April 1922
Dower House
Edith isn't sure why Granny insists that she stay for lunch. She has no appetite at all these days. She won't be able to eat a bite.
And anyway, isn't it all decided? What more is there to discuss?
She has no wish to talk further of Switzerland, even if she'll be bound for its most sequestered mountain ranges soon, to be hidden away in some villa tucked away and out of sight, nestled among snowy evergreens.
If Granny wants her to stay and make plans…oh, she'll just cry another quart of tears over this whole mess, like she's a child herself, instead of a grown woman carrying one.
When she came to Dower House, she hadn't planned on sharing the news with her grandmother. Not yet. Dr. Goldman's telegram had come in earlier that same morning—just confirming what she already knew. But to see it typed out so starkly in black and white…
Tests confirm that patient is with child.
She clutched that telegram in her palm all the way down the lane, crumpling it beyond legibility, though it hardly mattered. As soon as she walked into her grandmother's drawing room, she felt something inside her break. With a desperate, "oh, Granny!" escaping her lips, it all spilled out.
She was asking for help and begging for answers. But oh, she doesn't know what she thought her grandmother might be able to do about it. What can anyone do?
She's ruined herself. She's ruined everything. And this baby…
Despite her best efforts, those tears are stinging at the corners of her eyes again. She brings the handkerchief up, but there's no stopping them. It's such foolishness. She knows better. Deep down, she knows this is the only answer. She knows how this must go. She's not the first woman to find herself in this position. She won't be the last.
She's not married. And with Michael missing, she's not going to be. She can't have this baby here. She must go to Switzerland.
But God, she doesn't think she can bear it. She's hardly grown used to the idea that she's pregnant. She has no idea how to be a mother, but the thought of carrying this child inside her for so many months, to give birth, to hear its first cry, and then to willingly hand it over to perfect strangers is tearing her up inside.
Afterwards, she's supposed to come back here again and just…forget?
How she is supposed to do that? No truly, she wants to know. She's tempted to ask her grandmother outright. Because she doesn't understand how she'll survive it. If Michael were here, he'd know what to do. But he's not. And the longer it goes without word from him, the more she's forced to confront the idea that he might…he might be…
She puts her hand to her mouth, feeling like she might be sick.
In the meantime, Granny rings the bell and has Denker bring in a steaming tea pot, with a tray of madeleines and macaroons to go with it, even though Edith insists, again, that she isn't hungry. Denker seems to take offense to this—"they're good as any served at the main house, my lady…"—but Granny shoos her nosy maid away before the woman notices the damp handkerchief or the tracks of tears on Edith's cheeks and starts to grow suspicious.
Or more suspicious than she already is.
"Just take a little, my dear," Granny encourages her. "Nibble on it slowly. I promise it helps."
Edith huffs miserably at this, thinking nothing can help the way she currently feels. But at Granny's continued insistence, she finally takes one of the madeleines. She manages a small bite, but it tastes of sawdust. Everything tastes of sawdust lately. And ashes.
Everything looks like it's covered in a grey haze.
As she sits there, in the drawing room of Dower House, she expects she's never been more miserable in her entire life. Miserable that she can't stop crying (that poor tea cake in her lap will take on a too-salty taste soon). Miserable that Granny won't even scold her properly, failing to give her a long lecture on family duty and honor and her current dereliction of both.
Edith knows she's too far gone for that. And so the Dowager Countess of Grantham just sits there in reserved silence, with an expression on her wrinkled face caught between genuine pity and something else.
Something that, to be fair, is rather contemplative, but which Edith mistakes for general annoyance.
And why shouldn't she be annoyed? Edith concedes, utterly wretched, having proved the most disappointing daughter, after all. Just like they all expected. Mary may have had a Turkish diplomat die in her bed and Sybil may have married a chauffeur from County Wicklow, but neither of them ever brought shame like this to Downton.
But Granny is right, as always. The bit of something in her stomach does have her feeling a little better…physically, anyway.
Until the front door opens and her stomach drops all over again.
The sound is wholly unexpected, causing her to jump from her seat, nervous as a cat on a wire. Her expression goes frantic, darting between her grandmother and the hall. But Granny doesn't seem disturbed in the least, merely drumming her fingers on the pommel of her cane, in old habit.
"Yes, she's expecting you," a congenial word from Denker greets whoever has entered the house, and then there are men's footsteps in the hall, as Granny's butler has returned, leading whoever it is down to the drawing room without bothering to announce them first.
Edith quickly dashes away the last trace of her tears and steels herself for whoever is to come through that door. She half-expects Aunt Rosamund, though she knows there wasn't time to call her aunt all the way up from 35 Belgrave Square. Or maybe Granny sent for Mary, to finally even the score from years ago?
She wouldn't expect her grandmother to be so cruel, especially not after she came to her for refuge. But wouldn't that just be her luck?
The very last person on earth who she might expect to see walking into her grandmother's drawing room is Sir Anthony Strallan.
But as the door opens and she lifts her gaze, that's exactly who she sees.
Their eyes meet just as they did that day at Dr. Goldman's office—just his, just hers, as if there's no one else in the room with them—and Edith's humiliation is once again, complete. She can't manage an audible word.
