In this chapter: Tom Branson, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes/Carson, Robert Crawley, Albert Mason, Daisy Mason, Andy Parker, Beryl Patmore, Henry Talbot and Mary Talbot.
a/n: this chapter is as ready as it's ever likely to be, so I'm posting earlier than usual. I hope you enjoy it.
Monday, 26th April, 1926
Lady Mary had arranged with Mr Mason that she would accompany Carson on his afternoon visit, partly because Mason was due an agent visit and partly because she was intrigued to see how Patchy got on with the pigs. As she was leaving the house, the earl was heading out for a walk with Tio and decided to tag along with his daughter.
When they turned into the lane at the end of the driveway, Carson was approaching with Patchy from the direction of his cottage. After exchanging "good afternoons," the conversation moved to the matter at hand as they strolled towards Yew Tree Farm.
"I confess I am a little concerned about how Patchy will behave with the pigs, my lady." Carson looked solicitously at the last of his three charges. "It's not that I've seen any actual aggression on her part, but because of her ..." How could he describe it? "Individuality, I suppose it is. She's already showing signs of being a dog who knows her own mind and is very clear what she does, and does not, like. If she doesn't like pigs, Mr Mason simply won't be able to take her."
"But, surely, Carson, if she doesn't work out with Mason, we can find somewhere else for her." Lord Grantham often used the Royal "we," but Carson knew what he meant.
"I agree m'lord, it's just that I know Mr Mason would provide her a good home for her, and," he shrugged, "I'd like it to work out."
"So what's she like, Carson? I can't fault her for being particular." Lady Mary smirked, amusement warm in her eyes.
"Well, she's very entertaining. Did you hear about her choosing to sit in the butler's chair in servants' hall?" He recounted the tale, and went on. "She has certainly stuck up for herself against her brothers, despite their being larger. The males were generally more relaxed." Carson looked down at the tri-coloured puppy, who was keenly sniffing anything that she could reach, darting to and fro in front of him. "I sense she's quite intelligent, and would do well if given an actual job to do."
§ § § § § § § § §
They were seven taking tea around the big table in the Yew Tree Farm kitchen, plus the two dogs. The front parlour had been deemed too small given the size of the group, as well as more difficult to clean in the event of a puppy "accident," so the kitchen it was.
Mrs Patmore was serving the tea, still high on the success of the dowager's dinner party two nights before. The fact that Mr Carson had come downstairs to deliver his praise in person, and during the evening of the event itself, had thrilled her immensely. She knew well how important he considered the family/staff divide—never the twain should meet—so she recognized this as an extremely noteworthy event. While Beryl knew that she and Daisy had excelled themselves, for her the former butler's recognition was a crowning accomplishment.
Meanwhile her protégé was handing around the Madeleines, Battenberg cake, Bakewell tart and date scones.
"Mrs Patmore, delicious food as usual," said Lord Grantham after wiping some wayward icing from his mouth.
"Oh, this is all Daisy's work, my lord," corrected Beryl. "I just helped with making the tea, serving and that."
"Watch out, she'll be doing you out of a job!" Lord Grantham spoke in jest, but Mrs Patmore was secretly pleased. She was hoping to retire inside the year and already knew that Daisy was more than capable of taking over as cook—even so, Beryl planned to easy Daisy's load, by helping out on special occasions at the big house, much like Mr Molesley. The earl's confirmation was nevertheless appreciated.
Beryl didn't want Miss Baxter to become housekeeper and have to deal with the cook retiring at the same time, so she, supported by Albert's advice, had decided she would stay until the end of the year. In the meantime, she and Mr Mason planned to announce their "intentions:" although Elsie and Phyllis were sworn to secrecy, Beryl had a feeling most people had figured it out already. Mrs Hughes would be finishing up around the time the family all went off to Brancaster for the Glorious Twelfth,* so there would be a few months crossover with the old cook and the new housekeeper. At some stage in the summer, she supposed, Phyllis—soon to be known as Mrs Baxter—would have to resolve the ladies' maid situation, too.
