AN: Because apparently, I can't stop writing Andith + children... CN/TW for this first chapter: references to the discovery of a suicide.

London, March 1910

"Papa?"

Edith knocked on her father's study door. When there was no response, she pushed the door open and caught sight of him, fast asleep at his desk. A small smile spread across her face. He was forever doing this, drifting off in the middle of his reading. It frustrated Mama no end. But if he didn't wake up soon, then he would still be drowsy and cross when Mary and Richard arrived for luncheon, and no one wanted a reoccurrence of what had happened the last time that had been the case. "Papa?" she repeated, and leant over him to touch his hand and shake him awake, as she had done a thousand times before.

It was cold and stiff to the touch.

Momentarily, Edith froze. The bile rose in her throat. She withdrew her hand and took a deep breath in through her nose, and then released it through her mouth. Then she repeated it. Miss Treadwell, the last governess they'd had, had recommended it as a method for staving off panic in tight spots. Edith thought that this probably counted.

When she thought that the danger of being sick over the Persian rug had passed away, she reached out again and touched Papa's wrist. There was no pulse, as she had suspected. Then her eyes lit upon the rest of the desk. The empty tumbler of whisky, some white-ish residue at the bottom. The equally empty pill bottle, knocked to its side. The crisp, creamy envelope, stood up against the half-full tantalus and bearing, in her father's distinctive violet scrawl, the single word Cora.

The talents of Mr Holmes were not required to work out what had happened here.

Very calmly, Edith walked around to the other side of the desk, her movements slow and deliberate. If she hurried - if she rushed in any way - the panic would utterly overwhelm her. Already, she could taste the dry, sour bitterness of fright in her mouth. Her heart was jumping in her breast as if it were trying to burst out, through flesh and corset and blouse, and escape across the floor. The image made her stomach roil again, and Edith had to press her fingers tight across her mouth until the sudden urge to retch had subsided.

Her clammy fingers scrabbled at the brass handle of the desk drawer - horrid reminder of how cold and lifeless her father's fingers had been - and tugged it open. There, amongst the letter paper and envelopes and spare ink bottles and pencils - Papa had always been awfully untidy - was the key to the study door.

Clutching it in her hand, Edith shut the drawer and strode deliberately to the door. Stepping out into the hallway, she shut the door on the horror inside, and locked it firmly. She slipped the key into her sleeve and, this done, Edith hurried across the hallway to the telephone.

It was early still, only just past half past eight. Daisy, who did double-duty as kitchen and housemaid, would not have got round the rooms on the ground floor yet - Mrs Patmore, the cook, preferred her to see to the breakfasts first. Mama slept late whenever she could and took her breakfast in bed, and Sybil had been out at some sort of charity meeting the night before with Aunt Rosamund, and hadn't returned until long after Edith had gone to bed. She, too, had still been asleep when Edith had left the bedroom they shared that morning.

There was, then, a little time, before 36 Cadogan Square became its usual hive of activity.

Dr Hanbury's secretary was very kind. Of course he would take a telephone call from Miss Crawley. She hoped that no one was terribly ill.

"Edith, my dear girl!" The sound of John Hanbury's cheery voice made Edith shudder in sudden relief. "How can I help?"

"Uncle John," Edith began, and stopped. Of course, he wasn't a real uncle - just one of Papa's old army friends, turned godfather to his middle daughter - but he could be trusted, of that she was certain, even on a morning on which all the certainties of life had been shaken to their core. "Uncle John, something awful has happened."

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the telephone, and then, in his calm, sensible way, Dr Hanbury replied. "I see. Should I call on you?"

Edith swallowed away a sob - she could not dissolve yet, not yet, not until everything was safe - and managed to choke out, "Yes. Please."

Hanbury's voice was suddenly urgent. "Where is your father, Edith?"

He heard her breath catch. "Did you know?" she whispered. "Did you know that - that he was going to - "

"Edith," Hanbury interrupted, "I will be with you in precisely twenty minutes."

