Author's Note:

Just cross-posting from AO3 because I'm half-remembering that the Downton community over here is a little more active? (and because I haven't logged into this account in a couple years so I was curious if I still remembered the password XD).

Anyway, I was looking for Christmas-y things to watch this week and decided to rewatch the first Downton Christmas episode sort of on a whim. And suddenly, I have about a zillion Andith feels that I never knew existed. So, let's say maybe 18ish chapters to fix the mistakes of S3?

"Oh, but he's too old for her..."

*eye roll* "Shut up, Lord Grantham."

All canon facts can stay the same up until S4, except that Lavinia Swire survived her bout with Spanish influenza and ended up with Richard Carlisle instead of Matthew (I prefer resolving love squares with two happy couples not convenient/contrived deaths XD) and, you know what? Matthew's still alive too. So. There.

Merry Christmas! Xo

Early April 1922

London

In Mayfair, there is a physician's office on the corner of Queen Anne and Harley Streets, with a gold-plated sign out front that reads "Dr. T. Goldman." There's a fine hedgerow running along either side of the front gate, adorned with pink and white flowers, blooming in mid-April.

It's a small but sturdy brick office, with blue shutters and double French doors leading into a fairly sizeable lobby with a wine-colored carpet, grandfather clock, and a dark-haired receptionist behind the front desk. The receptionist is under forty but she wears half-moon spectacles and has a reserved nature. She nods at each patient who enters, discreetly taking their names for her ledger, before wordlessly ushering them into the foyer, to take a seat and wait for doctor.

There are never two patients waiting at once. This would only encourage conversation, by which one patient may realize they know the other, if only by family name or distant acquaintance. They might live in the same county and know of so-and-so from such-and-such, and then questions might be asked or conclusions jumped to, foiling the very discretion that they've sought out in these offices.

And Dr. Goldman is known far and wide for his tight-lipped services.

That's why so many of the more aristocratic lords and ladies of Great Britain travel from their country homes to see Dr. Theodore Goldman whenever they have a matter ailing them that they'd rather not share with their local physician.

Dr. Goldman offers a wide variety of services and is, by all accounts, a capable doctor, very forward-thinking and open to the latest treatments. He's…not cheap. But that's how he maintains his mystique and clientele. He's also known for being terribly uninterested in gossip of any kind or in passing moral judgment upon certain lifestyle choices that may precede a patients' visit to him.

And there's really no one else.

This is why Edith makes a midweek trip to London, instead of waiting for the weekend, giving thin excuses to Carson when he asks if she'll be home in time for dinner with the family. This is why she sits now in the doctor's waiting room, with her hands in her lap, fingers tangled tightly together as she listens to the sound of that grandfather clock ticking out the hour beside her, trying to clear her mind of anything other than that pendulum swing.

Tick, tick, tick…

But her thoughts chug along merrily, with or without her blessing. Those same thoughts that keep her up at night and have given her eyes that dark-rimmed look that even her face powder can't entirely hide.

It's just that Michael left for Germany five weeks ago. And not a word from him, in all that time. Not a call, not a letter, not a telegram. When she rang the hotel in Munich where he's to be staying—she just wanted to hear his voice—the concierge apologized profusely, but said they had no record of the gentlemen's name.

She's felt ill since that call, and maybe a little before, and perhaps it's only worry over Michael. Or perhaps she has one of those spring flus that come around so often now, with less vehemence than their Spanish cousin—which mother and Lavinia Swire both nearly succumbed to a few years back—but with no less bother.

Thinking about it now makes her dizzy enough that she thinks she might be sick. Especially when she counts back, knowing that she hasn't had her…monthly time in all the weeks that Michael's been gone.

Edith squeezes her hands together until the fingers go white and the feeling passes. But only out of sheer will that it must. She can't be pregnant. She just can't.

The grandfather clock sings out the quarter hour with soft, Westminster chimes.

The receptionist at the desk is using a fountain pen to fill out paperwork and the scratch, scratch, scratch of her pen's nib is the only other sound in the room. Edith glances her way, seeking reassurance of someone, anyone, even a stranger, but the woman fails to raise her gaze. She'd been casually friendly when Edith arrived, offering a half-smile but not a single word. Perhaps she's a mute? Edith expects that would be beneficial in this office.

She's been assured that Dr. Goldman takes his oaths very seriously. His office does not spill secrets, certainly not all the way back to Yorkshire County, where a scandal like this would catch fire. There are still whispers of Mary's exploits with the Turkish diplomat almost a decade later.

And there was no child to hide from that indiscretion.

