Dearest Lavinia Letter Twenty-Eight

Dublin,

25th of March 1920

Dear Edith,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for your letters these past weeks. I can't tell you how much comfort and solace they have brought me. I must beg your forgiveness for not replying sooner, but the loss of Lavinia has affected me more than I ever imagined.

Since hearing the devastating news, I've been utterly exhausted, and my midwife has recommended bed rest. It's just as well because I've scarcely had the strength for anything else. Poor Tom has taken on most of the burden of caring for me, with the help of Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Branson.

Dear sister, I can't stress enough the importance of choosing a good husband. Though fate chose Tom for me, I consider myself so fortunate. I only realized recently that it would have been Lavinia's one-year anniversary last Sunday. I'm embarrassed to admit that Tom found me sobbing in bed, clutching the Sunday newspaper.

It just feels so unfair that Lavinia is no longer with us. I am full of regret for not liking Lavinia at first. I could have been a much better friend to her during the war, but I was so consumed with jealousy because she had Matthew, and I did not. How foolish I was back then. But I was a good friend in the end, wasn't I?

A week before Lavinia died, she sent two photos, one of her holding baby Elizabeth and one of just of Elizabeth. She looked so happy holding her dear baby and now she is gone forever. Tom bought me a beautiful double walnut frame. Please ignore the splotches, even now I can barely contain my tears.

You would be amazed to see how often I've been bursting into tears lately. Me—your most stoic sister, the "ice princess" as I know the staff call me. Even Mrs. Branson has had to dry my tears. She reassures me that many strong women shed tears, especially as pregnancy comes to an end. Truly, I am ready for this pregnancy to be over: my back aches and it is impossible to get a full night's sleep.

A glimmer of happiness is beginning to return to my days. Tom has finally finished the preparatory work for his novel, and his publisher has already distributed his short stories to various magazines and newspapers. Fortunately, I had most of the sketches completed before the news of Lavinia's death. Tom assures me that what I've provided will be enough for the different publications, as not all will need a sketch.

Tom has also been in contact with your Mr. Gregson about an exclusive interview to coincide with the release of the novel. I look forward to meeting this debonair Mr. Gregson in person. Tom will have to make personal appearances, but by then I will be back home at Downton, so I won't be alone.

We're beginning to pack up our things to send them to Downton. I will, of course, miss our little flat and rooftop garden, Mrs. Murphy's delicious bread, and our friends and family here in Ireland. Tom puts on a brave face, but I know how much this country means to him. The troubles in Dublin pain him, and though his heart belongs to an independent Ireland, it has become dangerous for those of us in the literary circle, which is so closely tied to republican politics.

Now that I've lived in Ireland, I, too, feel this country should be free to determine its own destiny (don't tell Papa). The people here may speak English, but they are not English in spirit or outlook. I used to think it was England's duty to lead the world, to govern those who couldn't govern themselves. Now I wonder if I was terribly mistaken.

If Ireland should govern itself, then what of India? Should they, too, not have the right to govern themselves? These distant places have histories as ancient as our own. With every book I read, the less certain I am of our righteousness. Tom teases me that he's slowly corrupting me, and that when the time comes for women to vote, I'll be casting my vote for Labour (definitely don't tell Papa that either). But in truth it was all the Sunday mornings reading the papers and discussing the articles together.

You see how my mind is preoccupied, my thoughts swirl from topic to topic, I am unsure it is my grief causing my lack of concentration or my pregnancy. Still, I can't wait to return home, even if Lavinia won't be there to greet me. As a last hurrah, Tom is taking me to Bewley's Oriental Café—my favourite place in Dublin—for afternoon tea. It will be my final chance before we leave.

Tom and his family will do much of the packing, while I remain in bed, giving directions and feeling as large as a tram. I will finish this letter after our outing, though I suspect I will have little more to report than how much cake I managed to eat!

Oh Edith!

I am shaking, I must have tried to put down my thoughts two, three times, but I can hardly hold the pen steady in my hand. I have never experienced such a thing in my entire life. My heart is beating so hard in my chest right now. I must go, Tom is insisting I go to bed and rest, he is no doubt right. Goodnight sister!

