"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,

Til the tree die!"—Cymbeline, Act V, Scene V

Part I

The sun shone through the midafternoon trees, dancing through the windshield and across Edith's face as her car sped down the country lane that led to Locksley. She braced herself for what might happen next, but she was determined she would see him.

It was an argument she had fought and won with herself in London, when she had heard that Sir Anthony Strallan was taken ill. She was naturally seized with a desired to see him, and after some internal debate she had decided that she was a grown woman and she would do as she liked. Never mind that three years ago this same man had abandoned her at the altar, and that she had had little or no contact with him since, or that it had been just under four months since she had ended things with Michael Gregson. Not entirely impervious to the world's censure, Edith had concealed her plans to visit Yorkshire from her family, and had motored straight from the station in a hired car.

She pulled into the familiar drive, thinking how good it was to behold the mansion's pillared façade once more. Robinson met her at the door, and with experienced training concealed his shock at seeing Lady Edith Crawley standing once again in the entrance of Locksley House.

"I regret," said the butler, calculating every syllable, "that Sir Anthony is not at liberty to receive visitors at present. He is unwell."

"Yes, I know," Edith stated.

"Then I know you will understand—" began Robinson, trying to usher her out the door, but Edith didn't move.

"Forgive me, Robinson, but I've come all the way from London this morning and I won't be fobbed off. That is-," Edith corrected her slangish town speech, an unfortunate habit of working with newspaper people, "I will not leave until I have seen him."

The aged servant considered her for a moment, but he could see that three years had made Lady Edith an even more formidable woman than before.

"Very well, miss. I'll tell him you're here."

Robinson shuffled off in the direction of what Edith knew was the library. Suddenly nervous, Edith took advantage of the ornate mirror at her elbow to appraise her appearance. She was wearing a blouse-topped day dress of a soft blue-green that set off her hair and eyes becomingly and a vibrant painted scarf of the same blue, pink, and orange wound around her careful curls. She hoped, childishly she told herself, that her appearance would not go unnoticed by Sir Anthony.

The library was only half-lit, most of the drapes having been drawn for its inhabitant's convalescence. A large old-fashioned wingback chair had been moved into the room and in it, looking pale and drawn and noticeably agitated was Sir Anthony Strallan. For a few seconds Edith stood still, willing her breathing to become normal, examining this man who had once been, and still was, so precious to her. Sir Anthony was doing the same, his expressive eyes a mixture of guilt and delight. His raised eyebrows told her that the outfit had had the desired effect.

"Hello," Edith said shyly.

"Hello," he replied dumbly. Then, recalled to propriety he said, "please, sit."

Edith did. A beat passed.

"You look very well," Sir Anthony uttered, with the incurable honesty that Edith always elicited in him. He didn't confess that he thought her the loveliest he had ever seen her.

"So do you," Edith said warmly, though in truth his appearance concerned her.

"Oh well, I have been ill," he said dismissively.

"Yes, I heard. That's why I came. I wanted to see how you did."

He smiled at her, as if to say thank you, my dearest one.

"But truly, are you well?" Edith asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes," he asserted. "Silly old family thing. Nothing to worry about. On the mend, really. And you?"

"Oh yes, a true cosmopolitan," Edith replied breezily.

"Yes, I've read your column. Gripping stuff," he said sincerely.

To her surprise, Edith blushed. Anthony smiled.

"Do you like living in London?"

"I do," she said, gazing out the window. "But I find myself missing the country," she turned her wide eyes to his face, and Sir Anthony's heart gave an unexpected jump at the implication.

"I see," was all he said, but he was grinning, and his eyes brimmed with affection.

The visit soon warmed beyond pleasantries and the two chatted until late afternoon shadows stretched long into the library and Edith noticed Sir Anthony's face drooping with fatigue.

As Edith stood to take her leave, Anthony stretched out his good arm and squeezed her hand in farewell. It was the first time they had touched in almost three years, and the tension showed on both their countenances. Anthony's mouth opened to say something, and then closed into a weak smile.

"Good evening, Sir Anthony," Edith said, turning to go. "I'll be back tomorrow," she threw over her shoulder as she slipped through the library door.

Behind her, Anthony sighed.

And so began a near idyllic month. Every day Edith paid a visit to Locksley where she and Anthony would chat, and dine, and walk, and as Anthony's health improved, they even went for a few pleasant drives. It was almost as if nothing had ever occurred between them. And yet, their relationship was undeniably deeper than it had been in those years before and after the war. The family cajoled and bullied, the servants and the neighborhood gossiped and tutted and shook their heads sadly, but Edith persisted in her visits.

Sir Anthony, at first elated by Edith's sudden reappearance, and all too happy to fall into their old, comfortable, acquaintance, soon expressed his concerns.

"Edith," Sir Anthony broached the subject one evening as they were huddled at one end of Locksley's grand dining parlour, "You know, nothing's changed. I'm of course delighted to see you, and to spend time with you, but you musn't—"

"I don't at all agree," Edith replied staunchly, sounding so familiar that Anthony smiled involuntarily. "A great deal has changed."

"Yes, but my darling, surely you must know—"

"I know that I cannot force you to be my husband," she argued, "and you cannot force me away."

"I will stand at your door and throw pebbles at your window if I have to," she joked.

He laughed.

"Oh dear, I suppose I'll have to spare you that."

And the subject dropped. Anthony seemed resigned, and never again did he urge Edith, against his own desires, to leave.

