A/N:
I was planning on posting this tomorrow but there's a possible blizzard in the forecast so I'm posting early just in case the murder winds come and knock out my power again (for the second time this week, sighhhh) XD Stay safe out there, my northern-dwelling readers.
Anyway, a couple responses to recent comments (because you're all just wonderful, thank you so much!):
spottedhorse – I know, right? This idea never really occurred to me either (until rewatching that Christmas episode, where it all kind of came into my head in a rush) but it's so deliciously soapy and imo a perfect solution to Edith's post-Michael woes, so yeah, why didn't JF think this of this again? Lol
JustaGuest123 – You'll have your answers soon, my friend :) And happy New Year right back!
BaronMunchausen – Poor, poor, Edith, indeed. A young woman in trouble, a man who still loves her, both conveniently still single and unattached? Oh, whatever's to be done? ;) Happy New Year to you too!
My lovely anon guests – mwah! Thank you both for dropping a comment! And hope you enjoy what's to come.
April 1922
Loxley House
It's been five days since Goldman's and he can't get her out of his head.
Or more accurately, he can't get the pained expression on her dear face out of his head.
Anthony followed her unuttered request. He left her alone. He didn't linger in the lobby after his appointment. He didn't wait for her to finish with Dr. Goldman, to see if she might need a ride home or just someone to talk to.
He bit his tongue and forced himself not to inquire with the doctor's receptionist whether all was well with Lady Crawley. The tight-lipped lady wouldn't have appeased his curiosity if he had. But anyway, he didn't have to ask. That look on her face—weary, worried and utterly lost—spoke volumes.
All was not well with Edith. And the idea that she was in distress was carving him up inside.
He wasn't even supposed to be at the doctor's that morning.
It was a last-minute scheduling, squeezed in by chance, made only as he was meant to be in London for the day on errands and thought he might move up his monthly appointment by a week and save himself another drive. He'd considered skipping it altogether as everything seemed to be progressing well and, at this point, he wasn't sure he would need the physician's assistance much longer.
It was an astonishing development. Not so long ago, he was frequenting Goldman's weekly, back when he first started this new-fangled therapy, trying to recover a little use of that right arm. It was an impulsive thing. A distraction really, meant to take his mind off the ever-present ache in his chest.
Dr. Goldman never made any promises. Well, other than that the process would be a long and difficult one, requiring patience and a full embargo on any expectation of miracles, but Anthony jumped at the chance just the same. He found the physical pain from the therapy cathartic, in a way that he craved, wanting to feel that pain, so he might not feel the other.
He honestly didn't expect anything would come from it. But now, almost six months later, he's regained movement in all five of his fingers. With effort, he can raise his elbow three inches and turn his wrist nearly halfway round without assistance. The doctor says he still has a long way to go but he's now able to perform the recommended daily exercises at home instead of in London and he hasn't worn the sling in months.
His servants know nothing about it. Nothing concrete, that is. They know he quit wearing the sling but he's never shared why and they've never asked. He performs the exercises by himself. A partner would make it easier and might double his progress, but he prefers it this way. No use getting anyone's hopes up, least of all his own.
And he knows he doesn't deserve to heal anyway.
Dr. Goldman still requires a monthly check in with him, however, to track his recovery and make sure he's sticking to the agreed routine. And, of course, send him a bill for the service. Anthony doesn't hold this against him. The doctor is cold and clinical—he always seems to regard Anthony's cheery small talk with infinite patience, as one would tolerate a bumbling, if harmless and over-the-hill, uncle—but there's no denying that his methods have results.
He'd been in such good spirits when he left the doctor's examination room, hardly minding the soreness in his shoulder after another round of strenuous therapy, looking to the future, imagining that he might be able to grip a pen in that hand in a few weeks' time or even raise a wine glass. Imagine that.
Anthony Strallan has very simple dreams these days. It's all he allows himself.
But why the devil was Edith in Dr. Goldman's office? He keeps running it over in his head, again and again. If she was ill, why did she not seek out Dr. Clarkson or Isobel Crawley's assistance? Unless…
There was a moment in the physician's hallway where she glanced at that painting on the wall, a domestic scene of a blooming garden and a young woman in a certain state of nature, strolling the flower beds with her husband. The deep blush that came to Edith's cheeks upon noticing it was revealing and heartbreaking, as it seemed to spill all her secrets at once.
