#violetcrawley

Piper Halliwell, 'Charmed'

Paige Matthews, 'Charmed'

Molly Hooper, 'Sherlock'

Eurus Holmes, 'Sherlock'

Elizabeth Warden and Hyacinth Bucket, 'Keeping up appearances'

Ruth Ellingham, 'Doc Martin'

Violet Crawley, 'Downton Abbey'

Another protracted, heavy sigh left the confines of her lips before the delicate edge of her teacup rose. The tepid breakfast blend slipped into her mouth, causing her to grimace. Her bones shuttered, the draft in the room compounded by disappointment in the tea’s temperature. Her fingertips were cold around the flowered porcelain, something she couldn’t ever remember happening before, and she turned her attention to the fireplace. The fading embers taunted with their flickers and pops, becoming more of a memory of fire as the heat died. Where was Simpson to check on her? Violet sighed again. It seemed that was all she did lately, sit around and expel the stale and disgusted air that lay trapped behind her breastbone.

Placing the teacup down, Violet shifted on her sofa, angling her face toward the window. The landscape had been transformed into a tundra with the last storm, looking as unhappy and formidable as she felt. The clock on the mantle ticked, catching her attention. Half past four. It had been three days since she’d received an invitation to Downton for dinner and one day, three hours since any of them had checked in on her.

Violet poked at a scone left on her tray. It seemed to crumble at her touch and she grumbled under her breath, thinking how incompetent Mrs Wallace was, nothing like the staff she had cultivated at Downton. Such a shame. She’d have to speak to Robert about hiring another cook for the Dower House. As soon as she thought it, the idea turned sour in Violet's mind. To have to ask permission to hire one’s staff...was there anything more humiliating?

The truth of her existence still shocked her anew each morning, as she stretched from sleep and opened her eyes to the peeling ceiling of the Dower House master bedroom. She didn’t think of it belonging to her, that specification still reserved for the Princess Amelia room, which had seen the last thirty years of her life unfold, marking the memories in its faded gold wall coverings. This new room, which she’d occupied for just over three months now, was as foreign and cold to her as any she’d stayed in as a guest. Violet couldn’t quite reconcile that she was now the dowager, making the Dower House her home.

She’d always known it would happen of course, her eventual ouster from the day-to-day life at Downton, regulated to the role of bystander while her son and his wife took their place upon her husband’s passing. Knowing it, however, had been like knowing the inevitability of her own death; it was a vague probability that she had never really believed would befall her person. And when it had, when the dirt had grown firm over Patrick’s grave and the half way mark of full morning had passed, and Robert had gently informed her that the renovation of the Dower House was complete, still Violet hadn’t really quite come to terms with her fate. Like a prisoner staring down her execution, Violet had expected a last minute stay, a swift reversal of her punishment and the reinstatement of her life as she’d known it.

That hadn’t happened, of course, and each day’s awakening reiterated what she couldn’t quite allow herself to believe: that she was no longer in charge.

The timid squeak of the door stirred Violet from her pensive mood and she looked up to see Carson hanging back behind Simpson. Violet’s back snapped straight.

“Mr. Carson, your ladyship,” Simpson announced dully and Violet had to purposefully refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” Violet answered. Immediately, she took note of the way Carson took a tentative step around Simpson, of how white his knuckles were around the bowler hat he held firmly in front of him.

Carson waited, shifting from foot to foot, until Simpson took the hint and slinked out of the drawing room, leaving them alone. Even then, Carson took a moment too long, his mouth moving awkwardly as though chewing the lumpy words that wouldn’t come forth.

“Carson,” Violet prodded. “Is there something you came to tell me?”

His bushy eyebrows rose at her words before diving down, further deepening the worried wrinkles on his forehead and practically touching one another. He squeezed the hat in his hand harder.

“Well, milady, that is to say that, you see…” Violet waited, a small splinter of anxiety jabbing into her ribs. The rest of Carson’s words came out in a rush. “You see, her Ladyship is decorating the Christmas tree, on her own...with the young ladies. On a ladder and all! I’m concerned for the impression it will make on the junior staff.”

The abused hat in Carson’s hands was pulled taught until it resembled a woolen dishcloth. Violet wondered if it would ever recover its shape after such a wringing. She swallowed down the fit of laughter that threatened to burst from her chest. Dear Carson, Violet could always count on him to be more shocked by lapses in protocole than Queen Victoria herself. She stifled the merry impulse, seeing the torment it cost him to come to her, already he was feeling loyalty to his new chatelaine. Violet chose to reply with a simple nod before ringing for Simpson to fetch her coat.

