Chapter Twelve

Wedding Day Part II

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening 20th July 1940.

Here in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on this warm summer's evening, the imposing main door of Downton Abbey stood wide open; affording access both to the house and gardens, as well as over to the large, white canvas marquee which had been erected on the front lawn several days ago.

As anyone dwelling in the West Riding interested in such things might have told you, along presumably with those of a similar disposition to be found living further afield, one of the chief architectural glories of Downton Abbey, was its magnificent eighteenth century panelled Ballroom. Lying at the rear of the great house, and commissioned by the third earl, complete with its carved pier glasses, exquisite plaster ceiling with medallions of the Four Seasons, and its pair of cut-glass chandeliers made by William Parker, down the succeeding centuries, the room had played host to all manner of grand occasions. However, following the death of Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham in 1931, its double doors firmly closed, the ornate furnishings and chandeliers shrouded in heavy dust sheets, the Ballroom had lain disused.

However, this evening, with both sets of doors, those inside and those which led onto the terrace, flung wide open, the dust sheets and most of the furniture removed, the Ballroom was once again in use. Even so, the painted cherubs on the ornate ceiling, silent witnesses to countless balls and dances in the past, to polkas and waltzes by Strauss and Waldteufel, could never have envisaged the scene taking place below them tonight.

Swing had come to Downton.

And, as the pulsating beat of In The Mood echoed through the once hallowed halls, those here at the abbey attending Robert and Saiorse Crawley's wedding reception might have been forgiven for thinking that the war, with all its attendant horrors, had been nothing more than a passing nightmare.


In a decidedly reflective mood, half way down the last flight of the main staircase, the countess of Grantham paused. A moment later, she smiled, and shook her head. What on earth Papa, let alone Granny, would have made of it all was open to question. Not only the marriage itself, of first cousins who as children had detested each other, or so it always seemed to everyone in the immediate family, let alone the unimagined homecoming of Edith and Kurt, but also what was now taking place here at the abbey. For, if this was Robert and Saiorse's idea of a quiet affair, then Mary shuddered to think what form anything a touch more lively might have taken.

Apart from the deafening noise coming from the Ballroom, along with the constant chatter of voices and the sound of laughter, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Below in the Hall, Ruth and Mavis, two of the remaining housemaids, each of them bearing a tray of drinks, were passing back and forth among the guests. For the most part these were young men, nearly all of them in uniform, along with a bevy of young women wearing dresses which not so long ago, would have been considered positively indecent; who if they were not in the Ballroom, were wandering freely back and forth throughout the ground floor rooms of the house. Most of the guests Mary herself did not recognise, apart that was from some of the younger tenants off the estate and a handful of girls from the village, those who had grown up with Robert, and who he and Saiorse had asked to their Reception; proof visible, if any were needed, as to how the old barriers of both class and social distinction, once so strictly enforced, had begun to crumble away.


A young man in RAF uniform, obviously a friend of Robert's, piqued Mary's curiosity.

Unlike his boisterous compatriots, he was engaged in quiet contemplation of the magnificent glass domed clock which graced the marble table near the door. It was indeed a beautiful thing but, unlike most of the furniture, ornaments and paintings in the house, it had not been in the family long, having been acquired comparatively recently, by granny back in 1922, passing on her death to Papa in 1926, and thereafter, following Robert's death, to Mary herself in 1931.

Made by the workshop of Carl Fabergé, former court jeweller to the last Tsar, it had once graced a mantelpiece in a palace in St. Petersburg which had belonged to the Sheremetevs. Captain Alexei Sheremetev had been someone very dear to granny whom she had met way long ago, in 1883, when both she and her husband had travelled to Russia to witness the coronation Tsar Alexander III. According to granny, Tom very much resembled the young Alexei who as an old man, granny had been distraught to learn from a mutual acquaintance, had been shot by firing squad by the Bolsheviks in 1921.

A variety of objects and personal possessions which had belonged once to the Imperial Family and to members of the Russian nobility had found their way into the hands of art dealers and auction houses in the 1920s and it was from one of the former that granny had purchased the clock. That it had once belonged to the Sheremetevs was beyond question, on account of the dedicatory inscription engraved in Cyrillic script on the base; the clock itself a constant, audible, visible reminder of a now vanished world.


At her approach, the young man turned.

Above his left breast pocket, hanging from a fine silver chain, Mary saw a pair of small metal wings. Memory stirred and now recalling to mind something Robert had told her, she realised that the young man must be Polish. Something else that Robert had told her too was just how brave the Polish pilots were proving to be in the ongoing fight in the skies over southern England against the might of the Luftwaffe.

