A/N:

As I've been rewatching S3, I remembered that Lavinia's death was actually used twice for the Crawleys' benefit – first, to give Matthew and Mary the all clear (I'll forgive the convenience only because I love Matthew and Mary too) and second, oh yeah, to save the whole freaking estate from Robert's bad debts…oops.

Anyway, I love Lavinia and refuse to kill her off. So there. Let's just pretend Robert invested in British railways vs. Canadian ones or, ya know, diversified his portfolio into gold or electricity or rebuilding France.

And ohhhhh yes, I know. Richard Carlisle was very much a villain in Downton (but it's Iain Glen – how do you expect me to hate him? XD). Lavinia deserves better…except that I turned myself into a diehard Lavinia x Richard shipper a long time ago with a soapy little fanfic I wrote called "Don't Ever Let Me Be a Nuisance" (which I've been slowly uploading here). I'm being vague enough with their backstory in this fic so you can read the previous story as a prequel if you want, but you definitely don't have to.

If you don't read the other story, just assume that after Lavinia saw Mary and Matthew dancing/kissing out in the Front Hall (seriously, at least Robert and Jane had the decency to kiss in closets lol), she realized that she was worth more than being a consolation prize and Sir Richard, after receiving his punch in the face from Matthew, realized that maybe he needed to start making some better life choices.

Love does blossom in the most unexpected places sometimes…

I'm short on time this week so please forgive my lack of personalized responses (you're all honestly wonderful and I'm blushing at some of your lovely comments 3) - so many hugs and thank yous! to the classicist, JustaFuest123, spottedhorse, Figmentll, Baron Munchausen, my two lovely anon Guests and anyone else who is reading this story.

We'll be back to the quality (aka deliciously tense and repressed) E&A content next time. In the meantime, much love to all. Xo

May 1922

Haxby Park

"Vinnie?" Sir Richard Carlisle calls up the stairs at Haxby Park, looking for his wife.

He assumes that Lavinia is in the nursery, among the teddy bears, tea sets and bedtime stories. It's a fairly logical guess. Their son is not quite two years old and their daughter was born only three months before. They are currently Lavinia's favorite, favorite things on this green earth.

Which makes Sir Richard exceedingly happy, as no gift she's ever received, from anyone, can light up her features quite the way a simple quarter hour with their children might do.

And he's the one who gave them to her.

"What is it?" she answers, her voice preceding her appearance, that slightly husky tone of hers bringing an instant grin to his lips. The mere sound of her voice can often send him forgetting whatever errand he's on in favor of her and only her. And there she is, soon wandering out onto the landing with Catherine in tow, gently swaying the baby against her breast.

Motherhood suits Lavinia brilliantly. She's a natural caregiver, that's always been true. But there's a confidence that's come to her in recent years that's heightened her beauty in a way that drives him near to distraction. In fact, the way the morning sunlight is currently streaming through the tall, arched windows of Haxby's upper floors, illuminating her red hair and that rose chiffon dress she wears, he's nearly speechless and thinks that he might take the day off to just…

With admirable self-restraint, he keeps himself to task, asking, "Have you any letter from your father, or perhaps the Crawleys?"

"No, what about?" she's intrigued at first, then worried, her expression falling. Her father's health has been rocky these last years. At present, he's on the mend again but Vinnie has confided that she expects the recovery to be temporary, a last hurrah of sorts so he might steal a little more time with his grandchildren. "Richard…?"

"No, nothing like that," he replies quickly, allaying her fears, before drumming his fingers against the black walnut bannister, considering. He divulges, "It's just I've had a tip that sounds rather outlandish."

"Oh?"

"Yes, a colleague in Edinburgh just rang me up to say that Lady Edith has married Sir Anthony Strallan."

"Edith Crawley?"

"What other 'Lady Edith' do we know?"

"Surely not," Lavinia counters, still swaying with Cathy, gently, easing the baby into her afternoon slumber. She soon tips her head on the news, her expression rather bemused. "Wasn't she seeing that editor from The Sketch?"

"That was the rumor," Richard decides he can't just remain at the bottom of the staircase. Not with his wife looking like that, all beautiful and perfect and just…Vinnie.

It was the tip of her head that did it. Distracting, that's what she is.

He grins at her boyishly and begins ascending the steps. Knowing the flavor of that grin, Lavinia grants him a coquettish smile back and just waits for him at the top of the stairs, receiving the most delicate yet still ardent kiss above their infant daughter's head for her trouble.

"They eloped?" she wonders, still pondering this unexpected news.

"That's what he said," Richard muses, giving Cathy his attention now, as she's resisting sleep. The baby's eyes have gone wide at her father's presence, her little hands flailing from her blanket. He catches her tiny fist before stooping down to give her forehead a kiss as well. As he straightens up, he continues, "Weeks past now. But I've seen no announcement in the papers."

"Well, newspaper announcements don't always get everything right," she teases. "If I recall, I once read somewhere that you were to wed Lady Mary."

"Indeed," he grants her a half-smirk, groaning a little. She rarely lets him forget his folly in their shared Quartet of Fools escapade. But he deserves it—he was not as blameless as her in the whole affair—and takes the ribbing in stride.

"They were engaged once, you know, while we were abroad on our honeymoon. And then he left her at the altar. But they were friendly before the war too, so perhaps it's not so unlikely."

"No, perhaps not," Lavinia answers, with her lips pressed together, repressing a broader smile that hints at the sides of her mouth. They share another glance, knowing a thing or two about unlikely matches and the embers of former love being rekindled.