But Edith has no husband. Oh, he knows that well enough.
Drinking a too-early brandy in his library at Loxley and dwelling on their brief (oh so brief) reunion yet again, Anthony closes his eyes and sees her pained expression once more—it's there every time—now burned into his memory.
Sympathy and pity mix with other feelings and he finds himself adrift, in a sea of regrets.
In these last two years, he hasn't sought out news of her. He hasn't meddled in her affairs, hasn't made a habit of asking how she fares or if she's well, even if it's a thought that tends to come to him at least ten times a day.
He knows he's not entitled to any reports on her welfare any more. He gave up that right. She's nothing to him and he's nothing to her, the former bonds between them well and truly severed.
And it's all of his own doing.
Since that day at the church, he has not darkened Downton's doorstep nor renewed his previous friendship with Robert, assuming the whole Crawley family would rather never see him again. The feeling is almost mutual. Not that he bears Downton any ill will.
Although, there are times…
Well, when he has a mind for brooding, he does bitterly resent Lord Grantham's interference in the whole, sad affair. And yet, he has no right to blame Robert for his own failings. There's no one to condemn but himself. He knows this; he accepts it. He has banished himself from high society because of it, becoming a bit of a recluse lately, eschewing any sort of company in a self-imposed penance that might last the rest of his life.
But Yorkshire County is not that large and his servants still whisper over Edith Crawley regularly, as she might once have been lady of this house. They keep their whispers quiet, to spare their master more pain.
But they don't appear to realize just how loud those quiet whispers can be. Like a foghorn sometimes, cutting the murky haze that has become his life. And he can't help but listen, ashamed by his weakness but desperate for news of her.
He'd been so proud to hear that she was offered a job with a newspaper. She's always had a talent for writing and she deserved to be recognized for it. Later, he'd heard that she'd taken up with her editor, and he wished her joy, or valiantly tried to wish her joy, in any case, burying any reservations he might have about the fellow.
Of course, now there are whispers that Michael Gregson traveled to Germany about a month ago and has since gone missing. And with the timing of Edith's visit to Dr. Goldman's…and that look on her face.
Ever willing to believe the best of everyone, he assumes Gregson's disappearance was not by choice. He can't imagine the man would abandon her so willingly—
Why not? You did, comes a nettling accusation in his head.
But he does feel some vague vexation towards the man, even though he's never met him and can't speak to his character. Yet, for such a thing to have happened, there were obvious lines crossed. Anthony doesn't blame Edith in this.
God, never, he thinks.
He knows from experience that she's too generous with her affection, but it's only because she's guileless in love. And she's a woman of thirty now, not a girl of nineteen, old enough to do whatever she wishes, with whomever she wishes. But the knowledge that Gregson allowed her to act so recklessly makes his blood boil. The fingers on his right hand clench, making a fist for the first time since before the War.
He hardly notices.
His anger doesn't last. He's never been one for grudges or spite, especially against someone he doesn't even know. It's replaced by melancholy, for his thoughts too soon return to Edith. And it's only deep sorrow that he feels for her, fretting over what she might be facing and what decisions she might have to make. He aches that she must face any of this unpleasantness to come alone.
And that ache has been strong enough that, for five days now, he's entertained an almost constant, if absolutely impossible, idea to send her a letter and let her know that, no matter what happens next, all will be well.
He cringes on this plan, knowing how false his words might prove and how unwelcome they would be coming from someone who only gave her only hollow promises and heartbreak.
You've given me back my life…He told her once, and then he threw it right back at her, like it was nothing.
Like she meant nothing.
He sets his tumbler aside and brings his good hand up to run it down the length of his face, sighing into his haggard features and wondering if it's possible that he's aged another twenty years in the last week.
It certainly feels like it.
The Loxley staff knows nothing of what happened in London. They know he's been moody as a bear since his return but they've grown used to his darker humors—first rearing their ugly head after Maud died, worsening considerably after everything with Edith.
He never inflicts his low spirits on anyone else, muddling through them alone. He's locked himself in the library this morning and sent word that he'll be skipping his lunch. Other than his half-drained glass of brandy, that is.
Anthony knows that it's a poor day to be brooding. April in Yorkshire is all vernal greens and golden yellows, buds on the trees, dandelions in the fields. The spring sunshine is out in full glory, streaming gold-flecked and angel-light through the windows lining the south wall. The sky is blue and the weather is fair. It's a perfect day for picnics, or walking the gardens…or taking a long drive through the countryside.
