Author's Note: So, apparently, even when I want to focus on my numerous unfinished stories, my brain teases me with other ideas and won't let me focus on anything else! This is just a two-shot, so hopefully, after this, I'll get right back to my other stories, tout de suite!

In this story, let's pretend that Edith rose through the ranks of The Sketch, but that she never had an affair with Michael Gregson. Set a few years after Anthony jilted her, Edith is living in London and is the editor-in-chief of The Sketch.

Enjoy!

Lady Edith Crawley had her nose buried in the sunrise edition of The Sketch as she made her way to her office, checking to see if her copy editors had earned their paycheck that week. They had, but her scrutinizing eye never rested.

The offices of The Sketch were bustling that morning; phones were ringing off the hook, reporters were furiously typing articles on their typewriters, and the air was filled with cigarette smoke. Edith couldn't get enough of the energy of this place, even now, even two years after first coming here.

She wove around reporters' desk, glancing over her newspaper to inspect their work, arching an eyebrow here and there in the direction of those naughty reporters taking it easy that morning. The news stops for no man, she often quipped. Her staff, mostly male, had been surprisingly supportive of their female editor-in-chief. Many of them were eager to please the woman they had secretly and endearingly dubbed "The Lady of The Sketch."

Making her way into her sun-drenched office, Edith shrugged off her coat and hat and settled at her desk. She barely had a moment to breathe before her secretary, a young girl named Sadie, with tight, dark curls and dimpled cheeks, bustled into the office with phone messages and letters.

"Morning, m'lady," Sadie announced as she dropped off the slips and went to the corner of the room to prepare a cuppa for her boss. "A few messages were left for you this morning. And your solicitor wrote back concerning the allegations of libel; he thinks they're unfounded, but he's ready to fight it if you are."

Edith gratefully accepted the tea and sipped at it. "Thank you, Sadie. But how many times do I have to tell you to call me Edith?" she asked with gentle sternness that was obvious to anyone listening that she wasn't really being stern at all.

Sadie's cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, m'l—I mean, Edith. Old habits and such."

"Not to worry," the editor smiled before turning her attention to the message left for her that morning. She had expected that her secretary would busy herself with other pressing tasks, but when Edith glanced up from her tea and her messages, she saw that Sadie was still standing in her office.

"Is there something else, Sadie?" she inquired.

"It's just that…well, we received another letter," the secretary explained, her voice giddy, nearly bursting at the seams. "It's from the Admirer."

Edith's face brightened. "Really?" she gasped with excitement. "Might I see it?"

Sadie didn't need to be told twice; she scurried out of the room and returned just a few seconds later with a cream envelope, giving it to her boss's outstretched and eager hand. Typed on the front, it merely read: To the Editor-in-Chief of The Sketch Magazine.

For almost a year, a mysterious man had been sending letters to The Sketch, his words spoken directly to a woman whom he had loved and lost many years ago. His first letter had been published, almost by accident, on a slow news day last May, simply a method of filling white space in their magazine. But within hours, telephone calls poured into the office from women demanding to know who this man was, pressing the staff for the publication date of his next letter. Perhaps these women wanted to believe that a long-lost lover of theirs was writing directly to them after years of pining, or perhaps the mere notion that a man so fiercely loved a woman was intoxicating in its own way, but overnight, the anonymous man and his letters became the talk of London.

The Admirer, as he was so aptly named by the female reporters at The Sketch, had become a staple in the magazine. Every month, like clockwork, he would send a typed letter addressed only to the editor-in-chief. He spoke of his undying love for this woman, of his immense sorrow for having wronged her in the past, of his hope that one day, she could forgive him. Whenever his letters appeared, The Sketch was sold out within an hour; unrequited love was apparently the hottest commodity.

And although copycats inevitably surfaced, no one but Edith knew that the Admirer's letters were always accompanied by a dried, purple hyacinth. The flower looked as though it had been pressed in between the pages of a thick book. Old-fashioned though it was, the purple hyacinth was his marker, his modus operandi, his calling card.

Today, as she opened the letter addressed to her, Edith grinned as she saw a purple hyacinth fall out of the envelope and land on her desk. It smelled heavenly, even though it had been pressed between the pages of a book for God knows how long. She thought it fitting of a man who had so much love confined and bottled in his heart.

"Well, what does it say?" Sadie prodded keenly, inching closer to her boss's desk for a glimpse of the Admirer's words. She, like most women in London, was an avid reader of the Admirer's monthly letters. Nearly all of her friends had grown immensely envious that she was able to see the originals firsthand. A few had even attempted to bribe her for one.

With her secretary growing more anxious by the second, Edith cleared her throat and read aloud:

My darling,

I saw you last night. Not just in my dreams, where you have visited me every night for years, whispering sweet-nothings I don't deserve with your lips pressed against my ear, but this time, with my own eyes.

You were a vision. Although a crowd separated us and your gaze was fixed on something more deserving, I could see the smile I have longed to see, even in passing, even in my dreams, since that fateful day. It was as beautiful as I had remembered. And yet, as I reflect on the gift that fate or luck or the Almighty gave me last night in the form of a fleeting glimpse of your face on a crowded London street, I realize that you are even more beautiful now than I had remembered.

You, my darling, have blossomed. You have come into your own, a woman so sure and so confident that all the beauty that lives inside of you radiates through you. You were always beautiful to me; now, the rest of the world can see what I have always known to be true.

After nights such as last, I realize that I miss you. The feeling persists daily, a low hum of want that makes my heart ache at all hours of night and day. But there are times when it grips me, when I realize just how much I miss you, how much I long to hear your voice telling me that you love me, how much I wished things could have been different. That I could have been different. In those moments, only faded memories of you see me through. Only thoughts of your eyes give me comfort. Only dreams of our children playing in the fields around our home bring me solace.

You were so close last night. Mere yards away. And yet, you are further from me now than ever before.

I pray that this letter finds you, that you are happy and well, and that you know that I will always love you.

Always,

Your Gentleman

When Edith finished reading, both she and Sadie had tears welling up in their eyes. Demurely, they fished into their handbags for a handkerchief to dab away the saltwater before it ran down their cheeks.

As they shared a glance with one another in such a state, the two women couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Silly, isn't it?" Edith managed through teary chuckles. She seldom cried; although, a brief catharsis always seemed to coincide with the arrival of the Admirer's letters. "We don't even know these people!"

Sadie nodded her head before blowing her nose. "I'm not even as invested in my own love life!"

When their tears had retreated, Edith handed the letter to Sadie. "Send this to the copy editors and tell them to get it ready for print for tomorrow morning's edition. I don't want substance altered at all. The Admirer's letter gets printed verbatim, understood?"

"Absolutely, boss!"

"Wonderful. And let them know that, unless another huge story breaks, this is getting printed on the first page," Edith explained as she returned to her tea and skimmed the messages left for her. "I want the Admirer's Darling to see this, wherever she is."

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the beginning of this! I hope to have it finished by this weekend. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it if you can spare the time :D