Chapter Twelve

A Most Singular Indiscretion

Mr. Charles Carson the august, portly, and now distinctly grey haired butler of Downton Abbey was indisputably the one single individual to who befell the arduous task of presiding over the whole complex business of keeping the country house of the earl and countess of Grantham in perfect running order.

The inviolable and sacred repository of all manner of secrets of both the Crawleys and their household, affable without being familiar - that would never do - always both composed and imperturbable, Mr. Carson exuded a studied air of harmonious calm and unshakeable stability. Indeed, so effectively, and so unobtrusively, did he discharge each and every one of the countless myriad of matters which collectively made up his duties as butler to the Crawley family that Downton Abbey was well known to be one of the best ordered and run houses - if not the best ordered and run house - in this, the quiet north east part of the West Riding of Yorkshire.

Now aged sixty or thereabouts - he would never admit to his exact age - Mr. Carson had served the Crawley family loyally for the past forty years, arriving at the house in the late autumn of 1880, initially to take up the position of footman, and then thereafter serving as valet to the present Lord Grantham's father, the fourth earl, while he was still head of the family.

In 1892, upon the death of the fourth earl, his son and heir had kindly offered Mr. Carson the then vacant position of butler. It must be said that the previous occupant of the post, Mr. William Edley, had seemed immutable. Indeed, despite having held the post of butler to the Crawleys for some thirty years, he seemed unlikely to be willing to surrender the post any time soon.

It had, recalled Mr. Carson, been after church one Sunday morning that Mrs. Sorsby, the then housekeeper, had remarked that surely one could not be expected to take everything in the Bible literally. Take for example Methuselah who was supposed to have lived to the ripe old age of nine hundred and sixty nine years. As they came out from the church porch into the early autumn sunlight, glancing rather pointedly in the direction of Mr. Edley, Charles - or Charlie as he was then known to both the family and his fellow servants - had said that he found such an idea all too believable.

But as things turned out, Mr. Edley was not long for this world. Sometime in late November of that very same year, a severe chill, which rapidly grew worse, and then developed into pneumonia, finally accomplished what had once had seemed so unlikely. Very shortly thereafter, Mr. Edley was duly laid to rest in the quiet little churchyard attached to the parish church of Downton, in sight of both the family and the house which he had served so loyally for so many years.

Whilst outwardly regretting the tragic demise of Mr. Edley, which in the view of Charlie was very much long overdue, he was secretly delighted by the fortuitous turn of events which had now placed the post which he had coveted for so many years now firmly within his grasp. But, Charlie did not allow his pleasure at the prospect which opened before him to be read upon his august features and not for one moment did he let his customary mask of inscrutability slip.

Instead, having been offered the position of butler, Charlie had merely asked of His Lordship if he might have but a short while to carefully consider the matter; if His Lordship would be kind enough to grant him twenty four hours to think the proposal over. Naturally, His Lordship readily acquiesced in this regard, as Charlie had known that he would. Charlie would let His Lordship know his answer the following morning.

Of course, Charlie knew full well what his answer would be.

And so it was that but a little over twenty four hours later that, after a few moments conversation with His Lordship in the latter's study, Mr. Carson, as he would henceforth be known, accepted with alacrity the position of butler at Downton Abbey and immediately assumed the role which was his for the taking without any further ado or prevarication.

It was whilst sitting at his desk in his room below stairs one morning, early in June 1919, that Mr. Carson suddenly found himself remembering one especially taxing house party, which had taken place well before the Great War. On that occasion, amongst other guests, the Crawleys had played host to the Duke and Duchess of Dorset who in terms of noble precedence outranked their hosts in status requiring that protocol be strictly observed at all times.

Several of the other guests were American, on account of Her Ladyship's own antecedents: Mr. Frederick William Vanderbilt and his wife Louise of New York - Mr. Vanderbilt was the director of several American railroads, and Mr. William Russell Adams an American legislator and businessman and his wife Imogen, both from Boston, Massachussets.

Now why it was he should suddenly have recalled this particular house party all these years later, Mr. Carson really could not say. After all, since then, there had been so many others, some grander, some less so. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that one of the letters which had arrived in this morning's post, and which Mr. Carson had but recently sorted, was from the now widowed Sophia, Dowager Duchess of Dorset.

