A/N:
Special shout out to JustaGuest123, Baron Munchausen, spottedhorse and my anonymous Guest for the wonderful reviews on the last chapter! Glad you enjoyed the Haxby interlude. As promised, back to our faves in this chapter…
May 1922
Downton Abbey
An invitation from Haxby Park—or really any house that isn't a fountain of Grantham judgment—can't come soon enough.
Edith's not sure how many more dinners she can stand at Downton, with Mama's hurt feelings over not being allowed to plan a proper wedding, Mary's tempered but still sly asides—"well, Edith always returns to her old man, doesn't she?"—and their father's feeble attempts at small talk with Anthony, which fall flat too often, both men awkwardly trying to find their footing in a friendship that soured years ago.
Rose and Branson might both assist in diffusing some of the tension, as neither was here to witness the events that came before, but Rose is in London with Rosamund until the spring garden party and Tom skips dinner with the family too often in favor of spending time with his daughter.
Edith doesn't blame him for it. Not a whit.
Thank God for Matthew, as apparently he's the least shocked by what Edith has done (other than Granny, of course). Or the most forgiving, with his solidly middleclass upbringing making allowances for such things as impulse and acting on a whim. Or maybe it's just a brother's genuine understanding—one arising from countless breakfasts spent sitting across from one another.
He may not understand what she's done but he knows when to leave well enough alone. And she's forever grateful to him for that.
His mother is a godsend too, for Isobel Crawley is still a fixture at the evening table, especially now that Matthew and Mary live at the main house. And, as a former doctor's wife, she's quite adept at filling the taut silence of tense conversations, where the ailment remains unnamed, for the sake of politeness, but everyone feels its effects anyway.
Even better, the woman appears to have very little interest in Edith's marriage at all, as she's currently much more taken with her eight-month-old grandson and spends most of dinner fawning over his recent accomplishments, asking Mary how he's coming along with his first steps.
The milestone was officially marked the Wednesday before last, while Edith and Sir Anthony were speaking vows before a priest at St. Mary's Star of the Sea in Edinburgh.
It was a step up from the anvil marriage that Sybil and Tom once contemplated. Yet, only just. They were married in a small chapel and a Roman Catholic one besides. The priest risked eternal damnation by blessing the union of two tepid Anglicans. But the man had a connection to Anthony's sister, Mrs. Emily Chetwood, somehow and appeared willing to perform the service, if only as a favor to her.
"She'll not forget it either," Anthony muttered, and Edith was left wondering if he spoke with regret or gratitude, as his tone was hard to read that day. Their wedding day…
It was a quick, patched-together ceremony, without guests and the parish gardener called in as a second witness, for they had no one else. Edith failed to wear white, not quite seeing the point. The gardener was good enough to hand her a bouquet of daisies and Scottish thistle—how terribly apt, she thought. She set the posy on the back pew before they walked out.
She hasn't shared these details with her family, knowing that they will approve of the manner and particulars of her wedding about as well as they approve of the groom. With pressed lips, icy half-smiles, and a good deal of mumbling some variation of the words, "Does she never learn?"
But this talk of George's first steps serves to steer them away from the topic of Edith and Anthony. It gives the newlyweds a welcome reprieve.
In the lull, Edith finds herself seeking Anthony's gaze across the table.
It was always this way when he used to come to dinner, both before and after the War. It's an old habit, one that took her an embarrassingly long time to shake, when she would sometimes forget and look up at an empty chair and feel a hot rush of humiliation that she should still be looking for him, even after everything.
But she slips back into it like a familiar, comfortably worn-in housecoat, and she finds it fits just as well as it always did. It's a good thing too. Anyone watching them would misread her interest as a new bride's desire to keep her husband always in sight.
And maybe that would have been the case two years ago. Now, it's more two co-conspirators checking in to see if they're getting away with the con.
Anthony must have known she'd be glancing his way for he's already waiting for her glance, his soup spoon hovering at the side of his bowl, his blue eyes ever soft. As soon as their eyes meet, he gives her a small, if bolstering, smile—a secret one, meant just for her.
This simultaneously gives her peace of mind and rankles her deeply.
They have agreed to play the doting couple in public, as they must. A warm touch here, a gentle smile there, to sell the story of two, reunited lovers who just hadto marry quickly lest their feelings overwhelm them.