Oh, but maybe Edith has nothing to hide, after all? Maybe she worries and frets over nothing? She shouldn't be jumping to conclusions before they've been confirmed. There are any number of other reasons that a woman might skip her time of the month. And dear God, she was only with Michael that one time. Just the once. She can't be that unlucky.

And how would she know how it feels to be in the family way? She's thirty years old and a spinster, seemingly for good.

A useful spinster, she remembers spitting at Anna once, with raw bitterness, on the morning she should have woken up at Loxley in Sir Anthony's arms, warm and safe and loved. Instead, she woke up cold, opening her eyes to the familiar rafters of her lonely bedroom in Downton, and wanted to die.

In habit, she takes in a steadying breath, forcing herself not to dwell on the past. Not that part of her past. Nor the future, which has an ominous look to it this morning, stormy and gloomy, heralded by a baby's piercing cry.

There is no past, there is no future. In this moment, there is only now. She hears Granny's voice in her head, but it's a rather strange declaration for Violet Crawley to make, a woman who holds to the past so dearly, and can't help but consistently warn her children and grandchildren of being too cavalier with their futures or the family's reputation.

Her Granny will not be pleased to hear how Edith has muddled up both for herself.

You don't know that anything's been muddled up yet…and there's Michael's voice, but distant and growing fainter. Germany suddenly feels as far away as Cape Town or the Polynesian Islands. And is she remembering wrong or was his tone always so…flat and uncertain?

Well, she can't fault him for that. Edith's only ever been sure about one thing in her life, but look how that turned out. With Michael, she took a chance and told herself that she needn't be certain of anything. It didn't matter what came next, only that they enjoyed what time they had together. Oh, but she wishes he hadn't promised so much.

Or given her the hope of happy endings.

In Dr. Goldman's waiting room, she has the first inkling that she may grow to resent him, even hate him in months to come, and then she feels instant shame, that she should hate the man whose child she carries.

Stop, Edith. Mary's voice cuts in with purpose. Her sister has always been so direct when she needs to be, and there's encouragement in that, even if it comes across as demands. You don't know if there's anything in this yet. So just stop.

Another deep breath and she opens her eyes again.

The morning sunlight falls through the doctor's front windows in an almost fanciful way and his white lace curtains allow for an unobstructed view of the front yard and the street beyond. London in the springtime blooms. And she finds the blossoms in the doctor's hedgerow particularly lovely.

Lovely…

She feels her expression change, her lips twisting into rueful wryness at the memory of that damn word. A word she avoids like the plague, even in her own head. But she'll not dwell on it. Two years on and she's trained herself well into suppressing any jagged unpleasantness left behind by a torn wedding veil on the floor of Downton's grand hall…

…not quite realizing that suppression is not a lasting solution to much. But she expects time to iron it out and, in the meantime, life owes her a kindness.

Of course, life has never treated Edith Crawley very kindly. In recent years, she's come to think she might be cursed. And honestly, it's no wonder.

"Dr. Goldman is just finishing up with his current patient," a melodious voice interrupts her thoughts. The voice is audible this time, not in her head. The voice continues, "If you would like to wait in the examination room, he'll be right with you."

The receptionist is not mute. In fact, her voice is euphonic enough that Edith thinks the woman might be better suited to a career on a stage somewhere. But perhaps her shy reservation has prevented it.

The young woman's come out from behind her desk and must have checked with the doctor while Edith was musing over the flowers outside. But she ducks back in quickly. The telephone rings just after she gives Edith the message. She answers it, while gesturing towards the hall, pointing at a vacant room just on the left, trusting that Edith might find her way.

Dr. Goldman takes pains that his patients will not cross paths as they come and go. At least not for more than a fleeting moment. But sometimes, that's all it takes…

She gathers up her coat and clutch from the chair beside her quickly, impatient to be done with this, even as her heart leaps into her throat at the thought of seeing the doctor. There's a reality to what's about to happen that has only been hypothetical until this point. She wants to know. No, she needs to know, one way or another. Because if it is the other,she has to figure out what to do.

And very soon.

Distracted and miserable and fretting herself into a tizzy, she glances back, thinking she's forgotten something. But no, she has everything she came with. Belatedly, she looks back, just as she turns the corner to the hall, cutting it sharply and moving a little too fast.

Always a speed fiend, my sweet one.

"Oof!"

She collides with a very tall gentleman who is striding down the hall, letting out an "oh!" as she drops her clutch and finds herself going sideways on the force of their accidental run-in. The man's left arm instinctively reaches out to steady her, keeping her upright with a strong but gentle grasp of her waist, and an, "Oh, I am sorry!" thrown in for good measure.

That voice. His voice.

Edith feels a shiver go through her whole body, both ice-cold and heated at once, as she's looking up into blue eyes that are too familiar, suddenly finding herself face-to-face with Sir Anthony Strallan.

