His Own Weakness

by Ash Light

"You are, when all's said and done, a sea monster; and no amount of preening and polishing can make that not so." The men of Downton: their loves and their losses explained. Spoilers for season 2.

Title: His Own Weakness

Rating: T
Characters: All the men at Downton
Summary: The men of Downton; their loves and their losses.

ooo

You are, when all's said and done, a sea monster; and no amount of preening and polishing can make that not so.

You have been reliably informed of this, after all, by an expert on the subject. You spend your time flitting between emotions; one moment enragement grips you – how dare she pretend she's so much better than you, a woman who dawdles through life toying with hearts simply for the sake of amusement – and then in the next second you're irrationally afraid – and what if she is? For this creature, thrilling and beautiful and as glossy as if she'd stepped straight from the pages of a magazine, cannot be for you. You know it. Your newfound cousins know it, their servants know it. Even she knows it.

Still, you dare to hope, just a little, in the hidden corners of your heart, because there comes a time when you look at her and see not just the spoilt haughty brat of Downton Hall, but a frightened, tired young woman. Afraid of her own destiny. Who can understand that better than you? So you dare to hope, and dream, and maybe you see a little spark in her that reveals her own hopes and dreams too; and maybe you dare to dream they could include you.

Maybe you reach too high above yourself. Because when all's said and done, you are still a sea monster, and Mary Crawley is still the princess in wait for her Perseus, son of a god.

Flicking through an ancient book of Greek literature, you begin to wonder if being chained to that rock affected poor Andromeda's judgement, whether desperation and boredom and a simple lack of better alternative might make even the ugliest sea monster look good. When faced with nothing, even a sea monster might appear like a good catch. But as soon as a better option comes along…oh, well, good-bye sea monster. Back into the depths you go.

You think all this at the garden party. Say none of it, of course. You are too angry, with the knowledge that you were only ever second-best, that your prospects mean more to this woman than your true self, that your life will never be more than a sandcastle, crumbling and slipping and liable to be swept entirely off-kilter by the tide at any given moment. And she is crying, and you don't know why; you hope it's because of the prospect of losing you, but doubt it. Cousin Mary is too self-reliant for that.

And then the war.

Everything changes in the war, sea monsters and grand houses and arguments over flower shows slip away into the watery colours of a dream. Everything is coloured mud-brown and blood-red. You dream of ravaged bodies that used to be your friends rather than dark-haired, dark-eyed girls. On one visit home you meet Lavinia, who is gentle and kind and open and sweet, exactly the type of girl you once day-dreamed of marrying. You smile, and tell yourself that she is still enough.

When you see Mary, months later in the concert, your heart nearly stops in your chest. Every word you speak between each other, every gentle laugh and affectionate word, is both bitterly false and at the same time too painfully true for words.

When you see her at the station, you are glad beyond measure that she is here and not Lavinia, and then you hate yourself for the unworthy cad you are.

I'm glad we're friends again, you say, and mean it, but only just. What's Mother always saying? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. Maybe its better you have reclaimed Mary as a friend after losing her as a love rather than never knowing her at all. You tell yourself this. But part of you aches as you look on her, part of you wishes that you never saw her again, it hurts too much to be around her. And part of you never wants to let her go.

Her precious gift. Her lips on your cheek. The alarming brightness of her eyes as she bids you goodbye.

You are a fool, an imposter, an unworthy cad, a sea monster impersonating a mighty warrior. You are not worthy of Lavinia, or of your role as heir to Lord Grantham. But you stare numbly out of the window as she stands there in the smoke of the train, and for one brief moment a smile aches on your lips.

Seeing Mary, after all this time, has been worth the pain.

ooo

You sometimes wonder if Daisy will ever look at you in the same way as she does Thomas.

It's not enough to know that everyone else downstairs likes you, that they like you more than Thomas. They may like you, but they look at Thomas. They listen to Thomas. When they look at Thomas they see life, adventure, wit, skill, all the things they could never do. When they look at you they see…William. The fool.

And when Daisy looks at you – well. She doesn't look at you at all, does she?