Mary had never met a Pole before. Other than that Poland, formerly part of the Russian Empire in the days of the Tsars, had been invaded by Germany in September 1939; the single event which had started the whole damned war, she knew little about the country either, apart from the fact that its capital was Warsaw.

With Pickard in hospital and with no-one else on hand to introduce her, displaying remarkable forbearance, at the foot of the main staircase, Mary waited, paused while the young man consulted what was evidently an English-Polish phrase book.

"Good … evening," he said haltingly and smiled.

"Good evening," replied Mary, choosing to ignore the fact that he had not seen fit to accord the title that was hers by right. Perhaps they did not have an aristocracy in Poland … Then again, that could not be so, for there had been that Polish count, the one darling Matthew had wanted to invite here back in the 20s, before that was he had the singular misfortune to be killed in a racing accident at Monza.

"It … is … beautiful, is it not?" He nodded towards the clock.

"Yes, it is".

"The weather … it is …hot".

"Yes, it is, rather". Why, wondered Mary, did foreigners always want to talk about the weather?

"I come here … to England ... from Kraków. In Poland. Polska".

"Indeed?"

"It is ... big".

"Really". Mary had absolutely no idea as to the geographic size of Poland but then, seeing him looking about him, realised that he must, instead, be referring to the house. She nodded; wondered if landed estates were equally unknown in Poland.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is".

He smiled, self consciously, indicating his right arm which was in a sling.

"I ... prang ... my kite".

Mary was totally nonplussed.

Prang? Kite? These days Robert's vocabulary was more often than not, peppered with all manner of words which she had never the like of heard before. Kite … Yes, Robert had referred to his kite. But prang?

"I am the countess of Grantham".

Mary spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully, at the same time raising her voice, in the time-honoured way of the British when abroad and speaking to foreigners who had little or no English, as if by doing so she could somehow make the young man understand what it was she was saying.

"Perhaps I may I be of assistance?"

At the sound of a familiar voice, Mary turned to see Friedrich, flushed from dancing with Edith, standing beside her, his eyes alive with mirth. Although he and Mary had buried their differences long since, she was still a little wary of him.

"Not unless you happen to speak Polish," she said airily. "Do you speak Polish?"

"As it happens, yes, I do. At least enough to make myself understood".

At this startling revelation, Mary's eyes widened perceptibly.

"You do?"

"Indeed". Friedrich smiled and now turned quickly to the young officer. "Mogę przedstawić hrabina Grantham".

Grantham, Mary understood, but of the rest of it not a single word.

"I explained who you are".

The young man now bowed gravely from the waist; then said something rapidly to Friedrich, a torrent of incomprehensible words, presumably Polish, for once again Mary understood none of it. She saw her brother-in-law nod his head.

"This," said Friedrich, "is Pilot Officer Josef Szlagowski of the Free Polish Air Force. He asks that I apologise to you most sincerely on his behalf for his disrespect in not according you your correct title. He injured his arm a few days ago, when he had to make a forced landing. He also asks that I inform you that before the war he worked as a watchmaker, in his father's business, in Krakow, hence his interest in your clock".

Mary nodded.

"Would you tell Pilot Officer ..."

"Szlagowski," repeated Friedrich helpfully.

Feeling that in this instance, discretion was indeed the better part of valour, Mary decided she would not embarrass herself in front of both Friedrich and Edith by attempting to pronounce the young man's name".

"Tell him, that I understand perfectly. That we … that I ... am very grateful for the assistance both he and his fellow countrymen are lending us at this present time. Friedrich nodded and did as he had been requested.

Now turning to Pilot Officer Szlagowski, Mary favoured him with a dazzling smile, that brought back memories for Friedrich, of that last summer, back in August 1914, when the world slid over the precipice and into what was now being called the First World War, for here they all were at the beginning of another.

"Welcome to Downton Abbey," Mary said, extending her hand.


Thankfully, the wedding ceremony itself had proceeded more or less according to Mary's satisfaction, although somewhat overshadowed by the unexpected return here to Downton of both Edith and young Kurt, along with, Mary grimaced, that damned dog. Still no-one, not even the happy couple themselves, seemed to mind in the slightest; it being darling Tom who had caught the mood of everyone down there in the parish church when, hugging Edith to him in a tight embrace, he quipped that her homecoming was nothing if not spectacular but that next time please to give him some warning as he doubted very much if his old heart would survive such another shock.


