A contagious bout of parody and silliness seems to be spreading through Downton, and it's started downstairs. What can have caused it? Can the effects be reversed? First attempt at fanfiction in ages, let alone parody, so humour is light at the moment whilst I get back into the swing.
CHAPTER 1: THE CARSON CONUNDRUM
Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, gazed out at the crisp autumn morning from his favourite window in the library. The air was breathless, the sky concealed in a chill haze peculiar to that "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness", and the grounds coated in a thin frost which had brittled the grass over-night and snapped leaves from the great trees that circumferenced Downton Abbey.
The trees had stood like centurions around the gates and footways of Downton since the time of their plantation by his earliest ancestors. Year by year each custodian of the great Crawley dynasty had added another, so that every tree seemed to Robert as imposing reminders of the past as the portraits that stared down from the many walls.
Not that he ever needed to be reminded of the weight of his ancestry, nor the part in its survival he had to play. With no son and his only heir a middle class banker from Manchester, who was as worryingly modern as he was respectful of the family's traditional ways, Robert's role was increasingly difficult. The preservation of Downton and its intricate way of life hung in the absolute balance, and Robert often wondered if his would be the last generation to have the privilege of managing it thus.
"We'll see, Pharoah old boy," he said, half to himself as much as to the dog at his feet, who looked up at his master with curious loyalty. He patted the old dog on his head, and turned at Carson's familiar harrumph beside the door.
"Ah, good morning Cars-"
Lord Grantham fixed his gaze upon his butler in utter astonishment.
Carson was, in many ways, as well presented as he had ever known. Always a pedant of presentation, from the ankles up he was without fault; his polished buttons shone pale in the morning light, his starched collar roundly cupped the familiar jowls of neck and face, and his expression was as Lord Grantham had remembered on every morning he had known it. It was perhaps this which was most surprising of all, for Carson was wearing no shoes or socks.
Robert wondered for a beat if he was dreaming, but no, he closed his eyes and opened them again; Carson's feet were entirely bare. He could see the imprint of his butler's toes on the library carpet. Robert was in the process of locating the correct words to convey his bewilderment, when Carson spoke before him.
"The Dowager Countess, m'lord."
Good God. Mother. That she was not flying about the house in search of an explanation for Carson's lack of footwear was amazement itself; she was either entirely and suddenly without sight, which would explain her uncommonly early visit, or she had not noticed at all, which seemed unlikely.
Banking on the latter nonetheless, Lord Grantham resolved to keep the information from her, or else be hounded forevermore for allowing a servant's bare feet to tarnish the floors of the house.
"Mother!" Violet Crawley swept in as ever like a brisk gust of gale-force air. "How are you?"
"Well enough, Robert. I find myself little concerned with my own welfare today." Lord Grantham looked over her shoulder as they exchanged a brief kiss. Carson was still standing barefoot beside the door. Before Violet could turn around, Lord Grantham spoke up.
"Thank you, Carson. You may go."
Carson bowed his head, and strode away.
Lord Grantham had an incredible desire to sit down.
"Robert," Violet said, in a tone that told him at once all was not well. "I would quite like some refreshment, but if I have to see that man again, I fear the benefits will be outmeasured."
"You noticed?" Robert bent to his knees beside his mother as she sank herself into an armchair. "Mother I can't think of what to say. Carson has always been the veritable figurehead of propriety, and just now I turn and see him shoeless-"
"You mean to say," Violet wheezed, gripping the arms of the chair as if they were her sole link to sanity. "That I leave my house and my staff this morning in the most unthinkable state, and arrive here to find that not only is your own household suffering the same affliction of mind, but you cannot account for this extraordinary behaviour?"
Lord Grantham frowned.
"What on earth do you mean, mother?"
"Daisy!" Screamed Mrs Patmore, grasping up a breadknife to the terror of her young apprentice "Where are you going with those onions? It's breakfast we're doing you silly girl, not dinner."
"They're boiled eggs, Mrs Patmore," Daisy squealed, dodging Mrs Patmore, who was twirling the knife like a baton. As if running the gauntlet of the kitchen at breakfast time was not enough of a challenge; Mrs Patmore seemed more than usually aggressive today.
"Don't be such a fool; you think I don't know an onion when I see one?"
Fortunately for Daisy, Mrs Hughes swept to her rescue.
"Daisy, get those eggs up to the dining room at once; Lord Grantham is already downstairs. Mrs Patmore, surely you have something to be getting on with?"
"Oh no, of course not," Mrs Patmore drawled. "Not silly old me, the lord think it!"
Mrs Hughes knew better than to continue a conversation with Mrs Patmore when she was in such a temper, so took herself out of the kitchen, and encountered Mr Carson in the doorway.
"Mr Carson!" she exclaimed, staring at his feet. "Where are your shoes?"
The kitchen at Downton Abbey was never silent or still, however every member of staff present stopped what they were doing at that moment to stare at Mr Carson's bare toes.
Mr Carson regarded them all with intense disapproval.
"I am very busy this morning. It surprises me that you all seem to have time for such childish games, particularly you, Mrs Hughes," he frowned at her. "Please, get on with your work."
Whatever errand he had in the kitchen, Mr Carson seem to have forgotten about it, for he turned at once on his naked heel, went into his parlour and shut the door.
The whole kitchen stared after him, including Mrs Hughes.
"Well I…" she remembered on a sudden that Lord Grantham was downstairs and half of breakfast still not on the table. When she turned around, she met the quizzical eyes of everyone in the room. "Well?" she said. "Back to work, all of you!" At once the kitchen was a-bustle again. This matter would be resolved, but not until after breakfast. "And Mrs Patmore, put that knife down before you have someone's eye out!" Daisy had reappeared, and Mrs Patmore had started on her again, gesticulating wildly with the knife. At Mrs Hughes' words, she flung the knife into the sink, where it fell amongst the pots with a crash. Daisy scuttled away in fright, and Mrs Hughes gave the cook a lasting look of strong rebuke, before taking herself away.
Across the kitchen, Thomas exchanged a dark glance with Miss O'Brien, and then vanished upstairs to the dining room. Lady Grantham's bell had rung a full ten seconds ago. O'Brien finally set off after it; lingering by the stairs for a moment to listen to Carson's incoherent grumbles and bare-footed pacing behind his parlour door.
What strange goings on. Something was definitely up, and Thomas was likely to know about it.