"But anyway, with The Sketch currently on indefinite hiatus, I thought I might offer her a job."

"Edith Crawley?" she repeats herself.

"Edith Strallan, you mean."

"Yes," Lavinia amends, in afterthought. She's more interested in the rest of what he's said, giving him a sly look, "But you've told me that you don't like her work?"

"That's because she was using her talents to line someone else's pockets. I'm sure I might come around to her bon mots if her readers are willing to follow her to the Evening Standard or the Yorkshire Post."

"You really can be quite mercenary sometimes, darling," she sighs at his manner, but only half-heartedly. For better or worse, Richard is never going to change. And they balance each other out in temperament, more so now than before.

Most still don't understand how their marriage works. Isobel Crawley went so far as to write a seven page letter to Lavinia begging her not to marry the newspaper man, even though her beloved son and Lavinia had not been involved in many months—they'd parted on fairly amicable terms once they finally realized they were both in love with someone else—and so had no vested interest in preventing what she described as "an unmitigated catastrophe."

Lavinia wrote back to the well-meaning woman and assured her, in a gentle but strongly-worded reply, that while she appreciated the concern, she had a handle on the affairs of her own heart. Four years and two children later, she appears to have no regrets, pulling Richard in for another kiss to better stop the scheming she sees written in his features.

Poaching Edith Crawley from Gregson isn't really fair. Not with the poor man still missing and possibly dead. But business is business. And Richard's in the business of selling newspapers.

And this is all assuming the woman still wants to write now that she's married, of course. He doesn't know Sir Anthony well, but he can't imagine the gentleman standing in his wife's way.

Not if he loves her. Richard has learned that when one truly loves the woman they marry, it makes everything else so much simpler.

Their son, Reggie, has emerged from the nursery, scampering away from his nanny's clutches, to be caught by Richard's grasp just at the moment the little boy might have gone bolting down the stairs, off to adventures in the spring mud. He lifts the boy high above his head, and Reggie squeals happily, enjoying the flight. The boy loves heights, a little too much. Richard expects he may become a little Charles Lindbergh, that American aviator they've all been hearing about.

"If it's true, invite them to dinner first," Lavinia encourages. "Then ask her about the job."

"If it's true, my guess is that they're currently drowning in invites from Downton. Or summons, rather. My colleague seemed to think the family was in the dark about their Scottish nuptials. I can't imagine the Earl of Grantham being overjoyed with a second daughter running off to Gretna Green."

"Edinburgh," Lavinia corrects him.

"Yes," Richard sets Reggie up on his shoulders, where the little boys soon settles, enjoying the view, resting his little hands on the top of Richard's head. He reasons, "But in either case, I doubt they'll have time for dinner parties for a while."

"Still, invite them," Lavinia tells him. "If Lord and Lady Grantham didn't know beforehand, they'll give her no peace about it now. And you know how Mary is with her sister…" She bites her bottom lip softly, still unwilling to say anything too uncharitable, even about a woman who once wronged her so deeply.

Richard finds her reserve adorable. But he knows what she means.

"The Strallans might appreciate a break from their dear relations," Richard notes.

"That's it exactly," Lavinia agrees. She reaches up with her free hand to better push a red-blond lock of Reggie's hair from his eyes, the curls gone wild in the flying. She regards him fondly, before turning her attention back to the baby. Meanwhile, she muses, "And didn't you say once that Anthony Strallan is sitting on war stories that might be worth a fortune, if he were ever to share them?"

"Possibly, but the man is so tight-lipped about it, I sincerely doubt I'll ever get anything worth printing out of him," Richard allows, sighing with regret, "Pity, really. The one subject that might make him the most interesting man in the room and he completely avoids it."

"Perhaps he doesn't want to be interesting. Not every man seeks laurels at every table," Lavinia grins at him, impishly, knowing he is not one of these men. But that's all right. She loves him just the same. "But I think it's terribly romantic that they've eloped."

"Do you?" He grins back at her, remembering their own wedding. It had all the hallmarks of an elopement, rather unexpected and done in haste—they'd already wasted so much time, they were keen on starting their lives together. The ceremony was very small and practical, with only her father for a witness. At the time, he thought she might regret this bitterly, as her almost-wedding to Matthew was to be one of the most lavish events of the last decade.

But she'd admitted to him that a such a grand wedding had never been her dream. She was frightened of it, to be honest. She'd been playing a part and was relieved to finally set the mask of it all aside.

I'm just a little, ordinary person, she conceded.

There's nothing ordinary about you Lavinia, he assured her.

"I do," she answers his question plainly, stretching up on tip-toes to give him one more kiss. "Now go invite the Strallans to dinner so we might save them from at least one night of interrogation at the Abbey."

"Lavinia…," Richard begins. He approves her wry tone, but he decides against commending her for it—it's her influence that does it. Instead, he finds himself asking a question he's asked before, never tiring of the answer she gives. "Do you ever regret it? Being mistress of Haxby instead of Downton, I mean?"

"Of course not," she tells him, giving him a look that says he amuses her with all this lingering doubt. For someone so clever, she finds his dull wits in this one matter quite refreshing.

But so he knows it to be true, she replies fiercely, holding Cathy close while giving Reggie another maternal smile, which softens further as she meets Richard's gaze once more. "Haxby is our home, Richard. And I wouldn't wish for another, not for all the tea in China."