Apart from the formal pictures of the bride and groom, their proud parents, and their delighted grandmother, it was as the rest of the photographs were being taken that, in Mary's considered opinion, everything had began to fall apart. Unseen, aped by Rebecca and little Emily, Bobby, Dermot, and Kurt, had all begun pulling faces, although it was not until a few days later, when the proofs were delivered to the abbey for the approval of the earl and countess of Grantham, that this then came to light.

On social occasions such as this, it was customary for a photograph of the assembled family to duly appear in The Times. However, on seeing the photographs, Mary was horrified; said that the younger children resembled a clutch of half-witted inmates let loose from the West Riding Mental Hospital. In another of the pictures, as the camera had panned round the assembled family, by running behind everyone, in a lightning turn of speed, Bobby managed to contrive to appear twice in the same photograph, while in a third Kurt's much loved dog made its second impromptu appearance of the day. Needless to say, this time, no photograph of the assembled Crawley family appeared in The Times.


Despite trying his very best to ignore it, in the end, after he had led Saiorse on to the floor of the Ballroom for the first dance, Robert's injured leg prevented him from taking any further part in the dancing. Sometime later, from the main staircase, with Saiorse standing beside him, along with their parents, accompanied by Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, from the main staircase, all watched the fun unfolding below them in the Hall.

Led by Danny, and, rather surprisingly, also by Max, accompanied by Miss Barton - high time, thought Mary, that she had a discrete word with Edith on that particular subject - Robert's RAF pals and a group of heavily made-up girls, quite where they had all materialised from no-one seemed either to know or care, had begun an impromptu conga.

Champagne glasses in hand, those at the head led those joining onto the good natured, high spirited and ever lengthening procession, along a hastily improvised route which took them through all the principal ground floor rooms of the house. Out of the Ballroom, into Papa's once hallowed Library, then the Drawing Room, the Morning Room, the Dining Room, out into the Hall, shaking the ancient house to its very foundations, and in the process, threatening the survival of several centuries of Crawley family history. At the rear of the tail, laughing and giggling, came all of Mama's younger grandchildren, including Kurt, seemingly none the worse for what he had been through in France, and who, along with Dermot, both of them clearly slightly tipsy, having managed to acquire from somewhere two full glasses of champagne, until summarily deprived of them by their respective fathers.

The conga wended its disorderly way outside, onto the lawn, and over towards the marquee where, sometime earlier, Danny had given a Best Man's Speech which no-one would ever forget, least of all Robert whose ears, by the time Danny had finished telling what he had to recount, were distinctly red; while for his part, as Father of the Bride, Tom's choice recollections of Saiorse as a child provoked a considerable degree of laughter and merriment all round.

Despite her advancing years, Mama, too, had proceeded to enjoy herself in style for, instead of bowing out gracefully and being chauffeured back to the Dower House at an early hour, the last time Mary had seen her mother, partnered by the eldest of her three Irish grandsons, Cora was being taught the steps to something called the Lindy Hop.

Like his father, Danny was an excellent dancer, although Mary was given to wondering if the dance in question was quite proper; at least for someone of her mother's generation. However, when she had sought to raise the matter with Matthew, he had merely laughed at her and asked where was the harm, adding that Mama seemed to be having a wonderful time and that, after all, she was an American.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Drawing Room, later that same evening.

With Danny having left to drive Robert and Saiorse to wherever it was they were spending their first night together as man and wife, Cora having been chauffeured back to the Dower House, with the younger children in bed, although doubtless not asleep, and Simon in his room, the remaining adult members of the family were gathered together in the Drawing Room.

"And just where is Max?" asked Mary.

"The last time I saw him, he was with his young lady, on the terrace," said Friedrich.

"Honestly! In our day, such liberties would never have been permitted!"

"Really?"

With the memory of a long gone summer's evening back in August 1914 at the residence of the Austro-Hungarian ambassador in London, Friedrich shot Mary a questioning glance.

"Well, maybe". She smiled.

"Max certainly seems smitten. In fact, they both do! I told Edith that they've been writing back and forth and on the telephone ever since he and I arrived here at Downton".

"I expect he's proposing to her this very instant!" laughed Tom.

Mary grimaced.

"Well, Max is far too young to think about settling down. Later on maybe, if ever we return to Austria. But then of course there's his haemophilia to consider. Because, if ever Max does marry, it would be wholly irresponsible of him and his wife to ever think of having children and that being so, I suspect there are very few women would want a childless union," said Edith.

"All the same, I rather like her," said Sybil.

"Who?"
"Claire".

"Darling, you would!" laughed Mary.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Good, sound farming stock," said Matthew with a chuckle, reaching for the dial on the radio beside him.

"Matthew! That's an awful thing to say! You make her sound like one of the heifers down at Home Farm".