What are you doing here? She opens her mouth to speak, just like last time, but is trapped by his glance. She can't look away. He's a bit rumpled from the road, only belatedly taking off his hat and gloves. His features are missing their usual cheerfulness, gone haggard as she's ever seen him, his blue eyes laced with piercing concern…
…of a kind that might make her heart skip a beat once upon a time. But not now. Not from him.
With effort, she pulls her eyes away from his, neglecting to form any greeting at all.
"Granny, why is…?" Edith turns back on her grandmother instead. She shakes her head, not comprehending what's happening, lifting a hand aimlessly before finishing lamely, "I don't understand."
"Edith, sit down," Violet bids her, with infinite patience. She turns to the man who hovers in her doorway, granting him a tight smile, "You, as well, Sir Anthony."
Anthony may not be surprised at this meeting, but he appears uneasy with it, and obviously uncomfortable that Edith, at least, wasn't expecting him.
For now, he merely replies, "Thank you, Lady Grantham, but I prefer to remain standing, if you don't mind."
It's rare enough for anyone to deny the Dowager Countess a request, rarer still for a man like Sir Anthony. But he appears to be setting ground rules for this meeting. He was willing to answer Lady Violet's summons, of course, but he's not her manservant. And there's history here that resurrects old tension. For the last time the three of them were in a room together, Lady Violet certainly wasn't asking him to sit for tea. She was ushering him on his way.
Let him go, dear. Just let him go.
His tone is stronger than either woman remembers. And there's no hint of his usual awkwardness in his posture, gone rather world-weary with that reserved expression, but ever decorous too. He's nearly…stoic. Edith hates him for it, as she is anything but stoic. And it seems unjust.
A man who leaves a woman at the altar has no right to maintain such dignity. Especially when the woman he left is currently unable to muster any of her own. It isn't fair, it isn't right.
Granny wrinkles her brow at the man's words, surprised perhaps, but she allows it.
"Very well," she sighs, peering around Sir Anthony to locate her butler, who has followed Sir Anthony in, just in case her ladyship has further need of his services. She waves him away, just as she did with Denker earlier. "Get the door, Spratt. And see that we're not disturbed."
"Yes, my lady," he mutters, reaching for the door knob in something like muted disappointment.
There's that old saying about not letting the grass grow under one's feet. And Edith's grandmother is a very strong proponent of such natural wisdom. She apparently arranged this meeting and does not keep either of them in suspense for long.
"Let's get to the matter at hand," Violet mentions, continuing very bluntly, as she regards Sir Strallan and her granddaughter by turns. "Edith is pregnant, Sir Anthony. More than a month gone already and by a married man who has, by all accounts, performed an astonishing disappearing act, rivaling that of Harry Houdini—"
"Granny!" Edith blushes scarlet, protesting the rush of private information, but it falls on deaf ears.
"Hush, Edith, you'll get your turn," Granny is freely scolding her now, treating her like an errant child, before turning back to Anthony, who is showing equal shock at the woman's forthright manner. "Now, Sir Anthony, there was a time when you were more than willing to marry my granddaughter, I believe?"
The lady pauses here, in a way that leaves Edith wide-eyed and flabbergasted. Why is Granny doing this? She's always known that Mary was the favorite of the family, followed closely by poor Sybil. But she's never known her grandmother to be so heartless. She almost wishes it had been Mary at the door, after all. At least with her sister's gloating, she would have felt she deserved it.
But in this respect, before this man, Edith is still the wronged party. To bring up the past like this, to force them all to relive it, and to do so in her darkest hour…well, it's more than unkind and she has a mind to tell her Granny that she has crossed lines that cannot be…
"Yes," Anthony Strallan replies, in a soft voice that Edith isn't expecting.
As if he might even be persuaded to…
Edith pulls her gaze away from her grandmother, to turn back at the man she might once have called husband. He looks at her with more sympathy in his eyes that she might care to see, and it brings that healthy flush back to her cheeks.
But she might even accept his sympathy at present, if only she could forget tearing that wedding veil off and throwing the cursed thing over the banister at Downton.
"As you may recall, at the time, there were…reservations," Granny continues, in that Crawley manner of smoothing over hard truths with bland words. She grants Sir Anthony a small shrug, "Obviously, those reservations are of less concern now. And what, with your history and this happenstance meeting that transpired—we won't say where, of course—but there's no reason anyone might question a rekindling of former affections. Not as you've done this dance twice before, I believe? Third time's the charm, as they say."
Edith is absolutely mortified. She can't bring herself to look at Anthony now, not with Granny so blatantly begging that he take her off the family's hands. And all this, after Granny was the very one who sent him on his way last time.
There's heavy irony in this moment but Edith finds no humor in it. Anthony clears his throat.
"Pardon me, Lady Grantham, but what does Edith think of this?" he asks, in a very gentle manner. His words are directed at Violet but for the younger woman's ears.
"I…," Edith is not sure what to think, finding her mouth has gone dry. But her teacup is long empty. Rashly, she rises once again, if only to fetch the kettle and pour herself another cup.