Rounding out the numbers at afternoon tea was Andy. The lad was spending all his free time at the farm—the twin attractions of Daisy and the pigs keeping him close. Not that he ever confused the two, it must be said. For the past several days, Andy had been helping to feed a piglet, the runt of her farrow, that had been missing out on her mother's milk. The piglet was currently in a basket by the coal range, snuggled into a threadbare woolen blanket.
Mr Carson was feeling very satisfied, both from the toothsome food—although he knew he'd eaten too much—and the realization that he'd managed to find good homes for all three puppies in just over a week.
Patchy had proved to be interested in the pigs, not afraid, and nimble-footed and sensible enough to escape between the horizontal railings of the stye when one large sow took exception to her presence. Mr Mason had immediately pronounced her "born to pigs," and then when faced with the laughter of the assembled throng, goodnaturedly corrected to "born to work wi' pigs". Mr Mason and Andy were clearly smitten with the little multi-coloured dog, and Mrs Patmore had previously been seen sneaking her table scraps at the big house. So Patchy had only Daisy still to win over, and Carson had no doubt the puppy would do so.
Lord Grantham was watching Carson, and thought his satisfaction well deserved. "Carson, well done! You've done a marvelous job with the puppies. All three in new homes, in such a short time. But aren't you going to miss them?"
Carson considered his answer while Mrs Patmore refreshed his cup of tea. "Honestly, m'lord, I wouldn't want to have my own puppy—they are delightful, but quite a lot of work." He smiled, despite himself. "This last week, with the three of them, has been enough to last me a lifetime. But even so, I will miss them; they're great company. I'm used to the bustle of the big house so having them around has been a tonic."
"Carson, if I may say so, I'm impressed with how you've handled this transition. Normally, one's retirement would be a long-anticipated, planned for event, whereas yours was rather precipitated by … events." Lord Grantham reflected on recent months. "I also have to say I'm very pleased that Barrow does seem to have turned a corner; he does appear to have a kinder approach these days, and seems more content too."
"My lord, Mrs Hughes and I are not yet finished working with him, but we are very pleased with his progress."
Robert looked sharply at Carson, respect in his glance.
Carson smiled enigmatically and intoned gravely, "A butler's work is never done, m'lord." He thought for a moment, then added, "It is a different life, indeed, but I'm learning how to navigate it."
The two men contemplated that in silence until Carson roused himself to inquire, "Mr Mason, what are you going to call your new puppy?" He rather assumed the new owner would want to choose a new name.
"Why, there's nowt wrong wi' the name she has! Patchy by nature, Patchy by name she'll be. Although," he paused for thought, " 'Appen on some occasions I may shorten it to 'Patch'."
Carson smiled genially, ridiculously pleased that one of the children's names was going to stick.
"Well, I never!" Daisy's astonishment cut through the quiet chatter and everyone looked up to discover the cause of her outburst. "Have you ever seen anything like that, ever?!" She pointed downward and all eyes followed her hand. There, in the oval wicker basket by the range lay Patch, curled around the tiny piglet, carefully cleaning the pink baby with her tongue.
"Born to pigs, what did I tell you?!" said Mr Mason, slapping his thigh as he laughed in delight.
Tuesday, 27th April, 1926
"Mrs Carson, might we have a word?"
Elsie looked up from her desk to see Tom and Henry both standing in the doorway, eyes eager. It was approaching upstairs tea time, five o'clock; early for them to be home from their business in York.
"Please, come in." She gestured towards the two chairs by her side table, and they sat down. She swiveled around to address them directly. "How may I help you?"
"Well," Tom looked at Henry, who nodded encouragingly. "We have a question for you."
"Yes, we'd greatly value your opinion on … an idea we have," added Henry.
"If you think I can help," began Elsie doubtfully. "I don't know anything about cars—"
"But you do know about Carson, I mean Mr Carson," interrupted Tom. "Our question is about him, and your opinion is key to the whole thing."
§ § § § § § § § §
Carson was stirring the stew he'd had cooking slowly all afternoon, and deliberating about turning on the wireless. Since his retirement he had started to learn some basic cooking, having found Daisy to be both a willing and patient teacher. He deeply regretted those early days of marriage when he had been—he shuddered at the memory—a wrong-headed boor about Elsie's cooking. But that was behind them, and the stew was starting to smell very good.