"Friedrich, darling, I think perhaps you should go and find him".

"Edith, he's seventeen. Almost a man grown".

"That's what worries me!"

"Anyway, as I told you earlier, she was very kind to him; in fact, to both of us. What harm can come of it? She's leaving tomorrow. He won't see her again. Let them say their goodbyes".

"Ships that pass in the night!" chuckled Tom

"Please don't mention ships, at least not for a while. I've had quite enough of them!" exclaimed Edith.

"Well, she's a very pretty girl, for sure," said Tom.

"I do so wish Danny could find someone like her," sighed Sybil.

"So there's no-one special yet?" asked Mary.

"They come and they go. Although there was that girl ..."
"Which girl?" asked Edith, trying desperately to keep her voice sounding neutral.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, earlier that same evening.

"Danny, darling, there's something I have to tell you," said Edith, linking her arm through his and steering him away from the others.


"It was after Danny came back from Spain ... One evening, he was rather maudlin'. You remember, don't you, Tom?"

"Oh, you mean ... Darlin', that was just the whisky talking".

"What was her name? No, it's gone". Sybil shook her head.

"This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news. It was reported from the Air Ministry earlier today that a convoy in the English Channel was attacked by enemy aircraft ..."

"Matthew, do you have to listen to that, tonight of all nights?"
"Well, it's not a compulsory part of my duties as the earl of Grantham, so no, I suppose not". Matthew grinned and turned off the radio.

"Thank you, darling. Well, I think I can safely say that today has been a day that none of us will ever forget!" Mary glanced round at the others seated round the Drawing Room fireplace.

"How is Pickard?" asked Edith, with obvious concern. "I never thought that when I rang the bell and he opened the door ..."

"Darling, I telephoned the hospital this evening, shortly after Robert and Saiorse left. According to the nurse on duty, he'll be up and about again in a couple of days. Apparently, there's no real harm done, although from what she told me, I understand he gave his head quite a wack when he fainted".

"I really think I should go down to the hospital tomorrow and apologise".

"That's very sweet of you. Should I warn him that you're coming?" asked Mary.

"Perhaps you should!" laughed Friedrich.

"Edith, darling, delighted as we all are to have you and Kurt back with us safe and sound, especially after the hell you've both been through, do please try and remember that, what with one thing and another, let alone the war, these days domestic staff are exceedingly difficult to find!"

Tom grinned.

"That's the story of your life, isn't it Edith?"
"What is?"
"Men falling at your feet!"

"A toast!" exclaimed Matthew.

"What, another one?" asked Sybil, her eyes shining, her speech slightly slurred. The champagne was starting to go to her head.

Tom smiled.

Tonight might see a reversal of roles, with it being him helping her upstairs.

He found himself remembering when they had returned here to Downton that first time, as man and wife, and the odious Larry Grey had slipped something into his drink. Whatever it had been, some kind of pill, he had to be helped from the Dining Room by both Sybil and Matthew. After all these years, the humiliation Tom had felt, when Sybil then had to undress him and put him to bed, haunted him still. However, these days, Larry Grey was in no position to slip anyone anything; a matter of a couple of months ago, like Sir Oswald Mosley, he too had been interned on account of his known Fascist views.

Everyone, including Sybil, she a trifle unsteadily, now rose to their feet.

"The Happy Couple. Robert and Saiorse!" proposed Matthew, the toast taken up by everyone else present.

There was a moment's pause.

"And, to you, Edith. Welcome home!" Matthew said softly, raising his glass to her in what was yet another obvious heartfelt salutation.

"Welcome home!" chorused everyone.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, the same evening.

Even though it was now well after nine o'clock, it was still very warm. Out of sight of the house and, they hoped, away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, having taken off his jacket and undone his bow tie, Max leaned in to give Claire a kiss.

"Careful!" she warned, grabbing hold of him as, with his arm around her waist, in his enthusiasm, encumbered with a half empty bottle of champagne and two glasses, Max almost misjudged his footing on the stone steps leading up to the rose garden.

"Whoops! Must be the bubbly!" Max laughed; looked briefly at the label on the bottle. "Crikey! A Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37! Good old Uncle Matthew!"

Claire, who had never drunk champagne before, merely smiled.

"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine. No harm done".

"Really?"
"Perfectly".

"So, you were telling me earlier, that when they were children, Rob and Saiorse, they never got on?"
"That's putting it mildly".

"So what happened to change all of that?"

They had reached the lily pond where iridescent blue and green dragonflies darted hither and thither. The air was heady with the scent of both roses and honeysuckle, while from over beyond the high yew hedge came faint strains of music from the Ballroom.

