Chapter the Sixteenth: In Which Battle Lines Are Drawn

18th November, 1918

"Edith?" Anthony wondered into the darkness. He wasn't even sure if his wife was awake, but she had made it clear over the last few days that concealment and secret worrying was no longer the order of the day. And this was most certainly something he was worrying about.

Edith rolled over, smiling sleepily up at him, eyebrows lifted in open enquiry. "Hmm?"

"May I… ask you something?"

"Of course." Edith tucked herself more closely into his side against the cold, her feet wriggling between his own. It was still astonishing, that - that she was still so willing to be close to him like this, to kiss and cosset and cuddle him, even after all the revelations of Armistice Day, and the days that had followed. But as Edith showed no signs of ever stopping, he supposed he'd simply have to get used to it.

Softly, sympathetically, she asked, "Do you… need me to telephone Dr Hunter again?" Of course, after the other night, she'd insisted - had driven him to the appointment herself and got on very well indeed with the hearty Scotsman - but Anthony shook his head at that suggestion.

"No, nothing like that." He sighed. "Just a… thorny little office problem."

Edith's hand, which had been stroking down his pyjama sleeve, twitched a little in surprise. He was usually so firm about official secrets, after all. "Goodness. Go on."

Anthony exhaled. "My commanding officer… offered me a promotion today." His mouth twisted. "Lieutenant-Colonel Strallan, if you can believe it."

Edith sat bolt upright and switched the bedside light on, shoving loose curls of hair out of her face. "Oh! Oh, my Lord!"

"Yes." Anthony's voice was clipped and quiet.

Edith tilted her head to one side, and she was silent for a moment - considering all angles of the problem, he supposed. "And… you don't want that?" she checked, eventually.

"Not particularly." Anthony frowned. "He said… well, I… I can't tell you specifics, but - last month, when I was so damned busy, just before the end of the War… there was an… operation - the intelligence managed by me - and… several men were killed."

"And the operation?" Edith pressed carefully. "Did it succeed?"

"Yes. At ridiculous cost." He'd written to the families of the dead men himself, afterwards, alongside their official commanding officers. All six of them. And then gone to the office lavatory and been thoroughly, miserably sick. "It was a great risk to begin with anyway - "

"And if you'd decided differently?" His wife's voice was unspeakably gentle, almost as if she knew what was happening inside his head. Anthony wouldn't even have been surprised if she did, at this point. "What then? Darling, would more men have died?"

"I don't know. Perhaps." He closed his eyes tightly. "But, either way, I've absolutely no wish for a promotion for it."

Edith stroked her hand across his forehead. "Then… where's this thorny little problem, hmm?"

Anthony's eyes blinked open and he sat up. Really, this wasn't the sort of conversation to be had lying down anyway. He reached for Edith's hand as it fell away from his face, locking their fingers together. He'd near enough bitten his tongue in two, in Goult's office that morning, trying not to snarl out an immediate refusal. Really, it had to be Edith's choice, at least in part. "You don't… wish I'd accept it? Being a lieutenant-colonel's wife would be… rather fine for you, I'd think."

"Darling Anthony - always worrying about everyone else," Edith sighed. "I'm perfectly content to be the wife of a very principled and decent major, thank you - for as long as you want to stay in the Army, anyway." A somewhat provocative smile slipped onto her face. "So tell your superior officer to go boil his head."

Anthony chuckled, surprised. "I don't think that would go over well, somehow!"

Edith kissed his cheek. "Then invite him for dinner here, and I'll tell him." Drawing back, she fixed him with a firm stare. "Don't worry any more, my darling."

"Edith, my dearest…" Anthony returned the kiss, to her mouth this time - gently, testing the waters. Edith's lips parted under his and her arms draped around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

In his ear, she murmured, "And particularly don't worry any more tonight…"

Three days later, Edith was summoned to tea by her father-in-law. She used the verb advisedly - the note was phrased in Sir Phillip's usual kindly terms, but there was an undercurrent of steel there that she didn't quite like. "Goodness only knows why they're in London again," Anthony sighed irritably as she passed the note to him over the breakfast table. "'Early Christmas shopping', my left foot."