Edith sat by the door until she heard Uncle John's heavy tread coming up the steps from the street. She had leapt up and opened the door before he had even had a chance to knock - neither her mother nor Sybil were down yet, and it would be disastrous if they appeared before Uncle John had had the chance to examine the - to examine Papa.

"Where?" he asked simply, squeezing her elbow in silent greeting.

"The study. I locked the door."

A faint smile passed over his kind, rather worn face. "Sensible old thing. Come along, then."

He surveyed the body with professional coldness, lifted the whisky tumbler and wrinkled his nose at the smell of whatever white powder was in the bottom of the glass, lifted the unopened envelope and held it up for Edith to see.

"You haven't read it?"

She shook her head tightly. "I - I don't want to know what it says."

Hanbury's eyes sharpened. "My dear, you may have to." In gentler tones, he asked, "Would you prefer for your mother to have to deal with it?"

That decided her. What had she been doing all this for - sneaking around, locking the door, telephoning Uncle John in secret - if not to spare Mama, even for just half an hour more, from the grief of knowing the truth of what had happened here?

Edith read the letter through twice, quickly, and passed it silently to Hanbury.

My dearest one,

This was the only thing that I could have done. You must believe me when I say that. I have been lax when I ought to have been careful, and it has utterly ruined us. I have made bad investment upon bad investment, speculated wildly in the hope of ensuring your security, but I found yesterday, finally, that my last hope had failed. All the money is gone, and I cannot bear the shame and disgrace I have brought upon you, or the thought of your disgust when you discover how foolish I have been.

Please forgive me, and believe me to be, always, your most loving husband,

Robert

Uncle John was silent for a long moment. Then he tore the letter swiftly in two and shoved it into the bottom of his capacious doctor's bag, along with the empty pill bottle. This done, he picked up the whisky tumbler and passed it to Edith. "Go and rinse this out, my dear."

"But… Mrs Patmore will already be in the kitchen - !" Edith protested. Their cook had eyes in the back of her head - certainly she would notice one of the daughters of the house washing out a whisky glass!

"Then use the bathroom tap. Quickly."

In the bathroom upstairs, Edith locked the door, waited a moment or two, in case anyone were listening, then tugged on the lavatory chain. Under cover of the noise of rushing water, she turned on the sink tap and washed the glass thoroughly, rubbing her clumsy fingers all the way around it until the white residue was quite gone and the glass was clean again. She towelled it dry, unlocked the door, and walked slowly and steadily down the stairs again to the study.

Hanbury took the glass from her with a hand covered by his handkerchief, and poured the tiniest dribble of whisky into it, swilling it around before setting it back on the desk, near her father's outstretched right hand. As he worked, he asked, over his shoulder, "Get rid of the first sheet on the blotter, there's a girl."

Blindly, Edith obeyed. So no one will see what he wrote, she thought. We're hiding the evidence. She could feel an irrational, hysterical bubble of laughter fizzing up her throat and swallowed it away. "So… we aren't going to tell anyone?" she checked. "Not even Mama?"

Uncle John raised a disapproving eyebrow. "Especially not your Mama. No, we must be the only two who ever know, Edith."

"But - but he killed himself - "

"Exactly," he interrupted. "If you think the knowledge of that will do any good for your mother's reputation, or yours, or Sybil's, or Mary's, then you are wrong."

"But Cousin Matthew…" Edith tried and Hanbury sighed, with some exasperation.

"The Earl of Grantham is a very kind young man, and I know that he holds your family in high regard, but there are some things that even he cannot protect you from!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed briefly. "My dear," he continued, softening his voice, "if your papa was telling the truth about the money, and not just exaggerating, then you will all have more than enough unpleasantness to deal with over the next few months, without… any additional difficulties."

He was, she supposed, entirely correct. "What will we tell them then?" Edith whispered, numbly. "He's - he's dead, Uncle John."

"A heart attack." Hanbury squeezed her arm in silent sympathy.

"He isn't - wasn't - even fifty," Edith pointed out.

"But it isn't unlikely, considering his diet. The last time he came to see me, his blood pressure was rather high - and no wonder." He shook his head. "No one will ask any questions, I promise. Now, I think we should go and talk to your Mama, don't you?"