Max indicated the stone bench beside the pool and spread his jacket upon it for Claire to sit on.

"Shall we?"

"Yes".

"Well, I suppose it had to do with what happened that last summer, before the war, when we were all together at La Rosière; that and the fact that my brother had just recovered from measles".

"Measles? What on earth did Kurt having had measles have to do with it?"

"Well …"


La Rosière, near Nantes, France, July 1939.

With the supply of wine bottles which they had been using for target practice now all but exhausted, and with Simon at the eleventh hour having rescued Oscar, his much-loved teddy bear, from being shot to pieces and ending up in a watery grave in the moat, Danny, Robert, and Max were sitting on the parapet on the stone wall of the bridge which led across to the house. From somewhere high above them there came the unmistakeable sound of an aeroplane. Glancing skywards, Max, who had retained his boyhood interest in all things aeronautical, promptly identified the lone grey green monoplane with its red, white, and blue roundels as a Morane-Saulnier belonging to the French Air Force.

"An M. S. 406 to be precise," he announced with a grin.

For a moment, all three of them found themselves transported back several years to one never-to-be-forgotten night, spent in the Alps in the summer of 1932, to a homely farmhouse kitchen where Max, then all of nine years old, sat chatting knowledgeably to Captain Nicolas Duval, a fighter pilot with the French Air Force.

A short while later, in the guise of three happy musketeers, Danny, Rob, and Max wandered slowly into the high vaulted entrance hall of La Rosière in search of something cool to drink.

"Does that look all right to you?" Max heard his Mama ask of Aunt Sybil.

"I think so, although perhaps it might be ..."

At the sight which greeted all three of them, Danny smiled; saw his mother move to stand at the other side of the long oak table and contemplate what was obviously the object of both her and Aunt Edith's present endeavours. While Ma was accomplished in so many things, as far as Danny could remember, flower arranging was not something at which his mother excelled. Even so, on those comparatively rare occasions when Da brought home a bunch of flowers for her from Dublin, Ma was always delighted to receive them. But, as for then spending time arranging them, an earthenware pot fetched from the scullery, filled with cold water from the tap out back, and the flowers then dropped in without any further ado, always seemed to suffice. Yet, now, here was Ma helping Aunt Edith arrange a mass of roses and accompanying greenery in a large blue and white Chinese vase.

"It looks like all three of you have caught the sun," observed Ma with a smile.

The young men nodded in agreement.

"It's very, very hot out there," said Robert.

"For sure," agreed Danny; saw that his mother was now searching his face.

"What ..."

"Danny, darling, your eyes are rather red".

With this observation, his mother now gently placed the back of her hand on the forehead of her eldest son. Danny grinned; knowing how she worried about them all, submitting patiently to her ministrations. A moment later and he saw Ma frown.

"What is it?" he asked, clearly mystified. He sniffed and then suddenly sneezed.

But instead of answering him, Ma began gently feeling beneath his lower jaw while at the same time he saw her turn to Aunt Edith.

"When did you say it was Kurt went down with measles?"

"The week before you all arrived. But he's over it now. Why do you ask?"

"Danny, darling, is your throat at all sore?"
"Why on earth do you want to know that? It's a little dry, Ma, but that's why we've come inside ... to find something to drink".

"Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, you, my lad, have measles".

"Measles? Only children get measles!" Danny laughed.

"That's usually the case. But unlike both your sister and your brothers, who had it when they were little, you never did. What about you two?" Sybil now eyed her two nephews.

"I had it when I was six or thereabouts," said Robert. "And I know Si and the girls have had it too".

"And Max had it when he was about the same age," offered Edith. "Sybil, darling, I think you're worrying unnecessarily".

"Ma, it's nothing, I tell you!"

"Well, we'll soon see. If you develop a rash".

Before the day was out, now with both a rash and temperature, feeling rather sorry for himself, Danny found himself confined to bed; his only consolation being that, everyone else had had measles already and, Ma assured him, it wouldn't last very long.


At La Rosière, the following day dawned just as hot and sunny.

Had Danny not been confined to bed, given how inseparable they were, both he and Robert would have been mooching about the grounds of La Rosière together. However, on this fine morning when Robert approached the little wooden jetty, he was not only on his own but also in time to see Saiorse in her black swimsuit setting off for the island in the rowing boat.

"I wouldn't, not if I were you. You know what Uncle Friedrich told us, about the weir".

"Well, I'm not you, so I'll thank you to mind your own bloody business!" Saiorse scowled at Robert and continued rowing away from the jetty.

"Have it your own way then!"

"I will!"