"They're worried about us, of course, and your father's feeling the need to… test the waters, I suppose," Edith sighed apologetically. "My fault, of course. I shouldn't have had that silly wobble and stormed off to Locksley the way I did." When Anthony opened his mouth to protest, she lifted a hand to forestall him. "No, don't try to shift the blame on to yourself, you know I'm right." She set the note aside, and looked up at him from beneath her lashes, framing her next words carefully. "Have you thought any more about… talking to them about… well, everything?" I know it would help - you and them. And it's getting harder and harder not to interfere!

Anthony shrugged. "It's a sensible idea, I know. I'll… stop being such a coward about it, some time or other, I suppose."

Edith stood and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. "What did we say about the c-word?" she asked, in rather a prim, school-mistress sort of voice.

Anthony rolled his eyes, reciting Edith's definition of it. "'That at best it's self-pitying bilge, and, at worst, fishing for compliments that I'd get much more easily if I just asked outright for them.'"

His wife beamed and slid into his lap. "Exactly." Ducking her head, she kissed the spot under his chin that could always be guaranteed to make his pulse quicken, straightening his tie as she did so. Really, it was utterly unfair of him to look so good in Army uniform.

"And what's all this?" Anthony wondered lazily. "Rewards for good behaviour?"

Edith's chuckle was equally languid. "Of course, darling. Dr Hunter did say I ought to do everything I could to aid your recovery, after all…"

"Lady Edith, sir," intoned Atwell coolly as he opened the library door to admit his master's daughter-in-law. Edith barely restrained her wince at the unwanted title; of course, Atwell disliked Anthony, and apparently these things were transferrable on marriage. Thankfully, her father-in-law was at his desk, absorbed in some paperwork, and didn't seem to notice.

The door shut behind her with a firm snap. "Hello, Pa." Edith leant over his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "Isn't Mama in?"

Sir Phillip swung around on his chair with that sudden energy that his son had inherited, and that Edith so loved. "No, she's out at a public lecture." He twinkled up at her. "I believe mention was made of Mrs Fawcett - and you know I never discuss politics with Nancy."

Edith poured them both tea from the tray, fighting a smile at such a blatant lie. "Oh, well, if it's Mrs Fawcett, then I perfectly understand. Much more interesting than tea with us."

"Quite." Phillip shuffled his papers together, pinned them brutally under the Meissen pug paperweight that always travelled with him back and forth between London and Locksley, and sat down opposite Edith in one of the fireside armchairs. Edith passed him his tea. "Thank you, m'dear."

For a few minutes, they chatted of this and that - Edith's progress on the novel, the Armistice, Anne's hopes for her first vote - and then Phillip turned those sharp blue eyes on her and asked, quite suddenly, "Now, my dear, what's all this nonsense about Anthony turning down a lieutenant-colonelcy?"

The bottom quite dropped out of Edith's stomach. Playing for time, she shredded the tiny ham sandwich she'd just lifted from her plate. So this was the reason behind the invitation! Lightly, she replied, "I… wasn't aware that possible Army promotions were topics of public conversation."

"Not public, exactly - and don't play with your food, there's a good girl." Obediently, Edith dropped the remains of the sandwich back onto her plate. Really, she wasn't hungry any more. "I met Brigadier-General Sir Herbert Strowe yesterday at my club," Phillip pressed on, "and it was the first thing he asked me." He didn't sound annoyed; in fact, he sounded rather disappointed.

"Oh. I see." Trust Pa to know absolutely everybody, at the most inconvenient of moments!

"Yes." Phillip took a sip of his tea through pursed lips, then set it aside with a precise clink of cup against saucer. "So, I repeat: what's all this nonsense about?"

