A/N:
Okay, I'm delighted by the response to this fic so far. Thank you so much for your comments, faves and follows. I have most of this story outlined (which is rare for me) and quite a few of the next chapters already drafted so you can expect regular (meaning, in this case, probably every other week) updates for the near future. Happy New Year! Xo
April 1922
Dower House
Her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, is never wrong. It's nearly documented fact. She once told Isobel that she was not familiar with the sensation.
Which might have been stretching it a bit.
Nobody's perfect. Not even Violet Crawley. But with children and grandchildren who seem to delight in stirring up so much turmoil of their own making—like little bear cubs poking a bee's nest with a stick—this is hardly her fault.
She will always choose the practical choice over the sentimental one. It's just her way. She was born in 1842, before seven of Victoria's nine children, before electricity, before the telephone, far before there was such a thing as a week-end.
And she must ever err on the side of protecting Downton and those who live there, even if that means protecting them against the unsuitable desires of their own misguided hearts.
Such was her aim two years ago, when she held Edith back from following her groom as he fled the church.
Violet is well aware of her role in separating Edith from Sir Anthony Strallan. She'll not deny it. She was the architect of that union's demise. Robert was her co-conspirator until he lost his nerve. He was too soft-hearted in the face of Sir Anthony's dull likeability and the insufferable wisdom of the Queen of Sheba, peddling her very American "love conquers all" nonsense in the face of Edith's tears.
A young woman's tears dry fast as new paint, Violet reminded him. But he was bullheaded at the exact wrong moment and handled the whole affair clumsily from start to finish. He should have demanded an end to it far sooner than he did. It was always going to end in catastrophe, and he did his daughter no favors by walking her down the aisle in a tiara and wedding dress, delivering her to heartbreak so publicly.
It was messy and dreadful and hard to watch. But it had to be done.
Sir Anthony's own doubts worked against him. He was such a wreck at the wedding, it really only required a well-punctuated barb or two to push him into doing something just as rash as proposing to poor Edith in the first place.
At the time, Violet had no regrets in voicing those barbs. Again, it had to be done.
Let him go, dear…just let him go.
Upon further reflection, that may have been a mistake.
But how was she to know that the aging cripple would turn out to be Edith's best possible match? Or that, in attempting to mend her broken heart, the girl would so heedlessly throw herself at a married newspaper man with no title, no fortune, and a crazy wife in the attic besides?
Aslyum, Granny, not attic, Edith might clarify, if she weren't so downcast, her gaze firmly on those hands folded in her lap, too ashamed to meet her grandmother's eye.
Yes, well. Attic or asylum, it doesn't really matter. The man is missing. The man is married. And poor Edith is certainly no Jane Eyre.
She's never been the plucky heroine of any story, least of all her own. And this story is swiftly turning into a Greek tragedy, with her Mr. Rochester, this…Michael Gregson person, having disappeared off the face of the map with nary a word as to where or why. In so doing, he's left Edith to the consequences of their brief but obviously passionate affair.
It was only the one night, Edith has insisted miserably, through crocodile tears, as if that will change anything.
Dr. Goldman's telegram is succinct and leaves no doubt. There's to be a child.
Violet knew something was up when Edith came round to Dower House for a visit, her eyes dark-rimmed and her pallor something like death warmed over. Violet told Spratt and Denker to stay clear of her drawing room while she received her granddaughter. And it took exactly two minutes for her to get the truth from Edith's own lips.
The girl is desperate and has no idea what to do. Her lover is nowhere to be found and her window for making decisions grows short.
Violet has some thoughts of ringing up Rosamund and asking her to whisk Edith away to Switzerland for the next several months on some flimsy pretense. They might return after the child is born and properly settled with a Swiss family. By next Christmas, or perhaps a few weeks after, the whole matter could be forgotten for good, no one else the wiser.
But what possible pretense might they use?
Why practicing our French, of course, Mama, Violet can hear Rosamund's snarky reply in her head and cringes on the woman's likely tone, wondering when her daughter became so terribly boorish.
When she pitches the idea to Edith—just feeling her out—the forlorn young woman nods along, somewhat blankly. Of course, she does. She knows she must do as her Granny decides. But the tears in her eyes grow nearly unbearable as she mulls it over, those tears sliding down her cheeks in silent pain, even as Violet explains how these things happen and are dealt with, assuring her that the family found in Switzerland would provide a loving home for the child.
The little thing might grow up in the Alps, wear a dirndl or lederhosen, and learn to yodel and ski. There are far worse fates.
One of Edith's hands wanders to a telling spot on her skirt hem, just over her womb, as her grandmother speaks. The gesture is terribly instinctive, protective, and maternal, and Violet sighs heavily at it. She nearly wishes that it was Mary in this predicament, rather than Edith.
Mary would have far fewer qualms about doing what must be done.
"Who else knows about this?" Violet asks her, demanding with a look that she not sugarcoat any hard truths going forward. It will not serve her or the child well should she lie.
"No one, Granny," she swears. But then she frowns on her own answer, her eyelids fluttering on an astonishing amendment, and she admits, a bit timidly, "Well…Sir Anthony. Or at least, I think he must suspect."
"Sir Anthony?" Violet repeats the name, not expecting it and completely flummoxed by how Edith's former paramour should know anything at all on this matter. Last she knew, they were no longer on speaking terms. Sir Anthony's been hiding out from society for years now and Edith was never to forgive him.
But then Edith explains how she'd crossed paths with Anthony Strallan in London, quite unexpectedly and in the bally doctor's office, which would be laughable, if it wasn't so utterly tragic.
Violet reflects, while Edith stares at her hands again. Knowing Sir Anthony, he'll never breathe a word about it. But, even still, that does leave a rather dangerous loose end.
Then again…
Violet's head tilts to one side, thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Edith is doing her best to hold back her many tears—not very successfully—and blots her eyes with the embroidered handkerchief in her hands, already damp from previous rounds of weeping.
The Dowager Countess bids her granddaughter remain in her drawing room a spell. She allows that she'll want Edith to stay for tea, while they discuss what's to be done.
With her cane moving at a determined pace, she goes to her desk, pulls out a note and writes a short message upon it. She folds it twice and affixes her seal with flourish.
"Excuse me a moment, my dear." She lays a sympathetic hand on Edith's shoulder as she goes by, squeezing gently before she ducks out into the hall. She moves her cane and the note to one hand before pulling the door to the drawing room tightly closed behind her. No need to rouse the servants' suspicions with Edith's soft but continued blubbering.
She finds Spratt in the hall, polishing his shoes on the stairs, and tells him to leave it be and deliver the note to Loxley House immediately.
"Loxley, my lady?" her butler's brow furrows, unaware of why they might have business with Lord Strallan. And urgent business at that.
"Indeed, Spratt," she tells him, adding, "Put it in Sir Anthony's hand yourself. And don't you dare leave until he agrees to return with you."