Robert turned; began to walk back through the belt of trees which here in this spot ran down almost to the water's edge. A few moments later, alerted by Saiorse's screams, he was racing back down to the jetty; saw that she had lost one of the oars and in a futile attempt to retrieve it had overbalanced, fallen into the water, was even now drifting dangerously towards the weir and the main channel of the river.

Without a moment's thought for his own safety, running like the wind, Robert raced out along the jetty and dived fully clothed headlong into the water, swimming for Saiorse just as fast as he could. Although he himself was a good swimmer, the current was strong, and had it not been for the presence of an overhanging branch, along with the now empty skiff, it is likely that both of them would have been swept over the weir, and drowned.


"You're an absolute idiot! You could have drowned!"
"I could say the same about you!"
Saiorse threw him her towel.

"Here, you'll catch your death!"

"Do you really care if I do?"

"No, not a bit. Apart from all the trouble it would cause. Now, get out of those wet clothes, for sure!"

Robert did as he was bidden, kicking off his canvas shoes while Saiorse's nimble fingers helped him make short work of the buttons of his shirt.

"I can manage, thank you".

"Those too!" she said ignoring his protest and pointing to his shorts. A moment later, standing before her in nothing but his underpants, Robert began briskly rubbing himself dry with Saiorse's bathing towel.


"Why ... why do you hate me so much?" he asked a short while later, as they sat together on the jetty in the warm sunshine, waiting for his clothes to dry. Idly, Robert skimmed a pebble into the water.

"I don't!"
"Yes, you do".

At that, Saiorse turned her head away. Sat in her swimsuit, her arms clasped about her, staring somewhere into the middle distance, she gazed silently out over the grey waters of the Loire.

The silence lengthened.

"Because ... because ... you're always with Danny," she said at last. She began to chew on her lower lip. "It's like ... like I don't even exist! There! I've said it! So, now you know!"


"Have you any idea?"
"About what?" she asked, not even deigning to look at him for fear that he would see the tears in her eyes.

"What it is you do to me," he said softly.

Turning her head, she caught sight of the growing erection within his underpants.

"I think I do," she said.

"No idea at all," Robert repeated. Too late, he became aware of her eyes upon him; realised what she had seen. He blushed.

"I think I have," she said huskily.

"Saiorse!" he moaned and reached for her.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening, 20th July 1940.

"To us," proposed Max, raising his glass.

"To us!" echoed Claire with a laugh.

"Happy?"

"Yes!"

"Really?"
"Yes! Of course. Oh, this is heavenly. It's so peaceful here. One could almost believe that there wasn't a war". Claire looked up at the darkening blue of the sky where now, almost as if to contradict her, at that very moment, far above them, there soared a British fighter, in its wake leaving a white vapour trail.

"Mind you, the rose garden at Rosenberg is far more beautiful. But then I suppose I'm biased. Did I ever tell you that from it you can see the Alps?"

"Yes, you did. It sounds lovely".

"One day, I should very much like to show it to you".

"I like your mother," said Claire brightly sipping her champagne once again. "And your father too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"Your brother, Kurt's a plucky little chap. My God, when I think what he and his mother must both have gone through over there in France! And all the while believing you and your father ..."

Gravely, Max nodded his head.

"Mama's always been very … einfallsreich ... I'm not sure of the word in English. She knows ... knows what to do ... when things go wrong".

"Capable," offered Claire, now resting her head gently on his shoulder.

"Just so!" Max laughed. "Even so, I expect there's a great deal that she hasn't told us".

"Your Uncle Matthew's charming and your Uncle Tom's great fun. His wife's very sweet".

"Aunt Sybil. Yes, she is. Very".

"She asked me to tell her all about the London School of Medicine, when it was I decided I wanted to become a doctor. That sort of thing. But, as for your Aunt Mary, she was livid when I caught Saiorse's bouquet. And then asking me what time my train was on Sunday. In fact, I'm only surprised that she didn't offer to drive me down to the station herself!"

Max laughed.

"Aunt Mary can't even drive. She doesn't know how!"

"All the same, I think she'd far rather that we'd never even met!"

"That's silly. Anyway, don't worry about my Aunt Mary. She's like your father ... her bark is far worse than her bite!" .

"Perhaps," Claire said evenly.

Max knew that it was now or never. A moment later, having set down his glass on the seat, and before Claire realised what it was that he was doing, Max had slipped to one knee.

"Claire, will you marry me?" He gazed up at her, searching her face.

"Max ... I ..." Looking down at him, from his expression, she realised that he was in earnest.

"I know how I feel about you, Claire, and I think you feel the same way about me". Max rose to his feet, sat beside her once more, slipping his arm about her shoulders.