The wireless was a retirement gift from the Crawley family, and while Carson had long been skeptical about the need for one, he and Elsie did enjoy listening to the news, and the occasional plays and concerts. Charles checked the time and realized he would soon be walking up to the house to escort Elsie home, so decided against turning it on.
He sighed, a wry smile on his face. It was so very quiet without the puppies. How quickly he had become accustomed to having them around.
Carson's musings were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle in the lane which, to his surprise, stopped outside. He knew their neighbour, a widowed and now retired tenant farmer, was away visiting his daughter's family in Northallerton, so the visitor must be coming to the Carson cottage.
He was startled when the door opened—he'd expected a knock—then relaxed as his own dear wife entered. Then he tensed again: why was she home early, and by car?
"Oh, dinna fash yersel,** Charlie, I'm fine." What was it about talking to Tom Branson that brought out the Scot in her? He was Irish, for heaven's sake. For an intelligent woman Elsie had been unusually slow on the uptake in this regard, but suddenly it came to her. If her husband had a pseudo-daughter in Lady Mary, so had she found a surrogate son in Tom Branson. Comforted by that realization, she turned back to the task in hand.
Carson felt her forehead for fever and visually checked for injuries, even as Elsie tried to wave off his attentions.
"Away with you! I'm perfectly well, you daft ha'p'orth,*** but I do need to talk to you." Elsie sat down at the table and gestured for Charles to follow suit.
Then she continued. "You see, Charlie, I've been thinking. I'll be retiring soon, and we'll have all the time in the world. You've done very well with the puppies," she made a quelling motion with her hand to forestall the protest she could see on his face. "No, no, I'm not suggesting we get a puppy, I know your feelings on that and I share them."
Much like a child raises their hand to be called on in school, Charles pointed a finger, but without extending his arm. Elsie paused so he could ask his question. Several questions, it turned out.
"Why hasn't the car that brought you here left? Are you going back to house? Why couldn't this discussion wait until dinner time?"
Elsie saw he was worried, and wanted to set his mind at rest. "Just a moment." She smiled warmly at him as she rose and went to the front door. Opening it, she spoke to those waiting outside. "Why don't you all just come on in."
Tom Branson stepped in first, and looked at Elsie to gauge the mood. She nodded, then shrugged, a mixed message if ever there was one.
Elsie took a deep breath and smiled nervously, saying, "Go on, then."
Carson, for his part, seemed torn between confusion and annoyance. What was going on?
Tom held the door open for Henry, who looked behind himself briefly then crossed the threshold. The young men's twin hopeful grins eased some of the tension both Carsons were feeling. Henry spoke into the suspenseful silence, "Mr Carson, we have someone we'd like you to meet."
TBC
And that's as cliff hangery as I'm likely to get!
* "the Glorious Twelfth" is August 12th, the start of the red grouse shooting season in Downtonland
** "dinna fash yersel" means "don't get worked up/worried"
*** "daft ha'po'rth" roughly means "silly old booby"
I've struggled all through writing this fic about how and when to refer to people by their different names/titles, particularly since I've been mixing upstairs/downstairs a lot, eg Mrs Hughes/Mrs Carson/Elsie or Lord Grantham/the Earl/Robert. I've tried to fit the names used to the occasion and speaker, and hope it has worked OK.
I'm hoping/planning to post chapter 8, the final chapter, next weekend. It's partly written but I'm a slow writer and have work deadlines to contend with this week. If you have a moment, please do tell me what you think about this chapter, the whole story, the puppies' names, whatever. Short or long, reviews encourage me in my writing. The fact that someone enjoyed what I wrote and/or is interested to know what happens, and took the time to tell me so, is a real boost to me. Here endeth the blatant plea for reviews.
I would be very remiss if I didn't thank here those who have already reviewed this fic, some very faithfully: you know who you are. I'm very grateful. The dowager countess would frown on my sentiments becoming maudlin, so I'll leave it there.