You work hard, you keep yourself out of trouble, you do everything your mother told you to do. You're polite to Mister Carson and Mrs Hughes, you treat the maids with respect, you try not to answer back to Thomas. You do everything you're supposed to. While Thomas – Thomas lies and cheats and answers back at the least provocation, he plays tricks and twists words and humiliates. He does everything you're warned against in church, as a little boy. And his punishment for this? Daisy.

You sometimes wonder what it would be like to act like Thomas, to act as if the world is yours and yours alone, to act as if everyone is a step beneath you. You wonder if that would catch her attention. You try it, actually, one morning; brush past Gwen without so much as an 'excuse me' at breakfast, make sharp comments regarding Mrs Patmore's porridge, and snatch the newspaper from Tom Branson's hands with a dismissive sneer.

You manage to keep it up for about fifteen minutes before collapsing into quivering fits of apologetics. Truly, fifteen minutes.

They all laugh, patting you on the back and telling you how good a chap you are. Even Mrs Patmore gives you a chuck under the chin and forgives you graciously. Which means something, you suppose.

Still, you wonder what it would be like to be noticed, like Thomas.

The day of the miscarriage, the day you finally snap and belt him straight across the smug jaw for all the things he's said about you, about your family, about the family – you're ashamed to admit it feels good. Feels good to have all the maids fuss over your bruised knuckles, feels good to have Tom Branson and Bates giving you claps on the back and all of the garden boys come in to stare with wonder. You expect the feeling to last for hours, but end up wondering how Thomas is feeling, hoping you didn't do any permanent damage. Permanent damage, to him! You can't think only of yourself, like Thomas – but oh, how you wish you could!

To be noticed. It's a brief, heady rush, and you crave more of it. To be a hero. To be a hero, in Daisy's eyes.

You start to think of the war, of the stories you've heard from old men in the village pub. You think of glorious charges and comradeship and heroics, and defending your country. The thought of honour swells in your chest until you nearly burst. To be a hero – to have worth – to better yourself, as Mum always wanted. You've always wanted it.

Because you're you, of course, it's not just about the heroics. You have nightmares of the German horde looming in France, ready to crush all that you hold dear. You think of your dad, of Daisy, of all the girls still in the kitchens, of England's soft, rolling hills. You've always had a protective urge nestled deep within you, and the thought of sitting back and letting that faceless terror engulf everything you've ever known fills you with a bitter shame that brings waves of nausea through your gut.

Every day more men march off to war, and you know you're a dirty coward for staying behind.

You're frightened too, though you don't dare admit it. Frightened of dying. Of leaving Downton, of leaving Daisy and of leaving your dad. What if something happens and you're not there?

When Daisy kisses you, straight on the mouth and beaming as if she's just offered you a Christmas present, you don't know what to think. You nearly fall off your chair. You gape – like a fool, like a daft fool. The burning sensation in your stomach threatens to sweep over you like a tidal wave.

With this feeling inside me, I could face down entire legions of German soldiers, you think. I could do anything, you say to yourself. You don't care about the prospect of death. You forget about leaving your dad.

You have been noticed, and for now that's all that matters.

ooo

People commend you for taking the younger servants under your wing, as if they were your own flesh and blood. You don't tell them this is because you have no children of your own. People commend you for your unswerving loyalty to the Earl of Grantham. You don't tell them this is because all your other friends have been lost, through war or disgust at your love of the drink and your apparent thefts. People commend you for the way you have persevered with your life even when your own body fails you. You don't tell them this is because you have no other choice.

You don't tell people anything that matters. Does this make you a coward?

You think maybe it does, sometimes.

Mrs Hughes openly commends you for your continuing loyalty, honour, duty, even sacrifice. You can't tell her that this is because, to you, loyalty and duty aren't matters of choice. It's not something you debate around. To you, there is no question. Likewise, this is why – when Anna patiently asks one evening what happened with Vera – why you went to prison for a lying, stealing wife. It wasn't as if you wanted to. But you made a promise, a long time ago, to protect this woman, to look after her. Your life in the army made you fail that promise. Her life suffered because of you. You might not have been able to make the marriage work, but that was the least you could do for her. There was no question about it.

