Chapter Text
It would have been easy to blame Mary for everything, but however poorly timed and viciously done, the truth would have revealed itself eventually. Perhaps it was simpler to lay the fault all on Mary for once again ruining her chance at some semblance of happiness. But this was not like Sir Strallan with his apologetic self-sacrifice nor Michael Gregson with his well-meaning errors in judgment.
She, Edith Crawley, had done this.
The truth is, my life was about to be perfectly wonderful. And now I’ve… I’ve thrown it all away.
She was heartbroken and she was angry. And she had taken it out on Mary, the person she can always so easily direct such spite. Mary, she knew, could handle her turmoil. She was well acquainted with it. Mary was very familiar with heartbreak and resentment and Edith knew they were so despairingly similar in this. As different as night and day, yet strikingly alike.
Edith could only release a teary laugh at this self-revelation. The carriage had left the church whisking away Mary and Henry Talbot along with it. She knew the family would come looking for her, for the children, but she didn’t want to leave the quiet field. Edith watched as Sybbie tugged along Marigold in an effort to chase after George. She heaved a great sigh, once again wondering what sort of future Marigold had ahead of her. What Edith was so close to being able to give her. What she had already inadvertently taken away.
She saw the joy in her daughter’s face as she delighted in peeking around stone after stone, sneaking away from her cousins. Marigold would scarcely remember this, but her early years were already so uncertain. Edith had gone abroad intending to give away her baby, but she was too cowardly. She had taken Marigold to the Drewes to keep her close. To see her here and there, surely that would be enough. But even then, she was weak. The secret was too much, and they had forced the Drewes out of their homes.
She has been terribly selfish, she realizes. Too afraid.
Edith Crawley had lived through the Great War. She has seen horrors and survived losses. She has fallen and she has gotten back up. And now, Mary has learned of her greatest shame and she was still there. Living, breathing. Still on her own two feet. The sky had not collapsed, though it felt like it would when she had to watch Bertie Pelham walk away.
She had Michael’s inheritance. She runs and co-edits a magazine in London. She had much to lose, but she still had her family. Edith had to take the chance. She had to open up the future for her Marigold.
And she had to stop living in fear.
++
“What?” Laura stands gaping, cigarette halfway to her lips.
“She—“
“No, sorry – I did hear you. I just…” Her editor’s face breaks into a smile.
Edith’s heart quickens then. Perhaps she’s making a complete mistake. “Oh, please don’t mock.” She glances at Audrey’s equally shocked expression.
“My, my,” Laura laughs, leaning back in her chair. “The Lady Edith, who owns and runs her own magazine, has a daughter out of wedlock. Incredible.”
“And her editor is a woman,” Audrey inputs.
“This is too much. We’re breaking too many barriers too quickly, they’ll burn us for heresy!” The two women giggle and laugh to themselves, and their glee catches as Edith finds herself chuckling along. She was terribly relieved. For a quick second, she thought that perhaps she had overestimated their support.
And their love, for Edith is surprised and pleased at how close they had become.
“I’m honestly rather glad that you two find this amusing, but it won’t be easy. Once the article is out, they’ll be calling in from all directions, I’m sure.” Edith says seriously. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but this was the first step in coming out of the shadows. No more fears, no more hiding, no more secrets. She had a daughter. Her name is Marigold. And the whole world will know of it.
Well, the readership of The Sketch will know of it.
“Don’t worry about us. You’ll be the one in the limelight,” Audrey responds. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
Edith had been wondering the same, but for nearly two years, she has been plagued by the constant uncertainty. The what-ifs and the worst case scenarios. It was exhausting. She had made up her mind.
“Yes. More than anything.”
Laura and Audrey exchange proud glances. And this simple gesture fortifies Edith.
“Well then, hand it over. We’ll see where we can slip it in.” Laura sits up in her seat, setting her cigarette aside.
It was Edith’s turn to gape, her eyes growing wide. Her face melts into an embarrassed smile.
“Only I’ve yet to actually write it,” she confesses. All three burst into giggles again, and Billy the errand boy shakes his head as he passes the office outside.
++
Whatever status or station, we all at times reminisce about our long forgotten youth. There is a fondness to the memories. A yearning of simpler times, of a moment in our past that did not frighten us. There is an earnest desire to stay safe in what is familiar, never having to face the changes that tomorrows inevitably bring with it.
Still, there is a danger in lingering too long. To be too comfortable with the way things are, when they fit your needs. For there will be a moment when the slightest circumstance will require the uncomfortable. A change. If you hold too stubbornly against it, it will do no good. The need for change does not yield. If you are terribly good at avoiding it, it may settle for a respite. But do not lower your guard, for it will return with an even greater vengeance.
The world is changing and with it all its people. There is little good in resisting, as my dear Papa has since learned. It is difficult to say goodbye to our beloved past, our memories of what has been. As the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, I had very little to complain about upon reflection. To grow up in a grand house, surrounded by servants, always dressed in the prettiest things, and a butler who doted on us as children. Even so, I was not satisfied. I was the middle daughter amongst three of the Lord and Lady Grantham. I was the plain one. ‘Poor Edith,’ I would hear them say from behind tea cups.
And for some time, I did play my part. I was Poor Edith. Angry and scowling, masquerading petty insults as cleverness. For a little while, this carried me through those agonizing years of becoming a woman. I wanted too much and was given so little. Though no matter how angry, and how spiteful, and how pitiful, it did not save me from heartbreak.
The world was changing, and Poor Edith could not survive this terrifyingly new place. It is questionable whether Poor Edith had any part in the old one.
So Poor Edith I was no longer.
