"LET ME CALL YOU SWEETHEART":
TWO LOST SCENES FROM DOWNTON ABBEY, SEASON 3, EPISODE I
(SCENE: Nighttime at Downton Abbey. MARTHA LEVINSON'S Room. In bed, she slowly sips a shot of whiskey.)
I LOATHE HER. She reminds me of everything that's wrong with England and right with America. Not only that, but she embodies them. Countess of Grantham, indeed! She dons her silken gowns and diamond tiaras, but fine feathers don't make fine birds. A crow that mingles peacock feathers amongst its own is still a crow, and Violet won't stop cawing. She may have once been vibrant, but now she's as withered as the flower that bears her name, once autumn comes! Does she think I'm an imbecile? She must, or else she and my own granddaughter, Mary, wouldn't have tried to lure me into this silly trap. I would say "poor granddaughter," but I won't, because she's rich and newly married. Matthew has both looks and position, so why can't she and the Raven Queen depend on him instead of me? It would have insulted me less if they'd just come right out and asked for money. However, I know that would have robbed them both of all the English pride they had left. Let them be taken down a peg or two! It's the second decade of the twentieth century, for goodness' sake, and they're acting like it's still the middle of the nineteenth…(Upon finding her shot glass empty, MARTHA scowls at it glumly and considers tossing it into the fireplace.)
What on Earth made them think that I'd be impressed by seeing the "grandeur" of Downton Abbey one more time? Yes, they have servants, and yes, tonight's dinner setting did look very nice before we all realized there wouldn't be a dinner! It's a pity the oven broke down. However, did Mary and Violet have to look so aghast when I suggested an indoor picnic for our evening meal? You'd have thought I said we ought to go to the park and dine on whatever everyone's dogs left behind! It's all a sham, a stage show, because I know what they're really after. As much as I love Mary, I hate to admit that she and her other grandmother are too much alike. Sybil and Edith, bless their independent hearts, are more after my own. One eloped with a chauffeur, and one's about to take the hand of the man she loves, though he is far her senior! They have the American spirit in them, although the old biddy would rather die poor than admit it. (She smirks wryly.) "Let me call you sweetheart," Violet. I'm afraid you'll have to in these circumstances…
(SCENE: Nighttime at Downton Abbey. VIOLET'S room. The Dowager Countess of Grantham lies awake and tense in bed.)
I LOATHE HER. She reminds me of everything that's wrong with America and right with England. Mrs. Levinson has no right to put on airs as she does, although I know why she does. That woman believes money is everything, and entitles one to just as much privilege as wealth can buy. She flaunts herself in red lipstick and a ridiculous hairdo which is improper for a woman, or at least a woman her age. She cares nothing for nobility, respectability or responsibility. Come to think of it, she has no humility either. I want her out of Downton Abbey posthaste, and out of my United Kingdom. Nevertheless, I must forebear that vain old peacock. If our home and livelihoods are to be saved, someone has to bend, and it won't be me. Tradition counts for something in our family, or at least it should. We have titles, land, prestige! One of my granddaughters may have made a disgraceful decision in her choice of a husband, but what can I do? (VIOLET clenches the bedsheets in her fists, seething with rage. She grinds her teeth briefly, then stops.)
What can I do, indeed? At least Mary is on the right track, and has her priorities straight! The wedding was absolutely magnificent, and so was she. Matthew's not hard on the eyes, either…They possess style and grace, and what's more, they realize how important Downton Abbey is to all of us. These are not just stone walls, maids and butlers- this is a legacy, something few Americans know or have learned to appreciate. Heaven only knows how much time and money I've spent trying to keep it together, not to mention my own besieged son, but here comes this hurricane of a harridan, intending to blow it all to pieces. She would adore it if we moved out of this place onto what she deems a more "modest estate," meaning that we don't all live in one manor house and don't employ as many staff. How dare she? The peacock - and yes, she's more man than woman! - has her own lady's maid, Reed. Would she dismiss her if our own positions were reversed? I daresay she might, although whom would she hire to tame her coiffure? As modern and egalitarian as Martha pretends to be, if she had to attend to her own toilette, she would keel over and die.
"Let me call you sweetheart?" I need money, not pretentious so-called love, and both of us know it…