Anna, though…Anna is different entirely. Your love for Anna is not compelled by duty and honour, but simply for love's own sake. You love her. In your eyes there is not a better woman, not in all the courts and fine houses. At first you feel guilt for taking up her time, for making her wait, for dragging her back; no fresh young woman surely wants to be courted by a tired, crippled, damaged older man? It takes several weeks of thinking, of being brutally honest with yourself, to realise that she has made the choice to love you, just as much as you choose to love her.

When you put your request to Earl Robert he embraces you like a brother. The announcement of your intention to marry before the whole of servants' quarters is met there's a cacophony of cheers. Mister Carson shakes you warmly by the hand, Mrs Hughes dashes a tear or two from her eye, Tom and William biff you heartily on the shoulder as if you were twenty years younger. Even Miss O'Brien graces you with a tremulous smile. You are informed bluntly by all involved that it's about time

You are happy, happier than you have ever been before.

And then Vera returns. You feel sick just to look upon her, which shames you utterly upon recollection.

She offers you a choice. Some might say that you do not have to take the bait, that you are responsible for Anna now, that she is your priority. But then it has never been a choice for you. Duty, honour, loyalty, even sacrifice – these things cannot be optional to you.

Telling Mister Carson is painful. Telling Earl Robert is worse. But neither of them compare to the look on Anna's face when you tell her.

You tell her to find a better man. A small, mean part of you prays she does not. Your heart aches just to hear her words – for Anna's a fighter through and through, you should have known she won't give up on you so easily – and you long to take her in your arms, to bring back that rosy future the both of you dawdled over like a young courting couple. Run away from all of this, from your damned obligation and sense of duty, escape all of this and start again, just the two of you.

You know you can't.

You ride out at first light, without waiting for goodbyes and well-wishes from the rest of the household. You tell yourself it's for the best. After one last glance you try not to look back, for fear of who you might see.

ooo

It's no wonder you're rotten to the core, with only O'Brien for company and these feelings, these wants inside you. You feel strange at first, foreign and queasy inside your own skin, and even when you become accustomed to them there still remains the bitterness at the world for rejecting you because of it. You're different, and that's all that matters. You feel certain no-one else understands; separate yourself from the world because of its lack of comprehension.

You only ever speak openly of these feelings to one person, and that is your father – who thrashes your arse red-raw until you can't sit down for a week and from then on will never again come within ten inches reach of you but still introduces you to every girl he can lay his hands on with an over-exaggerated wink and a hopeful leer. As if what is inside you as a plague, an infectious disease, only to be cured by the right woman.

What's worse is that you hope it works. You boast of being superior, a cut above the rest, but truly what you want is to be the same as everyone else.

In another time you would have thrived. Now it's all you can do to survive.

You take a few of these girls home, do what's expected to them, but it never brings satisfaction.

A brave new world is coming, says the Earl over the dinner table, able to accommodate all sorts of changes – women in politics, foreigners, the very young, the very poor, but you doubt it will ever stretch far enough to have room for you. You cheat and steal and lie in order to endure, you show off to the maids and make dangerous comments simply to be noticed, because if you're noticed then you can't be forgotten, and if you're not forgotten then you can never be displaced. Strangely enough, Downton's the only place you feel – not accepted, but part of something. You relish O'Brien's confidences, Daisy's starry looks, the reluctant giggles from the maids, even Mrs Hughes' unimpressed warnings; they all make you feel as if you belong. You bask in their attention.

When Bates comes along you hate him, not even because he's stolen your position, but because it's so easy for him. Smiles and kind words come easily to him; he's adored by the end of the week. You've had to struggle and scrape and cling on for dear life simply to belong, and the bastard doesn't even have to try. William, too, is adored simply for his blond hair and dopey expression; you steal attention from him in desperation and don't even feel guilt when you see him crumble. Life has been hard for you, you see no reason why it should be any different for him.

You stir rumours like other people stir cooking pots. You savour the rush that comes from others' amazed faces when you tell them something they don't know.

Still, you're lonely as hell if anyone cared to ask, and no amount of triumphs over Bates and William can change that. You watch the romances unfold like linen, both upstairs and down, and ache for it.