"It isn't nonsense," Edith answered calmly. In the folds of her skirt, her fingers had curled up and her palms were growing damp. "A-Anthony was offered it, and doesn't want it, for very good reasons, none of which I'm about to go into."

"Doesn't want it?" Phillip's eyebrows flew up into his hairline, practically. "Ridiculous! Whatever is the boy thinking? He's being offered this wonderful chance - can't you persuade him, Edith?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Edith - "

"No!" The word flew out much more loudly and violently than it ought to have. Into the ringing silence that followed, Edith pressed on, "And how dare you ask it of me?" Her eyes were prickling hotly and it took a moment for her to recognise that sick feeling in her tummy as betrayal. Her father-in-law only stared at her, for once struck utterly dumb.

"Anthony told me, once, that - that you only ever want your own way. I couldn't believe him at the time, but perhaps he was r-right, after all." Edith swallowed rawly. "Perhaps you only wanted me to marry Anthony so that I'd be your creature, Phillip, and make him do your bidding and follow your rules - but I won't. I c-can't."

Every part of her was shaking. Really burning all your bridges now, aren't you, Edith? Well, it isn't as if you haven't already lost one father - perhaps losing a second will be a little easier.

She wasn't sure exactly how she expected him to respond to that. Lord Grantham would have ranted and raved and ordered her from the room. Sir Phillip Strallan sat perfectly motionless and expressionless. At length, in tones appropriate for even the strictest matron's drawing room, he replied.

"I see. Is there anything else you wish to say, Edith?"

"Yes, actually." Edith rose to her feet, setting plate and cup down on the side table in an untidy rush. "He isn't a boy. He's a man - a wonderful one! - and my husband, and if I didn't love him when we married, I rather think I do now." At the door, she added, weakly, "Please, do give Mama my love, when she gets in." She fled before he could say anything more.

"Lady Edith…?" Atwell gaped as she rushed past him the hall, grabbing her hat and coat from the stand as she did so. Edith didn't stop to apologise, or explain.

Atwell peeked hesitantly in through the library door - shock and vindication warring for victory in his breast. Sir Phillip was carefully and methodically filling his pipe, a faint smile playing about his lips. "Sir?" Atwell wondered.

"Ah, Atwell - do remove the tea tray. Her ladyship may be fending for herself, but I'm sure she'll say when she gets in. Thank you."

"Very good, sir." Atwell hastened across the carpet to do as his master bid.

"Oh, and Atwell?"

"Sir?"

"In future, kindly refer to Mrs Strallan as such." Sir Phillip's smile was thin and rather cool. "We should all have the right to choose our own destinies, after all."

A lesser butler - a lesser man - would have fled; Atwell's cheekbones simply took on a slightly redder hue than usual as he bowed and replied, "Sir."

Edith's hands shook as she unlocked her own front door. She could have knocked and Stewart would have hastened to answer the door, but really, she didn't feel up to a conversation just now. She was sure her eyes were red and her face flushed, and Stewart would - not to put too fine a point on it - smell a rat. He'd tell Anthony straight away; she could almost picture it:

"Sir?" Stewart would ask, very politely, while he folded one of Anthony's shirts. "I hope Mrs Strallan is feeling quite well? She seemed… a little out of sorts this afternoon."

And Anthony would fret and fuss and wheedle the whole sorry story out of her - or, worse, out of his father! No, that was exactly what she didn't need. So, as soon as she'd slipped inside the hall, she made for the library, locked the door behind her, sank down onto the sofa… and had a bloody good cry.

"Hel-lo, what's all this?" Anthony wondered, bewildered, as he opened the front door. With good reason, too: at the sound of his key in the lock, Edith had come rushing down the stairs and hurled herself into his embrace. His good arm pulled her close, fingers burying into her hair, and he ducked his head to check her for injury. "Nothing wrong, I hope? I say, not another… disappointment? Oh, darling, I - "

Edith lifted her face from his shoulder, shaking her head. "No, nothing like that!" At least, not the sort of disappointment you're thinking of, Anthony! "I'm… just a little out of sorts today, I think."

