August, 1922
The first thing that Lady Mary Crawley noticed when she stepped off the train was the heat. The unseasonable warmth which had seemed so pleasant as she boarded the train in York now felt oppressively close. At this time of day, the platform was bustling with people coming or going from their places of work. In the street, factory workers moved en masse and with purpose, filing from the mills whose chimneys dominated the skyline.
It took almost fifteen minutes to exit the station and find an old hansom. Then came a tedious discussion as she tried in vain to make the driver understand where she wanted to go. Whether his eyesight was bad, or whether Cousin Isobel's handwriting (which admittedly seemed to testify to her medical training) defeated him she didn't know. In the end, she gave it up as a lost cause and agreed to let him leave her at the post office.
After what was an insultingly short drive given all the trouble, the driver left her at the door. Lady Mary stepped inside to find the post-mistress. Alas, if she'd expected her quest would get easier from here, she quickly realised she'd been sadly mistaken. It was all she could do to keep her temper as the old woman hmmed and hawed her way through every Carlson, Carter, and Charleston who had ever so much as passed through the town.
"Carson," Mary repeated firmly. "Charles Carson."
The post-mistress blinked at her for a moment, then turned to confer with her husband again. At least, Mary assumed it was her husband whose voice intermittently drifted from some back room to agree with his wife's litany. When she began suggesting other men named Charles whom the young lady might like to try, Mary rolled her eyes. She was about to leave and give up the whole enterprise, when the postman came shuffling in.
"Here's Jim now!" exclaimed the post-mistress. She sounded thoroughly surprised over what must surely have been a daily ritual. "He'll be able to tell you - there isn't any Carson around here, is there, Jim?"
"Carsons?" he replied. "You've a head like a sieve, Mrs Taffe. They're up beyond in the Crossley's old place. You were talking about how nice it was to see somebody living in there again only the other day."
Realisation dawned.
"Oh Mr and Mrs Carson!" exclaimed Mrs Taffe, as though Mary had not been saying that same name repeatedly for several minutes. "Why didn't you say? They're a lovely couple. Up in Agatha Crossley's old cottage."
Mary found herself too beaten down by the conversation to even feel annoyed any more.
"No. I'm sure you must be wrong. Mr Carson isn't ma-"
But the post-mistress was on a roll now, and not to be stopped.
"Yes, the Carsons. He's a big tall man - voice like a thunderstorm. He used to be a butler in some big house, didn't he John?" This last was directed to the mystery voice in the back room, which grunted assent again.
"Yes, that's him!" Mary felt she finally had her first firm hold on the straws at which she'd been grasping. "Can you tell me where to find him?"
"They're not here long, you know," Mrs Taffe continued as if she hadn't heard a word. "She ran a boarding house over in Blackpool or Southend I believe. Sold up and came here in the spring."
She nodded, satisfied with having solved the mystery and said nothing more. Thankfully the postman came to Mary's rescue. Leading her away from the counter he explained exactly where "the old Crossley place" might be found. He politely offered to show her the way, but Lady Mary declined. It wasn't far, from what he'd said, and she wanted the time to sort out her spinning thoughts.
A short walk took her past the church and away from the noise of the town. Tucked away behind a bend in the road - where the view of the factories was almost hidden by a sloping bank of spindly apple trees - she found the cottage. If the postman was right, this was where Charles Carson now lived. If Mrs Taffe was right (though that was by no means so certain) this was where his wife lived with him.
Mary pushed that last thought aside. She was here to see Carson and to hear what he had to say for himself. She was here because her mother-in-law had asked it of her. Beyond that, what did it matter to her how or with whom an old servant was living?
Still, she found herself pausing with her hand on the gate as she took in the house. It was small, but had clearly been newly painted, and shone white where the sun touched it. The small garden was neatly tended. The beds were bright with asters, goldenrod and evening primrose - simple wildflowers, but clearly carefully cut back to keep them from running amok. A thick mat of honeysuckle vines hugged one corner of the house, and she could smell its fragrance from here in the evening air.
It was only when she saw the house that she could admit to herself she'd been nervous of what she might find. She'd never inquired if her father had given Carson any money when he left. She didn't even know how much he'd been paying him before. Well, it was clear that he wasn't living in poverty, so there'd be no need for any mixed feelings on that score.
Mary was suddenly ready to get things over with. Moving briskly now, she walked up the path and knocked on the door. It was answered almost immediately by a handsome woman in a beaded shawl. She looked, Mary thought, about sixty. Her hair was completely white, but her brows were still dark in striking contrast. The dress she wore was navy, well-cut, and about ten years out of fashion.
The seconds dragged on as they regarded each other, unspeaking, until Mary felt she must break the silence. The woman must have had the same thought - when they spoke, they spoke in unison.
"Mrs Carson?" Mary asked.
"Have you seen my crown?" said the woman at the same time.