When you're posted to the front the men around you chatter fondly about sweethearts and wives, create a warm camaraderie around themselves that is impossible to hate. You long to be invited into the circle. Another medic asks you about the lass you've left behind and before you can think twice you create a vivid, pastel picture of your girl back home, a blond, lisping farmer's daughter called – you snort with the irony – Daisy. The other men nod sympathetically.

You wonder what would have happened if you'd fallen in love with her, your flimsy, fake woman. For two days you create a family in your mind: fair-haired, dancing children, a laughing wife, a warm home.

But the battlefield is no place for fantasies. The illusion melts away. You see too many bodies ripped to shreds, too many fathers and husbands die with their loved ones' names echoing on their lips. You hold wounded men as they die, and look into the face of Hell.

Tormenting William and battling with Bates seems a long, long time ago; and so meaningless you nearly laugh amid the guns' death-rattle.

You scream into your pillow. At night, sometimes, you strike your fists into your bed until they bleed. Nothing matters anymore.

ooo

You have never addressed her as anything other than 'Mrs Hughes'; to your knowledge she has never spoken of you as other than 'Mister Carson'. But, just in the same way as the Crawleys are the only family you have, Elsie Hughes, housekeeper at Downton, is the only wife you have.

It quite sneaks up on you, the fact that you actually do not mind this at all.

On the contrary, you find it quite pleasing.

Mrs Hughes is a good woman, in the same way that the air is good, or Downton is good. It is an unassailable fact of life. She puts up with no nonsense, not even from you. Her little moments of irreverence – 'I will want to see the look on the old bat's face!' – quite from shocking you, actually make you chuckle, a little, inside, that small part of you that's still Cheerful Charlie Carson. You find yourself looking forward to the little moments at the end of the day when the pair of you will come together in the study and talk. The days in London tire you – the keeper of the London house is a kind woman, but bland, unnoticeable, she has no spark by which you know Mrs Hughes – and make you yearn for home. Downton is your life's breath, and service to the Crawleys the only life you would ever choose, but Mrs Hughes…Mrs Hughes is a part of your life that fits in, quite like a jigsaw piece, until you wondered how you ever did without her.

She is nothing that demands attention. She simply fits, and that's all there is to it.

Likewise, you do not act like any of these silly young fools in love, bouncing around like a gaudy big balloon with a smile on your face to all and sundry. That would be most improper. Indeed, you do not think of yourself as having fallen in love, a dreadfully unseemly suggestion indeed, and one unbecoming of a butler to the Earl of Grantham. A butler in love with the housekeeper? Absurd. Besides, the word fallen is wrong, it suggests swooping sensations and flying feelings; and there are none of those. There is simply an old comfort that has never been there before, until coming into the study for a cup of tea and a talk feels just like coming home.

Do you think me very foolish? you ask her, and it's not the first time you've ever wondered such a question. If the dignity of Downton to all those who lay eyes upon it is your first priority, why then, your dignity in the eyes of Mrs Hughes is your second. Somewhere in the little hidden corner of your soul that is still Cheerful Charlie Carson, a voice cries out that you will simply die if she says yes. The butler within you tries to squash it. Nonetheless your spirits lift when she reassures you.

Little things, it's the little things that make your day. The day she tells you of this Joe Burns, who sounds like a quite ruffianish sort of fellow, and how she refused his proposal comforts you in a way no other can imagine. Supporting each other the day the war is announced. Sharing advice over Thomas and O'Brien; whispering like secretive schoolchildren over the tales she overheard from Bates and his wife. Walking down to village occasions side by side.

Do you ever wish you'd taken another path? Do you ever wish life had been different? she asks more than once, and you shake your head and say no. To not be a part of Downton? Unthinkable. But as she bustles around the servant's quarters in that firm, no-nonsense way she has and scolds you for working too hard, you think to yourself – a thought that is most unbecoming of the butler at Downton, but which Cheerful Charlie Carson cheers on regardless – that what is even more unthinkable is not having her as a part of your life.

ooo

You don't labour under any illusions; you don't pretend to have any importance that others might have missed. You know full well that at the core you are what you seem – a harmless, dull, silly old duffer. Maude used to tell you so, even you were being tiresome in company: 'Darling, I think Mrs Bellecotte might like a change of subject away from the fascinating world of farming' she used to murmur gently to you when you got onto one of your long-winded sagas. And then she'd turn those warm eyes on you, those soft periwinkle eyes that would sparkle just a tiny bit when no-one else was looking and whisper 'They might think you're boring, darling, but I don't'. And that was all that mattered, really.