"I'm sorry." He kissed her forehead, warm and tender, and Edith melted a little more for him. Oh, if only he weren't so wonderful! "It's the weather, darling - or the War."

Edith sniffled. "I don't think you can say that anymore, not with an Armistice."

"Nonsense." Anthony led her through to the library and tucked her into the corner of the sofa. "Hunter thinks that plenty of people will be… down in the dumps just now. 'Release of nervous tension', or something equally expensive-sounding."

Edith huffed out a laugh. "Well, I'm glad you're listening to him, at least."

Anthony lowered himself down onto the sofa next to her, and Edith couldn't help nestling against him. "I listen when I think he has intelligent things to say - which, in fairness, is more often than I used to think. Anyway, how was tea?"

Edith swallowed away the dryness in her throat. She'd already decided to say nothing about that afternoon's contretemps. It wouldn't do any good: she was meant to be bringing Anthony and his father together, after all, not driving them even further apart. "Tea was… fine. Y-your mother was at a political meeting."

Anthony's face creased with amusement. "Ah, had a nice cosy time with Papa, then?"

The less said about that, the better, Anthony! Doubtless Pa will tell you everything as soon as he possibly can. 'Really, Anthony, can't you get that wife of yours under control?' Aloud, all Edith said was, "Mmm. Have you eaten?"

"Margaret - "

"I know, I know. I'm a silly little hoyden who ought to be locked up for her own good."

Captain Mounfichet's smile was shaky and quite unlike his usual one. "Precisely." They turned together as an unfortunately familiar car roared up the drive.

"Oh, Lord," Margaret exhaled in dismay. "Mama."

Captain Mountfichet took a step forwards. "Naturally. I telephoned her myself."

Margaret turned shocked eyes on him. "But… why?"

"Because Emmeline must return to Town tomorrow, and it would be entirely inappropriate for you to remain here unchaperoned." His voice was bland, but his jaw was set and firm, offering no quarter.

"And now instead, I'll probably be lucky to escape being locked up for the rest of my life!"

Anthony kissed Edith's cheek from over her shoulder. "Oh, dear. Still oblivious, is she?"

It was Sunday afternoon, and Anthony had some rare time off from the office. It had been raining steadily, drops beading down the windows in a steady drumming rhythm that might have been rather lowering, if not for the library fire and the lamplight. Edith had spent the afternoon at her desk, tapping away at the novel in stockinged feet and one of Anthony's jumpers, the cuffs rolled back to fit. Anthony himself had shifted to his favourite armchair by the fire directly after luncheon, glasses propped on the end of his nose as he sat engrossed in the latest edition of the Agricultural Gazette. Perhaps to his father's surprise, and despite the fact that he lived in the city for the majority of the year, Anthony was still a country boy at heart.

Edith turned and gave him a faint smile. "Sometimes it takes us a while to recognise what's right in front of us."

Anthony's expression was faintly wistful, for some reason. "Oh, well, I wouldn't know anything about that. Only tell me there'll be a happy ending?"

"Of course! I'm even going to let them kiss, in a few chapters' time." Before they find the second corpse…

Her husband raised an eyebrow. "Heavens. As long as you don't draw too much on real-life."

Edith lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, drawing him down to her. "It'll be a very good kiss," she promised. "Still waters run deep, and all that, and our Captain Mountfichet's waters run very deep indeed."

Their mouths met, Edith smiling as she parted her lips to let Anthony's tongue in. She'd never get bored of this, of the sparks of electricity that traced up her spine every time he touched her. And that's something, isn't it? Even if it isn't everything you want…

"Mmm," she hummed happily as they parted. And then, a thought occurring, she asked, "Did I hear the telephone a little while ago?"

Anthony nodded. "Yes - but you were engrossed. It was Mama, inviting us for dinner, before they go back to Locksley."

"Oh." Well, that had stopped the mood getting too comfortable. Briefly, Edith considered either crying off or confessing to Anthony, both of which options she rejected quickly. It would be too much explaining, on all counts. "How nice. When would they like us?"