He recognizes her at the exact same instant, his expression going from one of affable gentility—the kind he always uses on everyone, friendly from the first—to a stupor of shock, followed by a heady cocktail of pain, guilt and grief all mixed together.

Two years.

She hasn't seen him in two years. Not since the church, not since she was in a satin wedding dress, and he, with a single white rose in his lapel.

"Edith…," he breathes her name, sans title, his voice stricken.

And she feels her lips part to reply but no sound comes out, none at all. And she feels a flood of something else running through her, and a pain that she's forgotten. Or tried to forget. But here it is again, blooming out from the very spot where his hand is currently touching her waist.

But she's regained her footing and that hand slips away. So does hers, having held onto his jacket to keep from falling. They separate, eyes raking over each other in that manner of two people trying to reconcile an unexpected meeting in an unfamiliar place.

Edith notes that his other arm is no longer in a sling but rather, hanging by his side, the fingers twitching slightly, but in a purposeful way, as if he's nervous and not sure what do. His right hand rose near two inches when she was faltering, and she's astonished by this—he told her that he would never be able to use that arm again—but she certainly can't ask him about it.

How can she ask him anything? Or even speak to him…after what he did to her?

And she had gotten over it, she thought. She had moved on, as they all told her to, insisted that she must. With her job at the newspaper, with Michael…

She finds she can't bring Michael's features to mind in this moment, unable to look away from Sir Anthony, who is regarding her just as intensely.

He seems about to say one thing, but swallows hard, conflicted.

"Are you…," he seems unsure if he should continue, but can't help himself, considering the place in which they've crossed paths. One does not come to a physician's office for the sport of it. His voice is laced with concern as he asks, fretfully, "Are you well?"

"Yes," she finds her voice, finally. Although, she's surprised she can manage it. Or lie so easily. But maybe not, as she finds herself amending, with a shake of her head, "Or, perhaps not. I'm honestly not sure yet…"

But as she says these words, her voice becomes clipped and cold in a way almost reminiscent of Mary. For, she realizes she was very nearly about to confide in him…

In Sir Anthony, the man who broke her heart twice over.

He broke her. Does he understand that? Does he have any idea of what he did to her?

She feels her expression go stern and nearly angry, even as he continues to look down upon her with that gentle concern and even…why are his eyes always so soft when he looks at her? She's tempted to strike him, but she's not sure what good that will do.

And he doesn't really deserve it. Or maybe he does. But oh, she doesn't have time for this!

"My apologies, Sir Anthony," she tears her eyes from his with effort, intent on retrieving that handbag from the floor.

But he has the same idea and, as they both reach down, there's another collision of sorts, that has their heads knocking together, "ow," and any dignity that she might be trying to salvage is a lost cause. And he's rubbing his forehead where it collided with hers, in a boyish manner that has her heart doing things that it hasn't done in two years, and he's still looking at her with all those same terrible feelings hiding just behind his haunted eyes. Yet, his affable nature wins out and the clumsiness of this meeting has him giving her a little smile despite it all, on the shared absurdity of it all.

That smile melts her, always has.

She's once again tempted to confide in him. And God, there's a painting on the wall just beside them of a woman in a garden, her gown billowing, her hands gone round a belly that betrays her affliction well enough. Although it's no affliction for the young woman in the picture, as she has a gentleman walking just beside her, in a top hat and tie, smiling down at her with eyes filled by love.

Blast everything, her expression when she notices that painting is too telling and there's a moment that follows when Sir Anthony is looking between the painting and her, which is just as telling. She might as well just blurt it all out, for she expects he's reading her like a book. And Sir Anthony is not an idiot. What other reasons would a highborn lady like her have for visiting a man like Dr. Goldman?

Yes, that's right. Your lovely young woman has become a fallen girl.

And this thought kindles her anger again. That same old anger that rose up within her after all the sorrow had drained away, burning whatever feelings remained. That anger had her tearing up a letter that she'd spent the morning of what might have been their honeymoon composing, her salty tears dampening the page: Please, Anthony, don't do this. Don't abandon me…

But he did. And everything that's followed is because of it. So she can't smile with him, and she can't confide in him. She can't do anything but try to save what little self-respect she has left and trust that, as a gentlemen and as a man who owes her a far greater debt than this, he'll keep this whole ghastly interlude to himself.

Edith does not intend to be cruel but she needs this scene to end immediately. She needs him to go, and she needs to forget what just happened.

Taking the clutch, she mumbles a very chilly thank you, refusing to meet his gaze. She merely lifts her chin just a hair, almost defiantly, keeping her voice stern—don't follow me, don't call out after me—as she brushes past him, "Good day to you, sir."