It is dreadfully cliché to think one knows the moment everything changed. Like so many other aspects of life, it was gradual. And before I knew it, I saw a different Edith staring back at me in the vanity. However, I do know for certain when it all started. I had written into a magazine – a silly hobby, at first, but then one day someone had written back.
His name was Michael Gregson.
++
“My God…” Cora hears, and she turns on the settee to see an odd sight: her husband holding a ladies magazine.
“What is it, dear?” she ventures to ask, wary of Robert’s shocked expression. She hopes he hasn’t just learned the secret of a woman. She’s certain his heart couldn’t bear it.
“Rosamund’s sent this along, it’s the latest issue of The Sketch,” explains Lord Grantham. “Edith’s gone and told the public. Through her magazine!” This makes her rise to her feet, coming straight to Robert’s side to better witness what her daughter has done.
“How very daring. I wonder what drove her to do such a thing,” Cora comments, skimming the lines after Robert’s handed her the page.
Robert nods, solemnly. “I, for one, am glad for it. Hiding it seemed to do more harm than good. I’m only sorry that Edith had to lose Bertie Pelham to see it.”
“You’re one to talk. Not long ago, you would’ve been speechless at such a scandal.” She gives her beloved a look.
“Yes, but that was before when Tom was the chauffer and Sybil was still with us. When the most sensible thing was making sure Mary married well. Before Matthew Crawley became part of our lives,” he gently takes Cora’s hand. “Before.”
She smiles down at him, “Robert Crawley, you’ve come a long way.”
“And you all have helped me along – however much I kicked and screamed.”
“Quite a bit,” she smirks, and takes the magazine with her back to the settee. “We’ll soon be getting some inquiries.”
“About Edith or about our having tea at Mrs. Patmore’s… house of ill repute?”
“I would rather the latter.”
“And I, the former.”
++
I took my dear aunt’s advice – who sought to help me in whatever way I wanted to deal with all of it – and I went to Switzerland. There, as the months passed so did my homesickness. I wanted the days to go more quickly – I would have the baby, offer a wonderful and kind couple a child to love, and I would move on with my life. Move on from this dreadful mistake.
Then one day, she came.
My beautiful, precious Marigold. She was perfect, and it was then that I truly felt the life – the life – that he and I had made. Michael Gregson helped me become the woman I am today. He encouraged and inspired me. He loved me. And he traveled to a foreign and dangerous country to try and do right by me. Yet I was so close to giving that love he had for me away, giving Marigold away.
I’ve made many mistakes in life, but I was adamant that this would not be one of them.
After the great lengths my aunt and I had gone through to conceal the very existence of Marigold, I now had to face the reality that I, the daughter of an Earl, had a bastard out of wedlock. Nothing eased the shame of what I had done, what horrible imaginings I dreamt should Papa and Mama find out. I would be ‘Poor Edith’ yet again. ‘Poor, stupid Edith.’
Growing up, I had always wondered if I even belonged to such a family. I had my father’s coloring but none of his charm. I had my mother’s tranquility but none of her elegance. In fact, my sister Mary would sometimes remark how I must be a lovechild of some scandal that Mama and Papa had to help cover up. She even went so far as to suggest I was the daughter of our very Aunt Rosamund. No matter how I screamed my denial at her, something unsettling dug its way deep inside of me. And as I grew, so did that horrid seed fester.
Even now it stays hidden, in the recesses of my heart and in the darkest corners of my mind. It has accompanied me through my many successes and brought me down with my innumerable blunders. Finally, it has done me in. This devilish infection has led me to perhaps my greatest mistake: lying to a man I love. My omissions, my secrets, my insecurity and uncertainties had cost me his trust and his faith and his love.
A wise woman once told me: ‘You are being tested. Being tested only makes you stronger.’
So here, I write to you – the readers, the public – my terrifying secret, my deepest shame, and my most precious gift. Marigold Crawley is my daughter. She may carry that stigma with her for the rest of her life, but no matter what I vow to love her with all that I am, for all that she is. My most darling daughter.
I have been tested and I hope – I know – that I am the stronger for it.
++
The Seventh Marquess of Hexham finished reading the most personal article he had ever come across – where he was featured, though unnamed. Lady Edith was kind in that. She knew to name him explicitly would create rumours around him and his newly inherited title. Mother would be most disparaged to be sure.
Bertie feels incredibly proud of Edith. It had taken great courage to write something so revealing, to leave herself so vulnerable. She was a remarkable woman – a fact he already knew.
As proud as he was for her, he felt incredible disappointment in himself. He thinks back in all their moments of intimacy: how her eyes shone with excitement, mirroring the thrill coursing through him. But there was always a second of hesitation, a flash of self-doubt. Then there were the self-deprecating statements, hints that he bulldozed over in his eagerness for the idealistic version of Edith Crawley that he saw.
Can I help? Am I worthy?
I’m not as simple as I used to be. My life is not as simple.
You have a great deal to offer. Only I’m not sure I’m worthy of it.
He had moved too quickly. They’d only properly gotten to know each other just four months ago and he’d already asked for her hand. And in the midst of Peter’s death… the succession. A wonder she was overwhelmed!
Edith was struggling against the shadow of herself and he had dropped a heavy load on her: Marry me. Be the next Marchioness of Hexham.
How idiotic you’ve been, Bertie. He scolds himself, sighing.
An urgent knocking pulls him out of his thoughts. He was still in his home in the village near Brancaster Castle. Mother had already gone up and settled into the castle, eager to give it life again. Bertie dawdled in packing his belongings – as he insisted he do it himself – and to finally make the move to his ‘new’ home. Lord Hexham sets aside The Sketch and makes his way to the door.
He isn’t sure who he was expecting at this late hour, but it certainly wasn’t her.