Choosing to walk the path to Downton rather than drive back with the butler, Violet let the fresh December air invigorate her. Upon contemplating Carson’s confession, it was right of him to come to her. The idea of the current Countess of Grantham perched up high and placing ornaments on the tree, seemed almost indecent. The housemaids had always accomplished the task during Violet’s time as Countess. It was preposterous. Leave it to the American to muck up as simple a project as Christmas decorating. Violet shuddered to imagine the arrangements that Cora would have commissioned for the table tops and the mantels.

By the time Violet reached the massive doors to Downton, any comedy she’d found in Carson’s reaction had disappeared, her earlier irritation exacerbated. Violet’s agitated breath hit the chilled air producing a cloudy plume before she pushed on the oak doors and nudged her way in. She noticed the heat first, the density of it instantly warming her chapped face and the numb tips of her fingers. It was the kind of warmth you could taste and Violet marveled that the salon could be brought to such a temperature, with its endless walls and vaulted ceiling. It had never felt so warm during her tenure. Violet tsked at the waste, imaging an entire forest worth of trees disintegrating in the hearths of Downton so that Cora could be kept comfortable. The child was fragile. She’d warned Robert in those early days of their courtship, Cora was not of hearty stock.

Their laughter could be heard before she could see their faces; Cora’s easy giggles, Robert’s deeper chuckle, and then the girls, the high, bell tones of her granddaughters as their happiness rung through the house. Something about the sound of it, of all four of them laughing together tugged hard at her heart. Violet fought to catch her breath, her corset suddenly feeling too tight.

Rounding the corner, she saw them. Mary held a delicate ornament, and though the laughter still played over her lips, her eyes were narrowed in concentration, her hands confident as she lifted the glass bauble and placed it just so on one of the tree’s lower limbs. Edith fidgeted around, the young toddler clearly too excited to settle down. She dashed between Mary and her mother and then to Robert and Violet felt herself briefly get caught up in the child’s wonder. Cora stood atop a low stool, reaching to the higher branches as Robert stayed by her side, his hand held an inch shy of her back, ready to steady her, should she waiver. The tableau was as sentimental and perfect as any Christmas postcard. How happy they looked, the four of them lit up and twinkling like the lights on the tree. Violet took a step back.

“Granny!” Edith shrieked in delight.

Mary’s head snapped up. Cora turned so suddenly she teetered on her ladder. Robert caught her firmly around the waist and held her a moment as the young woman regained her balance before dropping his hands quickly. The happy glow in the room seemed to dull, like someone turning the key on a gas lamp cutting off the fuel. Violet felt herself shrink a little, a reaction that was strange to her usual bulldog self-assurance. Quickly recovering, Violet straightened, a tight smile hurting her face.

Robert spoke first, coming to her and placing a formal peck upon her cheek. “Hello Mama, what a pleasant surprise.”

She couldn’t help herself, the words out before she could try them in her mind. “Well, if I waited for an invitation-”.

Cora deflated further, all signs of pink cheeked joy gone as she gingerly stepped down off of the ladder. Violet opened her mouth to say something, anything that would restore the scene she had unwittingly changed. That had been so very happy, so relaxed and natural. Remorse churned in her belly, a bitter knowledge that she had broken their innocent revelry, that what Robert and Cora presented was the facade they thought she preferred. Even little Mary was learning to reserve her true emotions in her presence.

“Granny! Here!” Violet looked down at Edith, no higher than her knee.

The sweet child held up an ornament. Violet stared at it too long.

“Put it on the tree!” Edith explained with childlike exasperation.

Mary snickered behind her hand as Violet still did not move. Self-consciousness rose up the back of her neck making the room too warm and she carefully plucked the glass angel out of Edith’s chubby fingers. It glittered in the low light. Violet chose an empty branch and wiggled the string over the spiky needles. Releasing the decoration, it twirled revolution or two before settling into its spot. Violet stepped back, an odd bloom of satisfaction filling her chest. She looked up to see Robert had placed his hand at the base of Cora’s back. They both smiled widely at her.

“Well, I’ll leave you all to it.” Violet’s throat was tight, roughing up the words she spoke.

Cora placed a tentative hand on Violet’s arm. “You don’t have to go, Mama.”

Violet nodded her head. “But you see my dear, I do. Mrs Wallace is expecting me for dinner soon, and you know how a cook feels when you’re late to meal time. No, you go ahead and finish your decorating.”

“We can send someone down, tell Mrs Wallace your plan has changed. Stay for dinner, Mama.” Robert said.

“I’m sorry Robert, I simply cannot.” Violet insisted.

Robert shrugged. “If you’re sure.”