"And ... if I do ... what would your parents say? You, the son of an Austrian lord, marrying a English tenant farmer's daughter?"

"Papa's not a lord. And even if he was, they'd both be delighted".

"You really think so?"

Max nodded.

"Look, I know they're both very protective of me but they'll come round. I know they will".

"Maybe. But ... all of this ..." Spreading her hands wide, Claire indicated their surroundings. "Max, this isn't me. And, besides, we haven't known each other long".

"Love's not about that," he said quietly.

"No, you're right. It isn't".

"Will you at least promise me that you'll think about it?"

"Of course". Claire nodded her head.

"You will?"

"I've just said so, silly, haven't I?" She laughed as Max enfolded her in his arms covering her face with kisses. "Only ..."

"Only what?" He drew back.

"I think it's best we don't say anything, either to your parents ... or my Dad ... until we've decided what we're going to do".

"All right, if that's what you want".

Thereafter, as the sky continued to darken, with their arms around each other, they sat together in companionable silence, watching the Mead Moon as it rose slowly over Downton.


Downton Abbey, by the lake, earlier the same evening.

Danny was absolutely stunned.

Having taken off his jacket, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up, smoking a cigarette, his head in his hands, Danny sat looking down at the ground beneath his feet, idly making circles in the dust with the toe of his right shoe. Beside him, seated on the wooden bench, Edith wondered if the silence would ever end, if her nephew was hoping secretly that either the lake or else the ground might swallow him up whole, and thus end his present torment. At length, Danny dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground; stubbed it out savagely with his heel. Ever so slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at his aunt.

"Whatever must you think of me?" he gasped.

Edith smiled at him reassuringly; placed her arm comfortingly around his shoulders.

"I didn't know you smoked".
"I don't! Leastways, not as a rule. But, after what you've just told me, I needed a fag. Here, want one?". Danny fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a packet of Woodbines. "Please don't tell Ma, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it!"

"No, thank you. I don't. And, no, I won't say a word to your Ma. As to what I think of you? Nothing unpleasant, I assure you. Did you really think I would? Danny, darling, I've known you all your life, remember? You're a fine young man, a credit to both your parents".

"I don't think that at this precise moment, if Da and Ma knew about Carmen and the baby, they would agree with you, for sure".

"Darling, of course they would".

"Really?"
"Yes, really. Why on earth do you think otherwise?"
"Well, they weren't exactly over the moon about Rob and Saiorse for sure. At least not to begin with. Especially Ma. And she still blames the two of them for what happened to Da; for his heart attack. Even though he tries to insist that's not what it was. Anyway, while he was down there in the Cottage Hospital, Ma gave them both a right telling off! I heard her doing it. Going at them hammer and tongs she was for sure!. Of course, to be fair, I know she was very upset about Da, but, when I think about it, I don't think I've ever heard her so angry. Afterwards, when I told him, what had happened, Da said that while he adores her, when Ma gets angry, really angry, it's time to take cover. Even he beats a hasty retreat! Anyway, after Ma had calmed down, when she'd come back up here to the house, for what it's worth, Rob told me for sure that he'd sooner deal with a whole pack of German fighters than be on the receiving end of Ma's anger ever again. Jaysus! I love Ma more than I can say, but have you ever heard her, when she's on the warpath? Why, she could shot blast the keel of the Queen Mary with that tongue of hers!"

Edith laughed out loud at the image Danny had conjured.

"I don't doubt that for an instant! Darling, you know just as well as I do that your Ma's the sweetest thing on God's earth. When we were children growing up here at Downton, she was forever trying to keep the peace between your Aunt Mary and myself. you probably know that we never got on!" Edith flashed her nephew a knowing smile. "But even as a little girl, your Ma always had a temper. Not that there was ever any malice in her. A flash in the pan. Gone in a moment. Over and done with. Danny, darling, don't take all of this upon yourself. These things happen. And while I have no intention whatsoever of instructing you in the facts of life, after all I think that particular horse has well and truly bolted, do you remember what I told you all those years ago, on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, about rendering unto Caesar?"

"Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's? Yes, you see, I was paying attention". Danny chuckled and his aunt laughed, both of them remembering back to that never-to-be-forgotten day, all those years ago, on the bridge in Florence, with the sunlight sparkling on the waters of the Arno.

"Obviously. Well, bearing that in mind, it takes two people to make a baby. Now, from talking to Carmen, it's as clear as day that she loves you very much and from what you've told me this evening, you feel the same way about her".

In the fading light, she saw him blush to the roots of his hair; reminding her instantly of Tom. Then Danny nodded his head.