The memories just make him brood all the more. And no amount of sunshine can break through the storm clouds that currently plague Sir Anthony Strallan.
After leaving her at the altar, he spent so many nights in restless tossing and turning, wrestling with a thousand regrets. And then more regret that he should feelany regrets at all.
He had to let her go. He convinced himself that doing otherwise was pure dishonor and would have destroyed her chance of true happiness forever.
Some days the convincing takes. Others…
He won't sleep again tonight, the old regrets only heightened by added worry over her. If it's true, will she go to America to stay with her grandmother? Will she travel to the Continent and stay there until the child is born instead? Will she be forced to give it up?
Women in her position always have to give the child up, don't they?
He's not sure who first made that rule but he knows that's the way these things usually go. It seems a cruel thing to him. No mother should be forced to give up her child, no matter what the circumstances. But if that hapless Mr. Gregson fails to return from the Land of Bratwurst and Beethoven soon, he knows that may be her only choice.
To bear the shame and humiliation and loss all alone…oh, Edith doesn't deserve any of this. And at the thought of it, something fierce stirs in Anthony's breast, a long-standing impulse to protect Edith Crawley.
He's so tempted—and has been for all five days straight—to leave this room and go straight to Downton and offer her…
Offer her what, old chap? He dares himself to answer, ready to chide his own foolishness at once.
He sets his jaw stubbornly, eyeing that drink again. He reminds himself of the curt way Edith spoke to him at Goldman's, the finality of her chilly and formal, "good day, sir," as if they were never to speak again.
That's what she wants. And he has no right to interfere in her life. Not any longer.
But how can that be, he wonders, when he feels his heart splitting in two on the mere thought of her in distress or pain?
He doesn't know how long he stands there, the brandy untouched, the grave and grim look on his face a fixture, as much as the books lining these walls.
A knock on the library door rouses him, finally. But in a dazed way that says Forrester has likely knocked more than once. Thrice, in fact.
His butler doesn't wish to disturb but has a matter that just can't wait, so he follows up that third knock with a hesitant, "Sir?"
It takes Anthony another moment to answer the summons. And perhaps Forrester expected him to remain silent. For when he opens the door, the man seems a tad surprised. He wonders if he must look a sight, for Forrester is regarding him most curiously.
But perhaps that's more to do with the tall and rather toffee-nosed man who stands just beside Anthony's butler, and the errand that's brought him to Loxley.
Vaguely familiar, Anthony tries to place him. He's dressed for service and obviously works for a great house. His posture is impeccable but his leather shoes are only half-polished, which Sir Anthony would not have noticed had the man not immediately apologized for it.
Given another minute or two, Anthony might have recognized him as Lady Violet Crawley's butler. But the man's on a mission and apparently has orders not to delay.
"Pardon the intrusion and the lamentable state of my shoes, Sir Anthony, and apologies to your man—" He gives a respectful nod in Forrester's direction, alluding to a minor dispute had at the door concerning the message held in Septimus Spratt's left hand.
Forrester was to take it up, as was the usual way of these things, but Spratt insisted that he must deliver it directly to the master of the house. He hands the sealed note over now, which Anthony takes, his brow furrowing on the unexpected missive, furrowing more once he realizes who it must be from.
Spratt confirms it, with a nod, "My lady asked that I deliver this to your hand and, as you know, the Dowager Countess is not a woman to be disobeyed."
The address is written in Violet Crawley's hand and marked by her personal seal. When Sir Anthony breaks that seal, it's her handwriting scrawled within.
Anthony Strallan and the Dowager Countess of Grantham are not in the habit of corresponding with each other. There was that one invitation to tea at Dower House delivered just before Christmas 1919, which he assumes the lady later bitterly regretted.
But nothing before and certainly nothing since.
He knows that he's never been much up to the mark with the matriarch of the Crawley family, even when things with Edith might have ended differently. She's always been a clever woman, with a tongue like a razor blade. She expects much and doesn't suffer fools, a category which he assumes she sorted him into a long time ago. To his knowledge, the only approval he ever received from Violet Crawley was on the day he jilted Edith.
Her message is short but direct:
Sir Anthony,
Please forgive the short notice but I would request your esteemed presence at Dower House upon receipt of this note. Please come, for the sake of one we both hold dear.
Violet Crawley