It's utterly ridiculous, given their history, but what other excuse could they use?
Yet, this smile he grants her is not for the others' benefit, as no one else is watching. It's for her. Only her. To let her know that he thinks she's doing very well and not to bother with Mary's snide commentary or her mother's pouting, as it doesn't matter. None of it matters. They can simmer and stew as much as they like, but her family can't do a thing about it now. They are married and there's an end to it.
And she's conflicted about it—his smile, she means. She's relieved to think she's rising above any unpleasantness that might sour the evening, steadfastly refusing to toss back barbs when they're lobbed at her. She plays the part of the dignified Lady Strallan instead of the petty and petulant girl she once was, and finds herself suited to it. Almost as if the title was always hers to wear.
And it honestly warms her heart to know that Anthony is in her corner, that he hears Papa's or Mary's unjust words but pays them no mind.
She admires this about him. Always has. For years, she wondered how he could stand their blatant disrespect and mockery. She supposes he deserves it more now, but that wasn't always the case. And nothing he did was done to them.
She might almost feel something like amity, if only in their shared ill-treatment by her family…but the tension between them remains unresolved in these first weeks of their marriage and she feels guilty for accepting such tender smiles from anyone but Michael.
Even if those smiles come from her husband.
Anthony Strallan is her husband. She is Edith Strallan. It's such a natural thought, albeit come two years too late.
She knows the conflict in her heart won't serve them well here. There's a time and a place for such things and it's at Loxley, behind closed doors, where they too often regard each other with chilly silence. Here, she forces a brief smile back, just in case they're being observed—but then drops her gaze to the roast lamb, beetroots and sliced cucumbers on her dinner plate.
But she needn't worry. Only Anthony reads her discomfort, as the others are currently engaged in a cross-table conversation regarding toddler development.
"Matthew didn't start walking until nearly a year," Isobel reveals, with that pressed lipped smirk she often wears. She shrugs her shoulders casually, as she observes, "He just didn't seem very interested in getting on with it."
"Well, perhaps if my mother hadn't insisted on carrying me everywhere," Matthew counters, ever the lawyer.
"Mary was similar," Cora offers, with a tipped head towards her eldest daughter. She recalls, "Although you did go straight from sitting to walking. No crawling in between. I think you thought it was beneath you, darling."
"That doesn't sound like me," Mary mentions, dryly. She gives her husband a wicked grin, in that way that might be jest but might be completely serious, "But it's good to know that Georgie will surpass both of us in accomplishments before he's a year old."
"Of course, you know what they say…," Isobel adds, as she reaches for her wine glass.
"No, what do they say, Mrs. Crawley?" Granny wonders, in that smug way that will always hum in her voice when addressing the woman seated directly to her left. They've long outgrown such formal titles but Granny still likes to use her favorite from time to time, to better remind Cousin Isobel of where they began.
"As soon as one walks, another child is on the way," Isobel replies, smartly, giving back as good as she gets. She sips her wine and smirks, "Just think. A great-grandmother twice over, Cousin Violet."
Granny's reply is a tight pull of her lips.
"Oh, it would be so lovely for George and Sybbie to have another playmate so close to their own age?" Cora speaks up from the other end of the table, too hopeful, the longing in her American tone gone too acute. She acts as if it's been announced already, looking at Mary with soft, expectant doe eyes.
"Mama, I'm not pregnant," Mary insists, giving a breathy laugh before using a fork to dig through her greens and steer the conversation elsewhere. She sets their expectations straight, "And honestly, it seems a little soon to me to even be discussing it."
Knowing her sister, Edith isn't sure Mary wants to have any more children. She's never been the maternal type, though she does seem to love little George fiercely. There's no question that the baby has softened some of her harsher edges, in a way that Edith is now beginning to understand more fully.
She resists a sudden, strong urge to bring her hands to her waist.
She feels eyes upon her once again. Anthony's, no doubt. Her eyes flicker up, confirming it. And she's soon losing herself in the weighty look they exchange between them. Isobel Crawley isn't wrong in her wives' tale wisdom. She's just not looking at the right woman.
But that look that Anthony and Edith share during this conversation is a rather dangerous one, going on too long, threatening to give up the secret too soon. It's only broken by a cleared throat from Granny, who more deftly switches subjects in a way that sticks.