Anthony pulled a face. "Tomorrow, as it happens. Can you think of a reason to cry off? They'll only want to talk about the Armistice - or, worse, the election."

It was so similar to what she herself had been thinking, that Edith almost considered inventing an excuse. But that would only suggest to Phillip that she were being a coward - or, worse, that she were trying to divide Anthony from his parents. She smiled apologetically. "We mustn't. They don't get up to Town so often that we can afford to refuse the chance to see them when they do. And you're hardly going to be at a loose end for the next few months, are you, even without a promotion?"

"No, worse luck." Anthony went to the tobacco jar on the mantlepiece and started to fill his pipe. Edith stood, rummaging in the pocket of the cardigan she was wearing for his matches. "Perhaps," Anthony wondered, "we should think about… going away for a little while. At Christmas perhaps, or just afterwards. Relieve the doldrums a little?"

The thought was surprisingly exciting; Edith thought back with fondness to their honeymoon. Everything had felt so simple, then. Or was it just that they'd known each other too little for things to be complicated? Edith wondered how much better such a trip would be now that they did. "Would the office give you the time off?" she asked.

"I think I could… make some arrangements, yes. The Continent's… chaos, still - I couldn't in all conscience take you there - but… the family owns an old hunting-lodge in Scotland, or we could visit your grandmama in New York… even Diana in Washington, if we wanted to make a trip of things." He pulled her against his side, offering somewhat gruffly around the stem of his pipe, "I think you deserve a rest, after all the nonsense you've had to put up with at home, recently."

Edith nudged him in his ribs. "Yes, such a lot of nonsense," she tutted, in amused tones. "Like my husband thinking he oughtn't to expect his wife to look after him. I think a rest would do you good, too, you know."

Looking up at the facade of Strallan House the next evening, Edith couldn't help remembering that dinner just after they'd first married, when there had been that awkward moment over taking the house. Now, it was Anthony's turn to squeeze her hand and ask, "Not nervous, surely, my darling?"

She turned and gave him her most beaming smile, ignoring the churning feeling in her tummy. "No, of course not. Never while you're holding my hand."

Phillip and Anne met them in the hall, and while Anthony was drawn into conversation with his mother, Phillip wondered quietly, "Edith, m'dear, can I borrow you for a moment? In my study?"

Edith swallowed and managed, slightly croakily, "Of course, Pa." Given that he'd already taken her arm, under pretence of admiring her gown, it wasn't a study door shut behind them, very firmly. Doubtless, a scolding was on its way.

"Before you say anything," Edith began, "I'll apologise for the way I spoke to you, the other day. I… lost my temper, and I oughtn't to have. But I won't apologise for the sentiments expressed." She could feel her spine straightening as she spoke. Anthony was just next door, and he needed her to be on his side. That was exactly what she intended to do. "Of - of course, I'm… I'm v-very grateful for the support you've always shown me, sir, and conscious of what's owed to you in my behaviour because of that. But I draw the line at - at interfering with and - and manipulating Anthony at your behest." She shrugged apologetically. "You entrusted him to my care, when we married, so… now, if you please, trust me again to know how to manage him best."

"Is that all?" Phillip asked. He'd been standing quite still, one hand braced on his desk as he listened to her speak, and to Edith's surprise, as she allowed her eyes to focus on him again, she could see him smiling.

"Yes, I think so."

Phillip rounded the desk, rested both hands on her shoulders… and bent to kiss her forehead. "Jolly well said, then, my dearest girl. You're perfectly correct." He tucked a hand into his pocket, the signature Strallan gesture of sheepishness. "Forgive an old man his arrogance and foolishness?"

Edith couldn't hold herself back: she threw her arms around his neck and let him hold her close. "Oh, Pa…"

"Now," her father-in-law wondered into her hair, "will you tell me what's got you and Anthony both looking so exhausted, a week after the rest of the country celebrated itself into madness? If it's not asking you to break a confidence?"

