A/N: So this was a scene in chapter 7 of "Any Other World," but it started getting so long, I took it out.

Thought I'd try it as a one shot, because I didn't get to write enough Violet. Happy Friday.

Wisdom of a Lifetime

Violet Crawley had not walked the halls of Downton Abbey at night since the death of her husband. She had not cared to stay at the Abbey after dinners or events, preferring the solitude of the Dower House. This week, however, solitude was the last thing she desired.

Her son was dead. She had lost him three days ago to the pandemic, to the influenza that had left thousands others alive, and yet it took him within a day, draining him of life so quickly it was as if she could see it leave his body. It had taken Edith as well, dying just hours after her father. She had feared she would lose her favorite, but Mary had rallied, albeit in a most unorthodox manner. Violet had been horrified to learn how that boy had crawled into her bed, not only when they were both sick, but again when they were both recovering, with a flagrant disregard for propriety, especially considering the circumstances.

For that boy... that man... was now the Earl, already hard at work if the noise and talk from the small study earlier today had been any indication. She knew there were letters and papers to be handled, things to sign and arrangements to be made, but in the midst of all of that he had sent her the kindest and most thoughtful of notes, expressing his sorrow at her loss, ensuring he was there for anything she might need in the coming days, and asking her counsel if she so desired to give it.

She had not liked the idea of him when he arrived, and for some time she did not like him, but after watching the boy spar with her Mary, and observing his willingness to investigate the entail, she had grown to appreciate him. She was furious with Mary for not accepting him, and was pleased that they'd at least become friends after two years of silence. That milquetoast little solicitor's daughter was an unfortunate stain on his character, but when he'd come back from London free of her, ready to propose to Mary, she'd forgiven him all his transgressions. He was the Earl of Grantham now, and deserved all respect, no matter how naughtily he'd behaved before.

The long quiet hallway at the front brought back memories. Edith's room was empty now, the two guest rooms hadn't been used in years, and the Grey Room had not been occupied since the old Earl's death. Robert had never liked it, thinking it cold and grand, preferring the smaller series of rooms on the opposite corridor. But she had loved it when she lived there, the old tapestries, the creamy grey of the walls, the pair of dressing rooms, one with a narrow bed that was never used, the bathroom with the absurdly large marble bath that never stayed warm, but most of all she had loved that bed, the old Jacobean one in which generations of Crawleys had been born and died. Robert and Rosamund were born in that bed, as were the twin girls who had never drawn breath. She brushed away the tears that always sprang up at the thought of them. Violet had known children were her duty, but she hadn't expected to enjoy them quite so much, and the fact she'd had only two survive still tore at her soul. She had not visited that room since the day after her husband's funeral and she had a sudden urge to see it again.

She had no idea that Cora had put Matthew in these rooms when he'd returned from London.

There was a chill when she opened the door, which did not come from disuse as she quickly found out. The window was open, and the curtains waved slightly from the air. The moonlight streamed across the room and she followed its path with her eyes to the old bed.

It should have been entirely unacceptable.

It should have done her in.

It should have killed her to see her unmarried grandchild, Lady Mary Crawley, asleep in that bed, propped up on a sea of white pillows, her dark hair fanned out across them, a golden head on her breast, the head of the new Earl of Grantham, Matthew Crawley, also asleep, entirely unclothed, and entwined around Mary.

She should have been shocked at the scandalous sight.

Instead, she was shocked to find it made her smile as she thought of herself, her own husband, countless generations of this family in that bed, in this room, in this house, beginning life, beginning love, of duty and honor, of children born and children lost, of past and present and future showing themselves in one picture, one timeless image of love as simple as a man and a woman in each other's arms. The war changed everything, people said, except it did not change this.

A flash of light brought her out of her reverie and she noticed for the first time that the moon was not the only source of illumination in the room.

It came from Mary's left hand, wrapped around the back of Matthew's head, a stone whose light shone steadily without a twinkle. A diamond, not a Grantham one, for there were no diamond rings in the estate, and it triggered a memory that made her smile again, of a trip to Hatton Garden with the girls at the end of season four years ago to look at a necklace Abraham was resetting. Their old jeweler had been tickled to death when Mary had admired the new Asscher diamonds, going so far as to gauge her opinion of one particular loose stone, which Violet could only surmise was the one now mounted on her hand.

Matthew must have ordered it the day after Sybil's ball. To know that he had not given it to Lavinia, that he had saved it for Mary made the love she already felt in her heart for this boy.. this man... swell even more. The smile grew and she looked back up at her granddaughter's face only to see two wide, brown eyes staring back at her.

Mary was awake. She made no move to cover herself, showed no expression of shame or guilt at where she had been caught. She merely smiled back at Violet, her hand tightening slightly on the back of Matthew's head, causing the ring to flash, and it was as if generations of understanding, of wisdom and knowledge passed between the two women, who were no longer just grandmother and grandchild, but keepers of the same legacy. And in that instant, the uncertainty and fear Violet had felt about the future was supplanted by the knowledge that life would go on, and the sorrow of losing her son and grandchild was matched in her heart by the joy that there would soon be a wedding in this family, and God willing, new children to carry on the Crawley name.

Violet attempted to look disapproving for a moment, but failed miserably and managed only to point her stick threateningly at the still-sleeping Matthew, which earned her a full-on grin from Mary, which Violet returned with a twinkling one of her own as she left them.

She did not stop smiling, not even when she came upon Isobel in the hallway. "They're sleeping," Violet said.

"They?" Isobel asked.

"Idiots. They're both idiots." She pointed her stick at Isobel. "And I'm hosting the wedding breakfast, so don't even begin to think you'll have a say in it."

FIN