"Robert, did Rosamund telephone about the garden party?"
#
Later, after they've all said their goodnights—with rather wintry ones exchanged between Cousins Isobel and Violet, as they both scored points tonight but neither can claim outright victory—the cars are brought around the gravel drive.
When it's their turn, Edith feels the slight pressure of Anthony's hand, as he smoothly takes her arm and guides her forward, allowing her to enter the sedan first.
"Yes, goodnight."
"See you Saturday next."
She hears the final chorus of farewells from the back seat of the Rolls Royce, while slipping off her gloves and resting them in her lap, giving a little sigh under her breath and closing her eyes briefly, almost as a taking off a mask. Under the fading evening light, she's allowed to drop the pretense of newlywed bliss finally and does so, gratefully.
Anthony is soon joining her, sliding onto the seat just beside her but leaving space between them. It's only two inches. But it might as well be two miles.
They pass many of these rides in silence, lost in their own thoughts, as Bridges, the chauffeur, is a gruff sort, not liable to gossip or meddling in the affairs of the high class and therefore, not a party they need to convince of their unbridled passion.
To be fair, most of the Loxley servants have just accepted the news that their master has wed his former sweetheart, without question. They seem truly happy about it and willing to gloss over a few details that don't exactly fit. Like, how Edith doesn't quite have that new bride demeanor one would expect, sometimes looking downright gloomy as she stands at the southerly facing windows in the Loxley parlor, staring out at the surrounding fields and meadows so aimlessly.
Or how the couple may retire to bed together every night—they must, if the ruse is to be believed—but that Sir Anthony does not stay in Lady Edith's room past ten, retiring back to his own room and sleeping there until morning. The housemaids also whisper among themselves that the sheets aren't quite as rumpled as they might expect during what appears to be a stay-in honeymoon.
But such is the way of some couples. It's not always infectious laughter, blushing grins and kisses stolen at every hour. And the Loxley staff are merely content to see Sir Anthony settled with Lady Edith, finally and truly. They assume any difficulties between the lord and lady of the house might be worked out in time.
When the baby's impending arrival is announced, Edith expects they'll think it's all settled and and shower the couple with relieved joy.
Speaking of that announcement…
"Perhaps you should consider telling them at dinner next Saturday," Anthony suggests, if mildly. He merely relates facts, "It will have been another month by then, and the longer you wait…"
"Yes, I know," Edith cuts him off, in a clipped tone that's meant to remind him that this is her business. Only hers. She's aware that she has a very short window here. She doesn't need another reminder.
Although, she supposes he's just trying to be helpful.
The countryside has gone dark, as late evening gives way to early night. It's only moon glow and the stray headlights of other cars passing on the road that illuminate the inside of the sedan. Under such faint light, she steals a glance in his direction, but this time he doesn't meet her gaze, his attention diverted by the passing fields, dark as they are.
The expression on his face is rather severe under moonlight, none of the congenial grins and mild-mannered affability that he wears so well around her family to be found in his features. He looks…tired. And she wonders if she wasn't too harsh in cutting him off before. Or maybe he's regretting this whole arrangement, and would have much rather spent the evening at home, cozy in the library with only his books for company, instead of her family.
She can't blame him there. Given the choice, she would be of a similar mind. She nearly thinks to apologize for all this pretending, to thank him for going along with it, to reach out and take his…
There remain those stubborn inches between them, seemingly impossible to cross.
It feels a little strange to be so separate after an evening of shared glances and loving touches. She can still feel the exact spot where his hand had gently perched at the small of her back as they entered the dining room for dinner. And, in the drawing room before that, when he'd appeared at her side and pressed a slow and tender kiss at her temple, if only meant to distract the others, while he discreetly took the aperitif they'd poured for her and set it aside, so as to head off the questions that would surely follow after she failed to take a sip.
She hadn't expected that.
And her cheeks are still warm from the courtly way he'd guided her into the car as they left.
But this—this icy distance between them, this stilted silence, already going stale—is the reality of their situation and she reminds herself that this is what she wanted. This is the way she told him it must be. And it's what he agreed to.
What they agreed to.
Her gaze falls to her lap once more as she hears Anthony give a soft sigh, too much like the one that she'd uttered earlier. His gaze continues seeking the night, and the dark and lonely countryside passing them by.