Edith played for time by perching herself up on his desk. Hands curled around the edge of it, she wondered how much to reveal. Eventually, she settled for, "He's… Pa, you've no idea what he's suffered. Before the War, as well as during it. I don't think he's even told you the half of it. Not your fault - just the unfortunate consequence of him absolutely hero-worshipping you."

Phillip didn't question that last bit, although he did raise his eyebrows briefly, as if in surprise. "But he has told you?" he guessed quietly.

"Yes - some of it, at least." Edith met his eyes clearly. "Enough that I can say to you, honestly, that you've raised the most ridiculously splendid man. I hope, one day, he'll tell you all the things you need to know about him, but… just for now, can you trust me when I say there's nothing there that you'd… look askance at? Not in his behaviour, anyway."

"My dear," Phillip said simply, "I never imagined there would be."

Edith felt her eyes dampening. "Oh, Pa, would you ever tell him that? Even hint at it? Because… it would mean so much to him if you did, I know it would."

So it was no surprise to her whatsoever, after dinner, when Phillip suggested, "Anthony, stay and have a glass of port, why don't you? Darlings, you won't mind, just this once, will you?"

Anne exchanged a surprised glance with her husband; one side of Phillip's mouth quirked up, and she nodded. "Not at all. Edith and I can have a nice cosy gossip, can't we, my dear?"

"Yes," Edith smiled. "Of course." Kissing the top of Phillip's head as she passed, she murmured a heartfelt, "Thank you."

For Anthony's part, he felt nothing in that moment so much as bewilderment. Papa and Mama had never gone in for this silly separating after dinner nonsense, and he knew Edith disliked it too. And yet this evening everyone was behaving as if it were perfectly usual to do so.

So he sat nervously as his father poured the glasses of port, passed one to him, and raised his own. "What are we toasting?" Anthony wondered, copying him.

His father took a sip before replying. "The success you seem to be making of married life, of course." His father's eyes were filled with a hesitant expression that, Anthony suddenly realised, was approval. "Edith looks very happy - and I can only assume that that's down to you." And then, more quietly, "Well done, my boy."

"Th-thank you, Papa." Anthony covered his surprise with a large gulp of port; it seared down his throat, burning away the tears he could feel threatening behind his eyes.

"Not at all." Phillip's eyes were distant as he stared off into space; at length, he gave a little huff of laughter. "Do you remember the first cricket match you played in, at school? The second form XI, wasn't it?"

Anthony blinked. Where on Earth was this going? "I should think so." He grimaced. "Charterhouse completely thrashed us, and when I stepped up to bat, the bowler bowled right at my face and smashed my nose to bits." He lifted a hand to touch said protuberance, wincing a little at the memory.

"And at the end of the match, you were the first boy to go and shake hands with the Charterhouse captain. Blood all down your whites, cotton batting stuffed up your nose, your mother having fifty fits next to me… My boy, I didn't think it was possible for any man to be prouder of his son than I was, at that moment." Phillip nodded, a smile playing about his lips. "But, really, the last few years have proved me… quite, quite wrong."

"Papa…" Anthony's voice was raw.

Sir Phillip lifted a hand. "Don't think that Edith's… broken a confidence. She simply pointed out to me that… we've perhaps been talking at cross purposes, this last while."

"Edith's… very good, at seeing through these things," Anthony agreed. He couldn't think what else to say. She's very good at all sorts of things. Much better than I realised, when we married.

Sir Phillip nodded. "I think that's something a woman learns, when she becomes a wife - when she loves her husband, at least." He drained his glass and rose to his feet, coming to clap Anthony's shoulder, while he studiously ignored his son's shocked expression. "Just… something to ponder on, perhaps." He hesitated. "Now… another glass, my boy - or shall we go through to join the ladies?"

For a long moment, there was silence. Anthony's throat worked, and Phillip could see a muscle ticking in his jaw. Please, my boy. Please be done with all this secrecy, and tell me what's in that head of yours. And then, as the silence stretched on, Don't let us end up like my father and me.