Darling Maude. She'd know what to do. She always did.

You rather think Maude would like Edith, if that doesn't sound too odd, you really think she would have warmed to the young woman. Neighbours rant and rave about the eldest sister Mary – and she is indeed a splendid figure of a woman, dashed clever to boot, one kind word from her is enough to boost a fellow's spirits up tremendously – and the youngest sister Sybil is beginning to be spoken of with wonder, the kind to take all the young bloods down at the club's breath away. But Edith…Edith is different. There is a…a something you cannot even describe, something you can't explain to the laughing fellows who ask whether the middle sister is the only one you could get, because you surely weren't aiming for her, were you? Isn't she just a consolation prize, old man? But you shake your head and nestle the knowledge close, that Edith Crawley is something special, even if no-one sees it but you.

Maude would understand of course. She always did.

Edith is refreshing and warming all at once, a light breeze to sweep through an old man's heart and make him feel young again. You laugh as you haven't laughed since Maude died, you take the girl for spins in your motor car as if you're a young fool of twenty again. You feel – what is the word – joyful for the first time in years.

You make arrangements. You hint about it, to give her warning – Maude always warned you about springing her with surprises without giving her due warning first. You see a rosy future before your eyes.

And then at the garden party, you speak to Mary.

If you knew Mary better, of course, you would wonder why she is speaking of Edith in such openly fond terms, why she is speaking so openly of Edith at all, what can be gained for her by telling you this? But you see only a beautiful young woman delicately tweezing the hope from your tired heart without knowing it, and so you nod, dumbly, as the words echo in your ears.

Has she been mocking you all along? Has she been gathering her sisters in her bedchamber at night and complaining of what a terrible bore she has been saddled with? That sweet, lovely child, who made you laugh and blushed so prettily whenever you looked at her; has she been laughing behind gloved hands at you all this time? You're a fool, a damned fool, humiliated and rejected, and you should feel anger but mostly what you feel is a deep sense of loss.

You make your excuses, walk away quickly to spare yourself any more embarrassment. If you looked around, of course, you would see Edith staring at the ground in hollow shock, and that look of despair would be enough to tell you that all is not as it appears. But you don't, you just walk away.

'Would you like Edith, Maude? Would you have approved of her as someone to fill your shoes?' is what you have been murmuring to Maude's photograph, the one you still keep framed on your bedside table, murmuring to it like the silly old duffer you are, but what comes from your lips today when you return home is 'Am I wasting my time? Am I just a bumbling fool, Maude? Maude, you'd tell me, you always told me when I was being stupid; tell me, was it a daft old man's dream to think she could ever feel the same way?'

ooo

Surprisingly enough, it is not Lady Sybil who catches your eye, standing beside the car; but Edith. Blonde, wide-eyed Edith; you knew a girl back in Ireland with a similar look who used to get your blood racing, and you stared for just a little too long before hastening behind the wheel. You saw Lady Sybil as a brief blur of soft skin and warm eyes.

It was her voice that first caused your heart to jump. Gentle, utterly unique, just a hint of a merry laugh hidden inside. 'Then she'll jolly well have to wait.' You've ferried the Dowager Countess around once by now, cannot imagine anyone telling her to 'jolly well wait'. You stifle the chuckle in your throat, and risk a glance in the rear-view mirror. The owner of the voice is smiling, her eyes alight with merriment; there's nothing remotely artificial or contrived about her. She is what she is; a beautiful, confident woman.

You are wonderful, you think, each time she defies her parents to pursue her dreams or sticks up for those less fortunate than herself. She sees nothing out of the ordinary about it, and in your mind that just makes her all the more brilliant. You are wonderful, and you don't even know it.

The day after the garden party – the feeling of her hand entangled delicately in yours is still fresh in your memory, you can still summon up the gentle pressure of her fingertips – Mrs Hughes makes you a cup of tea quite willingly, without a word or a sign or even a smile. She is trying to comfort you, you realise, for something that will never be. You choose to ignore it. Things are changing, you tell yourself.