One evening, about a month after she had first arrived at Locksley, with the fire glowing dim in the drawing room, and a March rain shushing against the windowpanes, Edith and Anthony were sitting on the couch, drowsily sipping the last of their wine and talking companionably about his plans to improve his family seat. Edith, with her legs curled up on the sofa before her, thought to herself that she had truly found perfect contentment. She'd come to Locksley partly to decide whether she still loved Anthony, and it had not taken long for her to realize that she still did. Yet it was only in this intimate, domestic moment that she realized just how deeply she had fallen. No longer did she love Anthony with a girl's desperate longing, but a woman's tender devotion. Anthony had often said that Edith had given him a gift, revitalized his life, and here as Edith watched the soft light falling on the changing shapes of his angular features as he continued his explanations, she was struck by an overwhelming desire to show him just how precious a gift he had given her.

She put down her glass and moved towards him, ceasing his conversation, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. She leaned in, placing a hand on his chest and planting a kiss in her customary spot, just to the left of his mouth. He inhaled sharply as she did so, exhaling a faint protest. "Edith-"

Until now their rekindled relationship had been warm, yet platonic, save for the gentle endearments and light compliments which slipped unconsciously into Anthony's conversation whenever Edith was in his presence.

She ignored his utterance, planting still more slow kisses on his cheek, his neck, and finally his lips, brief tender kisses which Anthony drank in, reeling in the simple bliss of them, sheer joy of her nearness and pure adoration swelling his heart. For a few wonderful moments he gave himself up to the sensation, relishing the long-forgotten rush of passion that even now awakened his carnal instincts and urged him to pursue the promise of his beloved's soft, willing form. He felt Edith's hand deftly undo his tie and begin to twist open his top button, and this recalled him to his senses.

"Edith," he protested again, breathily, as she continued to work his shirt open and plant dizzying kisses on his bare chest, "Edith, please…..you musn't…..Edith, my darling…..you've got to stop….Edith…"

"Edith—" he became more insistent, "Edith—You are not my wife!" He said firmly, pushing her roughly away from him.

A long moment passed.

"I should have been," she said, in a tone that was at once sorrowful, bitter, and matter-of-fact.

He grimaced, using his good hand to clutch his shirt closed. "My dear, I'm sorry. It's not that I don't…want you…" He looked feelingly at her, his voice lowered. "You have no idea how much…I want to…share that kind of relationship with you. But I won't do that to you, when you are not my wife," he said in his decided way.

He gazed at her, his face pinched with guilt. She looked distraught, but there was something beyond his confession in her mind. He read the unspoken in her countenance. "Good God!" he exclaimed softly, "You're not-a maid-anymore."

Edith shook her head slowly.

He sat stunned, his jaw set in a grim line. Edith began to cry silently. When she spoke her voice was small and strangled and filled with the heartbreak and regret of all her disappointments.

"It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. And I'm tired of making them."

Silence.

"I was just—trying to be happy. Trying to find..." she trailed off as tears streamed down her face and remorse and heartache threatened to burn a hole in her chest. She'd never meant to tell him. It was a decision. A decision of which she had never been ashamed-until she saw it through Anthony's eyes.

Anthony processed the shock. His sense of propriety was strong, but he fleetingly decided he didn't care. The world had changed them both, and he had witnessed far worse assaults on propriety in Europe during the war. But he was saddened that Edith should have been forced to such a choice.

"Of course you were, my darling. It's my fault. All of it. From the very beginning. I should never have… But I—this-would just be another mistake." He paused. "That is why you must leave," he insisted.

Edith rose up in anger. Everyone had told her what to do regarding Anthony. Her grandmother, her father, and even Anthony. Anthony, who should have known her better. Anthony, who was still trying to be so bloody noble.

"When may I be allowed to be old enough to know my own mind?!," she shot at him. "In ten years? Will I be old enough for you then?! In twenty? When shall you be satisfied?! How many men must there be before you will realize that I know that I want you. And only you."

The thought of Edith with other men struck a pang within him. Especially the thought of Edith sharing their beds…..But he couldn't wish her the life of a drudge either. And if they ever did finally breach the marriage bed…..he knew she would be bitterly disappointed.

"I can't believe that. There must be other men…younger men…who could give you the kind of life you deserve…not…this…" he gestured to his bad arm.

"Right," said Edith, finally and brutally making the arguments she had wanted to three years ago, "So shall I marry Paul Harris, who is two years younger than me and already in a wheelchair? Or perhaps James Reid, who's blind? He's only thirty-three you know, so it's not so bad. Or there's Freddie Fergussen-who's half-mad with gas poisoning, but still terribly good-looking—"

"Edith," Anthony pleaded softly, his eyes glassy with tears.

Edith stopped, still fuming, her hands clutching the edge of the sofa, tears wetting her flushed cheeks.

"What's more-I love you," she said plainly.

With their mutual affection their sentiments had always been understood, but never spoken. They had never seemed to need to before, and yet somehow, after all these years, the declaration was significant.

Anthony stood shakily, turning away from her hopeful gaze. He stood for a moment, his shoulders hunched, his face stretched in agony. He knew he must do what was right. He had decided a long time ago, and he was nothing if not a man of decision. And yet he was tired of struggling against his desires. He did want Edith—almost more than he could bear anymore-and even if only for a few sweet years, she wanted him.

"God help me!" He expostulated and turned back towards her. In a moment he had crossed to her and hooked his good arm around her waist. He drew her into a powerful embrace, an embrace that released all the longing of the past five years and all the ardour he usually kept so neatly in check.

When he finally pulled away, his shining blue eyes gazed deep into Edith's radiant ones.

"Very well," he whispered breathlessly, "be my wife, my dear, darling, Edith."

She laughed joyously and kissed him again.

A/N: I wrote this story with strong intention for this scene, the kind of reconciliation I hope to see in canon. The following two chapters, I feel, are not nearly as strong, so if you would like to stop here and call it a oneshot, feel free, and then go to my Favorites page for Andith stories of much greater quality. :)