"For sure! And the little boy ... I mean my son ... Daniel? Forgive me, but it takes a bit of getting used to!" Danny now ducked his head and grinned at his aunt in a way that once again reminded her so much of his dearly loved father.

"I'm sure it does!" Edith smiled. "He's the splitting image of you. Slightly darker in his complexion, mind, but then I suppose he gets that from his mother".

Danny nodded once again.

"Aunt Edith?"
"What is it?"
"Look, I have to drive Rob and Saiorse over to ..." He paused, then smiled. "Over to where they're staying tonight. Will you do something for me, please?"
"If I can. What is it?"


Pope's Quay, Dublin, Ireland, night, 22nd July 1940.

On board the steamer, the night was proving to be uncomfortably warm. In the narrow bunk Carmen turned fitfully in her sleep, as, yet again she endured the same nightmare, as vivid in its intensity, as it was unpleasant, of wave upon wave of bombers of the German Condor Legion swooping low, raining down death and destruction upon the defenceless, helpless citizens of Guernica. The scene shifted and once more she was witness to Nationalist soldiers of the Falange dragging her uncle into the sunlit square before his house in Bilbao before bayoneting him to death in front of his wife and two small children.

Then, in the very next instant, Carmen herself was wide awake and listening intently. Just above her head, out on deck, she heard furtive footsteps. Fumbling beneath her pillow, the tips of her fingers closed on the stock of the Mauser. A moment later, footsteps sounded on the steps outside the cabin. Now sitting up, Carmen pointed the pistol directly at the door.

¿Quien esta ahí?" she demanded.

There was no reply.

The door began to open.

Releasing the safety catch, Carmen squeezed hard on the trigger; the sound of the single shot masked by a lorry backfiring on the quay and the gaggle of noisy regulars stumbling out of Murphy's Bar.


Downton Railway Station, Yorkshire, England, 21st July 1940.

It is a truism that when one wishes it to be running late, the train one is waiting for arrives precisely on time. This morning, this again proved to be so as, in the distance towards Ellerbeck, a whistle now sounded and a plume of steam showed white against the backdrop of blue grey hills.

"Claire, look at me, please".

They were standing facing each other on the platform in the sunshine, he with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, she looking down at the ground, her suitcase beside her.

"But what about your family, Rosenberg ..."

In a swirl of steam and smoke, with brakes squealing, the train drew in alongside them.

"None of that matters to me, at least not as much as you and your happiness".

Doors opened and closed.

"Max, are you really sure?"

Unobserved by both of them, at the far end of the platform, the guard showed a green flag.

Max smiled; held out his hand to her.

"I am. And, in case you've forgotten, you still haven't answered my question".

"'ere, you gettin' on this train or not?" interrupted the irascible, elderly porter perspiring profusely.

"Yes".

Max opened the door and helped Claire up into the carriage.

"No, I haven't forgotten," she said, now leaning through the open window of the door, her eyes fixed firmly on his face as Max stood gazing up at her from the platform.

The engine tooted impatiently.

"Then, will you marry me, Claire?"

Slowly, the train began to move out of the station.

The moment had come. Seeing the way Max was looking at her, the thought of not seeing him again, thinking just how right it all seemed, it was in this very instant, Claire had her answer; something which, in all the time they had together, she never once regretted.

"Yes!"

Breaking into the broadest of smiles, Max grabbed for the brass handle of the carriage door and, a moment later, having wrenched it open, he had clambered up into the compartment.

"'ere you bloody idiot! That's against regulations, that is!" yelled the elderly porter. Answer came there none but, as the train puffed out of the station, began to gather speed, before it rounded the curve and disappeared out of sight altogether, the old porter at least had the satisfaction of seeing the swinging door at last slam shut.

Aboard the train, having pulled the door closed behind him, Max sank down on the seat beside her.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Claire aghast.

"What do you think? I'm coming with you," Max said and pulled her to him.


Pope's Quay, Dublin, Ireland, early morning, 23rd July 1940.

With a cargo of Irish slates, bound for Funchal on the Portuguese island of Madeira, the Pedro sailed at first light.


Author's Note:

There are several recordings of In the Mood, the most famous of which is that made at the RCA Studios in New York on 1 August 1939, and which included Glenn Miller as one of the performing artists.

For Violet's involvement with Captain Alexei Sheremetev, see "Reunion".

For what happened in the Alps in the summer of 1932, see "The Rome Express".

"Mead Moon" is an old country name given to the full moon in July.

The bombing of the Basque town of Guernica was one of the worst of the many atrocities committed, by both sides, during the Spanish Civil War.