How does any man know what will be, after all? You feel your emotions swell out of control. What started off as wistful daydreaming becomes a deep-seated need. You ache to talk further with her in the car, to comfort her when she weeps for the dead, to make her happy. When she smiles you feel nothing but simple, childish joy.

She is all you need, you realise, all you've ever wanted. The very fact of her is confusing, bewildering; because after all everything that he opposes – the power of the ruling class, the oppression of the English – is embodied in the Crawley household. You know it's ridiculous, impossible, try to push these thoughts aside. You focus your friendships downstairs; become firm allies with Bates, amuse the maids, reassure William whenever you can. You try to rid yourself of the thought of her.

You find you cannot.

She leaves, leaves to learn nursing, and that simple action both crushes you and amazes you more than you can possibly say. Her nervous comment that it will be difficult to let you go – as the last link to home, oh why didn't you leave it at that? – has your heart soaring. When you tell her how hard it is to let her go, you're not lying.

I can't keep it in any longer. I will devote every minute to your happiness. Every word you say is true, as genuine as is humanely possible.

So is her reaction.

Her laughter is the most painful thing you can imagine. Her anxious silence cuts you to the quick. You kid yourself that this is simply because she knows the danger, because there is a war on, because she has too much to worry about – but you don't hold out much hope.

You feel sick to your stomach.

At the end of it all, you're a fool.

You leave her there, drive away with your heart aching and your throat in knots, telling yourself that you'll give in your notice anyway, that nothing will be more painful than being so close to her and not getting the single thing you want. Upon your return you find that you can't. It turns out after all this hell that she remains a drug to you; no matter how much you need her, how much she is denied to you, you cannot go without her.

ooo

You are, when it comes to it, useless.

Unwanted, redundant, a failure. You couldn't protect your own daughter from the misery of being disinherited, cast aside. You couldn't stop your middle daughter from feeling marginalised and forgotten, or your youngest daughter from feeling disheartened with the world. You couldn't – oh God above! – protect your son when he needed protection most. And now you cannot even fight for your country.

You are, it seems, unwanted.

You have spent your whole life caring for things – for your wife, for your daughters, for Downton itself. You protect your mother from the harsh chill of the world when she gets old, and the servants from the harsh chill of your mother. You have, Cora informs you teasingly, something of a mania for looking after things, for protecting people.

The day you are told, quite cheerfully, as if it is some kind of honour, that your role in the army is to be merely ceremonial, you feel like weeping.

Give me something to do! you want to shout. Anything that can make a difference! But the world is silent. You spend days dressing up like a soldier, dining at regimental dinners and catching up on the local gossip, and all the while you feel like a failure.

One night you find yourself looking at Cora as she sleeps. A few threads, just a few, are beginning to spin silver, there are creases on her cheeks, but she is just as beautiful as the day you met her. You can close your eyes and still remember every line and curve of her body by heart. You can remember marrying her, all in white, of looking at this rich stranger and thinking I will be found out…at any given moment she'll turn around and realise she doesn't want me. You didn't love her then, but you still marvelled at her, saw this brilliant creature and found yourself marvelling at how lucky you were. And then – some months after the wedding, one day when you were both walking through the garden – you turned around to look at the wife at your side and found yourself thinking: I love her. I love Cora. She is precious to me beyond anything, even beyond Downton itself. Anyone who willed her harm would have to climb over me to lay a single finger on her.

She deserves someone better, you find yourself thinking. Someone who can do something – anything – to look after her.

"Robert?" you hear her mumble. You look down, see her watching you from beneath sleep-fugged eyelashes. "Aren't you asleep yet?"

"Not yet. Keep thinking of this damned regimental dinner next week."

"Come here." She needs no explanation. You find soft arms enfold around you, pulling you down into a chaste embrace. For one moment, quite inexplicably, your heart swells with sentiment at this simple act of devotion. "Whatever else happens, I'm proud of you."

You may continue your days a grumpy old man who can do nothing useful for his country, you may watch the young bloods with a sense of wistfulness, you may feel useless and unnecessary come the morning – but for now, as you return her embrace, it is enough.

~o~