At the door, he looked back at her and saw for the first time, in the tightness about her mouth, and the pallor of her cheeks and the quivering of her fingers, folded tightly in front of her, how very frightened his goddaughter really was. Barely twenty, and having to cope with a mess like this. Damn you, Robert.

"You've been very brave, and very sensible, my dear," he smiled quietly. "You mustn't stop now."

Locksley, August 1910

"That isn't possible," Anthony whispered. "She can't be dead."

Dr Clarkson lowered himself heavily into the armchair opposite his late patient's husband. "Sir Anthony, I am very sorry. Diphtheria is… a most cruel disease. There was nothing to be done."

"But… she can't be dead," Anthony repeated. "We have a son. She… she was pregnant again - " He sank into the chair, burying his head in his hands.

"I know," Clarkson murmured. "I - if it is any consolation, Sir Anthony, after she had died, I - I tried to retrieve the baby."

Anthony lifted his head, eyes damp and aching. "Not dead as well?"

Clarkson could not meet his eye. "I'm afraid so."

Anthony's hands fisted against his knees. "So you butchered my wife for nothing…!"

"I hoped to save one, because I could not save both!" Clarkson's voice and face were suddenly both thunderous. With an effort, he calmed himself. "What would Lady Strallan have wanted, in the circumstances?"

Anthony did not reply. At length, he asked, "A… a son or a daughter?"

"A little girl."

"May I see them?" he asked eventually.

Clarkson nodded. "Of course. The nurse is just… tidying things, in the bedchamber. I'll fetch you, when they're ready." He paused. "I must ask - do you feel quite well?"

Anthony frowned quizzically. Clarkson shrugged. "We can't discount the possibility that you have been infected, too, Sir Anthony. Have you a sore throat, a fever - anything of that nature?"

Mutely, Anthony shook his head. What on Earth did it matter now, anyway? Now that Maude was…

"Good." Clarkson's voice was bracing. "Telephone me if there's any change. The same with your staff. And Master Phillip?"

"He's visiting my mother, in London. He left last week." God. He would have to telephone and tell his son that his mother was…

Dr Clarkson nodded. "Well, best to telephone Lady Strallan and have her be on the lookout for anything unusual. Symptoms tend to develop quite slowly in these cases." He winced. "I imagine that you will be in touch to - to break the news, in any case." The doctor rose. "I truly am very sorry, Sir Anthony."

"Thank you, doctor."

When Anthony was finally admitted to the bedchamber, all was in silence. The nurse shot him a look of sympathy and slipped out, shutting the door behind her with a soft snap. All trace of the horrors that the room had seen over the last few days had been removed. On the bedside table, Maude's copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, place neatly marked, sat under the still-open sewing basket. She had been embroidering a nightgown for the baby for weeks now…

Steeling himself, Anthony forced himself to look at the bed. She lay in the middle of it, golden hair neatly brushed away from her face, a golden halo against the white of the pillow. Her eyes were closed lightly, as if she were sleeping, the long dark eyelashes looking as if, at any moment, they would flutter into wakefulness again. When he touched her hand, his fingers trembling, he was surprised to find some lingering warmth there. The baby, swathed in a pale yellow blanket, rested next to her, as still as her mother.

Hesitantly, Anthony sat down next to her. "Darling? We have a daughter. Do you hear, Maude? A little girl, just like you wanted."

With a gentle fingertip, he pushed aside the blanket to catch a glimpse of his daughter's face. Phillip, when he had been born nine years ago, had been large and lively and pink with life. His sister, though fully formed, was tiny and pale and silent. "She's perfect, my love," Anthony whispered. "You're so clever, so brave." He sniffed thickly. "What shall we call her, hmm? I think… Frances would be a good choice, don't you? After your Mama." His voice cracked on the final word, and his composure utterly dissolved. Burying his face in the blankets beside her hand, Anthony let the sobs tear through him.

"Please, Maude. Darling girl, don't leave me. I - I can't go on without you. Please come back to me. Please."