I had meant to finish my letter yesterday evening after our outing to Bewley's, but I find myself writing to you now in quite a different state than I had anticipated. What was meant to be a peaceful afternoon tea turned into something far more unsettling. I must warn you, this letter will take a darker turn than I had originally planned.

Tom and I had just sat down at Bewley's, our usual table by the window, when a man approached us, I had him seen once or twice before—one of Tom's acquaintances, Seamus O'Shaughnessy. A man with a dulled wit and penchant for parroting what every rhetoric he heard earlier that day. Unfortunately, his poetry was equally lacklustre with the superficial appearance of meaning. I had always suspected him of jealousy over Tom's brilliance.

He started out civilly enough, though there was a sharpness to his words that put me ill at ease. Without warning, he launched into a tirade, accusing Tom of being a British informant, of betraying Ireland, of betraying his very bloodline. He pointed to me, his wife, as evidence of this treachery— "the daughter of an English earl," he sneered, "a cog in the machine of our oppression." The way he said it, as if I were a symbol rather than a person, shook me to my core.

His anger was palpable, his words venomous, and I could see Tom becoming tense beside me, his hands clenched. Seamus didn't stop there. He said our time at Downton Abbey last December, when we were visiting for Christmas, was proof of Tom's "perfidy," as he put it. The accusations were wild and baseless, but that didn't seem to matter to him. It was as if the mere fact of me being who I am was enough to condemn Tom in his eyes.

And then, Edith—it happened so fast—he picked up the teapot from the table next to us and threw the dregs of cold tea in my face. I was so stunned, so horrified, I couldn't move. The cold tea dripped down my face, and all I could think was how close I had come to something worse. I covered my pregnant belly with my arms, the only thought to protect my baby. Never in my life have I been so near to such violence. I was frightened beyond words.

Tom, of course, stood up immediately, demanding an apology, but Seamus was beyond reason. He shoved Tom, and a scuffle broke out. In the confusion, Seamus landed a punch, knocking Tom back against the table. The whole scene was so surreal—other patrons jumped in to pull Seamus away and threw him out of the café. My hands were trembling so badly I couldn't even hold my napkin.

Tom, bruised and shaken but still composed, guided me out of Bewley's and back to our flat. I don't know how I managed to walk, Edith—I felt as though my legs might give out at any moment. When we arrived home, Mrs. Murphy fussed over us both, her voice full of concern as she tried to make sense of what had happened. I wanted to finish the letter to you then, but Tom insisted I lie down. He was right, of course—I was too shaken, and I needed time to collect myself.

Now, with the morning light filtering in through the curtains, I still feel rattled. I can't seem to stop replaying the scene in my head—how close I was to something awful, and how helpless I felt in that moment. I've never been so exposed to such open hatred before, so connected to the troubles of this land in such a visceral way. I suppose it's something Tom has faced his entire life, but it was new to me.

Tom's eye is black this morning, and though he brushes it off, I know it hurt him deeply—not just the physical blow, but the accusation itself. He's always been so proud of his Irish identity, so dedicated to the cause of Irish freedom. To be accused of betraying that, especially by someone he knows, must be unbearable.

As for me, I find myself longing for Downton more than ever now. This little flat that I've come to love feels suddenly too small, too precarious. I miss the safety, the stability of home—the comfort of being surrounded by family. I know Tom feels the same, though he tries to hide it from me. Ireland will always be a part of him, but it's become too dangerous for us here, especially with a baby on the way.

This attack seems to have momentarily shaken me from my grief for dear Lavinia and invigorated me with an urge for action. Lavinia's recent passing should have prepared me for how unexpected life can be and a single moment can change your life forever, for the worse. The Scandal last year had changed my life for the better in so many ways, it is these sudden events that have changed my perspective.

We're packing up today and leaving for Downton on the 29th. It's time for me to be with you all again, to put this ordeal behind me. I only wish the return could be under happier circumstances, but I suppose that's not the way of things these days.

I'll write again soon once we're settled back at Downton. Until then, take care of yourself. I can't wait to see you.

With love,

Mary