Her thoughts are spinning. Only moments ago, she was bound for Switzerland and all the misery that would come with it. But if he…is he actually considering this? He hasn't quit the room yet, so that's something. But if he is considering it, she supposes it must be out of guilt.
She's not sure how she feels about that. But she doesn't want to go to Switzerland. She doesn't want to give up this child.
Tea cup still in hand, she turns to him again, but without meeting his gaze this time. She's fixed her eye line somewhere between his breast pocket and his collar.
She finds herself asking, in a rather meek voice, "You would do it?"
From just behind her, Edith hears Granny encourage the man's answer by reminding him pointedly, "Given the humiliation that you forced my granddaughter to endure, I would think, as a gentleman, there's only one answer to that—"
Edith closes her eyes, bites her lip and tries not to die of shame.
"Yes, thank you, Lady Crawley," Sir Anthony cuts Granny off before she goes too far, and Edith's eyes snap open again at the force of his tone.
His next words are for Edith, though he's still using Violet as the go-between, mostly because Edith is unable to meet his gaze and he notices. How could he not? He admits, "I did Edith wrong, that's true enough. I never should have let it get so far and that day at the church, I…" He stops himself, not wanting to make excuses, knowing apologies can't fix what's broken between them.
He finishes very simply, nodding, more to himself than the two women, "Yes, yes, I will. If Edith wishes it."
"It will have to be done quickly," Violet cautions. "An elopement in Scotland, as there's no time to read the banns. Gregson's been gone—what is it? Six weeks already, Edith?"
"Yes, Granny," Edith mutters through clenched teeth, miserably. She's daring a quick glance at Sir Anthony, finding his eyes are waiting for hers. So blue, so piercing. There's much that she might read in his eyes and that he might read in hers, but she retreats quickly, taking her seat once more, with the steaming teacup to remain untouched in her lap.
"So another two weeks and you'll be pushing your luck," Granny continues, while conceding, "Of course, there will be those who talk anyway with the dates being so close. But children do come early sometimes and we can always blame your age, Sir Anthony, for you getting right on with it."
This time, Edith doesn't have to glance Anthony's way to know his expression has darkened. She can just feel it. He doesn't mind being called out for past sins but he doesn't like speculation or private matters being trotted out so cavalierly. Granny's manner must stir his ire, for Lady Grantham is soon raising a hand in defense.
She vouchsafes, "I'm just preparing you for what's to come. And Edith, my dear, you will hear that vulgar American phrase about a 'shotgun wedding' batted about, I'm sure, but the alternative is of course…" Granny's shoulders lift in that way that leaves little doubt. "Switzerland."
The repetition of Switzerland has a shiver running through Edith and it's not from the thought of alpine winters and mountain snow. She can't. She just can't give this child up.
Especially if Michael is never to return to her.
But how can she possibly allow Anthony to do this for her?
Granny seems to think it's all settled. That's one of them, at least. The older woman grips her cane and rises from her lavender chair with her usual elegance, with a satisfied smile gracing her patrician features.
"Chaperones being utterly superfluous in this case…," Violet mentions, rather dryly. "I will just leave you two to work everything out."
A/N:
I've decided to move my author's notes to the end of the chapters, just because they're starting to get a little crowded. I'm honestly surprised-but-pleasantly-so by the response to this fic, only because it's been so long since there was quality Andith content on our screens *sighs in what might have been* but very glad to see the ship is still sailing so strong :)
Anyway, replies to comments (you're all wonderful btw):
spottedhorse: Lol yeah, age difference considerations are hilarious to me because sure, it can be a stumbling block for a couple (in a wonderfully, self-and-or-love-sacrificing, angsty way for fictional couples). But it literally happens all the time in real life (especially among the upper classes) and yet it's always trotted out as "oh obviously this relationship is doomed to failure because *gasp* he's 20-25 years older than her." Save us the clutched pearls, Granny XD
the classicist: Thank you! And apologies, because I think I forgot you in my replies on the last chapter *hugs* Much agree that Anthony perspectives seem to be lacking in the fandom (though, to be honest, I've only read a few Andith fics so far) – I typically try to do an equal split with the POVs for my main couple, plus a few outsider observations too.
JustaGuest123: Haha, yes, not really a subtle invitation, is it? Granny is practical like that ;) Hope your flooding rains have turned to sunshine in the last couple weeks.
Baron Munchausen: Thanks so much! Yeah, the blizzard wasn't too bad (compared to the murder winds from the week before anyway XD) and now it's just gloomy rain/snow/ice for the foreseeable future. And ughhh, I know. I don't know why JF didn't revisit Anthony/Edith just once more in DA, if only to wrap up the storyline. It ended on such a jagged edge and feels like an open wound forever. And lol, glad you appreciated Spratt's entrance!
Guest #1: Thank you! And haha, I wish. I think I need about 8-12 extra hours per week (always) to keep up with all my writing projects lol. But definitely going to try and keep to the every-other-week update. Promise. Xo
Guest #2: Mwah! Thank you! :)
ur no daisy: Thanks! Hope you enjoy the rest of the fic as much :)
MistressSara: Thank you so much! Hope you enjoy the new chapter. Xo