put his bag between his feet and shuffled closer to Edith. "I can't think of anything worse." She flushed and bit her lip, "I mean – I know you are – were - a barrister – but for me it wouldn't be – I'm sure it's a worthwhile profession but –"

There was something charming about seeing her flounder. He was somehow gratified that she might think she could have offended him, "Edith, it's fine. It's not for everyone and, God knows, it has its drawbacks. Thank goodness you didn't become a barrister. I'd be standing here with one of the other artists, knowing my portrait would be boring and soulless and just like all the others."

That was a lie, of course. He wouldn't have asked anyone else if they were travelling back to central London, let alone invited them to accompany him, such spontaneity was simply not in his nature, neither, he admitted, was a desire to spend time with someone. People had become a means to an end for Anthony – work colleagues, networking opportunities, legal sounding boards. This woman was none of those things. But he wanted to take the tube with her, he wanted to speak a little more with her and, when more bodies crushed on at the next station, he wanted to be forced into an intimate proximity with her. Anthony's arm reached around her small body to grasp the nearest pole and her shoulder butted into his chest. He could smell her hair. A small dip of the head and they could kiss.

Looking at the faces in the carriage, she cleared her throat and the dart of her tongue moistened her lips.

He wrenched his mind from thoughts of her lips – her tongue – there was no need to think of body parts unless presiding over a violence trial. He grabbed for his original point of his interrogation about the Downton Abbey Crawleys, "Do you know Locksley?"

"The house? Yes, it's not far from Downton, why?"

"We are both refugees of the decline and fall of the British aristocracy, Edith. Locksley should have been mine, but my father was forced to sell it."

They shared memories then, as only children of the Yorkshire countryside can, even if their experiences were separated by more years than Anthony cared to acknowledge.

A quiet settled between them as the weight of the train rumbled into zone one. Edith's shoulder, quiet pleasantly, nestled into his chest, his arm fitting around her small form. Her headed tilted up and he felt the movement of her eyes up his neck and he met them before she had to strain, "do you regret not having Locksley?" She paused and continued, "I mean, for me, the sale of Downton was the loss of my childhood home, it's where I played with my siblings and where Sybil is –" she cleared her throat, "buried. But it was as much a place of adolescent torment and insecurity as anything else. Besides - I was never going to inherit. That's not the case for you."

Edith's eyes burned with curiosity, flecks of gold firing as she waited, perhaps to compare her own experiences with those of a first born male heir, "I never thought all that much about it. I couldn't have become a Judge if I'd had to manage Locksley – as my Father discovered. Managing the estate stalled his career – along with having a family, of course. Only when he got rid of it did he make it to the Bench and he never made it to the High Court. Locksley is a place for a family man, a farmer with enthusiasm for that side of life. That was never me."

She looked disappointed with that answer, nodding an acknowledgment but offering no response. He wanted to smooth it over. He was not the automaton that answer had suggested, "what I mean –"

At that moment the train jolted its way into Oxford Circus. Edith careened into him, her hands planting firmly in the middle of his chest. She righted herself quickly and flushed, "sorry." She pointed towards the doors, "this is me."

Trying to ignore the heat radiating from where her hands had surely left scalding marks, Anthony followed her to the opening doors, "Edith, perhaps you would – if you wanted to – it's not too much further -" To my flat. We could eat left over pie and talk some more. The idea was formulated, it was so simple but he couldn't speak it. He had work to do and it was entirely inappropriate to monopolise her time, at his flat, on a cold March evening. Foolish man.

Edith laughed and raised her eyebrows, "that's the second unfinished thought of the day – worrying!"

"Yes." The doors rung their warning sound and Edith stepped out of the carriage. Anthony abandoned the idea, as he knew he should, and left the thoughts unfinished, "I'll see you tomorrow."

She waved a goodbye as the closing doors separated them; he watched her walk down the platform until the darkness of the tunnel stole his view.