Anthony looked up, eyes unreadable, and held out his empty glass. "Another, I think, sir. If you please."

"Did you and your father enjoy your port?" Edith asked hesitantly, as they changed for bed. Really, she hadn't been able to guess what had happened at all, behind those closed doors. They'd been a fearfully long time, for one thing, and then when they'd come back, both of them had looked rather sombre, but Anthony's eyes had been clear, and he'd shook hands heartily with his father at the door that evening as they'd said goodbye. What all of it meant together, Edith couldn't imagine.

"Yes, we did." Anthony turned, loosening his dressing-gown tie, and Edith could see that he was smiling. "I told him," he admitted, and Edith let out a little glad cry and knelt up on the end of the bed to embrace him. "About Maude, about Neuve Chapelle," he added, as if it were needed. His hand held tight about her waist, warm through the silk of her nightgown. "About the shellshock. And… much as I hate to admit it, you were absolutely right. He…" Anthony sniffed, and finished, rather thickly, "He said he was proud of me."

Edith's arms tightened around him. "I never doubted it - and I'm so glad."

"So am I." Anthony's hand lifted and caught her chin, bending to kiss her. "But, in the morning, I would like to talk about you making excuses to my father for me, about my bad behaviour."

Edith met his penetrating gaze with one equally firm. "We can talk for as long as you like - but I don't think I've made any excuses."

"Well, made me out to be much better than I am, then."

I couldn't do that, her heart cried out. There aren't words in the world to do you justice, my darling! "Oh, that's just a wife's duty, surely," she said instead.

"That's what Papa said." Anthony's head tilted to one side, as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time. "Among other things."

"Oh?" Edith gave him a bemused smile. "Such as?"

"Oh, nothing to bother you with. A lot of silly, romantic nonsense, my dear." And I know how little you like that. "Are you coming to bed?"

29th November, 1918

"We seem forever to be going out to dinners we wish we'd refused, recently," Anthony sighed. As he spoke, he turned his head to look at Edith. The only advantage of dinner with Edith's side of the family - or, rather, a dinner organised by Sir Richard Carlisle - he reflected, was that it prompted the appearance of one of Edith's beautiful evening gowns: this one, a beaded peacock blue confection that made her skin glow and her hair shine.

In front of him, Stewart, trying to tie his master's bowtie for him, cleared his throat politely. Edith shot him an apologetic smile. "I know - but, really, darling, hold still. You'll drive poor Stewart to distraction."

"Ah, yes." Anthony looked somewhat sheepish. "Sorry, Stewart."

"Not at all, Major."

"Stewart, I'll go down," Edith volunteered, "so you have half a chance of getting him ready in time." She pecked Anthony's cheek. "Stop giving trouble - I'll see you downstairs."

"Thank you, madam."

As the door shut behind her, Anthony exhaled with satisfaction. "Sir?" Stewart wondered.

"Oh, nothing, Stewart. Only… pondering what a blessing a happy home can be."

Stewart ducked his head to help his master's cufflinks in, hiding a private grin. "Yes, sir, I believe so. And, if it's not too bold to say so, sir, the mistress is certainly creating a happy home here, from the perspective of everyone downstairs."

"No, it's not too bold, Stewart. Mrs Strallan would be very happy to hear it." Anthony turned to observe himself in the full-length looking glass, as Stewart helped him into his tailcoat and prepared the sling for his wounded arm. "Shall I do?"

"You shall do very nicely, sir. I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you, Stewart." A swell of optimism was brewing in Anthony's belly, quite unfamiliar. Even faced with the entirety of the Crawley family, he would have Edith at his side. Nothing could frighten him, as long as she was nearby. "Do you know, Stewart," he replied, rather surprised, "I rather think we shall?"

Unfortunately for Anthony - and for Edith too - neither of them knew just how awfully incorrect he was to be proven…