Her husband had died the year before the Great War had begun. Thereafter, when the war broke out in August 1914, the Duchess had been amongst the very first members of the aristocracy to establish a Red Cross Ambulance Unit in Belgium, which thereafter, in turn, was transformed into a British Red Cross Hospital Unit in France. Later the Duchess had been awarded the Belgian Royal Red Cross, the French Croix de Guerre and the British Red Cross for her efforts during the conflict.

Whether it was with this example firmly in her mind that Lady Sybil had taken her momentous decision to enroll as a nurse with the Red Cross in 1916, Mr. Carson could not, for certain, say. He suspected that the example of the Duchess may have played a minor part in Lady Sybil's decision - after all the Sackville-Germains were friends of her parents -, but no more than that, and that it had rather more to do with the machinations of Mrs. Isobel Crawley - who in Mr. Carson's own opinion - naturally unexpressed - was an interfering busybody.

On the occasion which Mr. Carson now called to mind, His Lordship had been kind enough to compliment him upon his meticulous organisation. There had been three dinner parties for upwards of thirty people, not to mention a shoot, and all had passed off so well that His Lordship had likened the whole smoothly run operation to the performance of a well oiled machine. It was at this juncture that one of the other guests, who, along with his wife, so as to be in time for the London train, was just making his farewells to Lady Grantham, and heard His Lordship's kind words.

That individual had been Mr. Bruce Ismay, at that time Chairman of the White Star Line. Mr. Ismay, too, echoed His Lordship's thoughtful words and had added that Mr. Carson was, in Mr. Ismay's estimation, as capable in his own way as the Commodore of the White Star Line. Whilst at the time, Mr. Carson had been inwardly flattered by the comparison he did not let his pleasure at Mr. Ismay's words show. Remaining both aloof and calm, other than a slight nod of his head, Mr. Bonham did what any self respecting butler would do: he merely demurred.

Sometime later, the self same Commodore, Captain Edward John Smith, had the singular misfortune to run his last command - RMS Titanic - into an iceberg on her maiden voyage in April 1912 and in the process, if only indirectly, thus causing the untimely deaths of two members of the Crawley family including His Lordship's heir. Mr. Carson therefore felt it was very much for the best, if Mr. Ismay's well meant comparison was best forgotten. After all, unlike the Titanic, Mr. Carson had no intention whatsoever of allowing the House of Grantham to founder.

Apart from the letter addressed to Her Ladyship from the Dowager Duchess of Dorset, there was one other item of post which, on that bright morning in June 1919, particularly caught the attention of Mr. Carson. And that was the letter addressed to him personally, bearing a Dublin postmark. As far as he was aware, Mr. Carson did not know anyone in Dublin; nor, if the truth be told did he want to, given what was apparently now unfolding over there across the sea in Ireland.

Of course he was painfully well aware, how could he not be, as indeed were they all below stairs, that Lady Sybil and her ... here Mr. Carson paused, then took an extremely deep breath ... fiancé Mr. Branson were now living in Dublin.

Mr. Carson pursed his lips, then inhaled and exhaled deeply. A singularly bad choice, thought he, not only of husband but also of a place in which to decide to live, given that if but half of what was being reported over here in England in the newspapers on almost a daily basis was true - and Mr. Carson saw no reason to disagree with the printed word - that matters were going from bad to worse over there in Ireland.

Good God, he wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that those demanding an independent Irish state were in league with the Bolsheviks in Russia. After all had not the Bolsheviks brutally murdered the Tsar and his immediate family less than a year ago? And were not those same lunatics demanding independence for Ireland seeking to remove His Majesty the King as Head of State? Why, it was too awful a prospect to contemplate.

Mr. Carson had few relatives - a younger brother who, with his family, had a farm down near Wells in Somerset and an elder unmarried sister who lived not that far away, in Scarborough over on the Yorkshire coast. It was true that he received letters from them, but only infrequently, birthday good wishes and at Christmas; and corresponded with them only by way of reply. So, who on earth could be writing to him from Dublin?

He carefully perused the envelope once more; held it up to the light. No, whilst there was something faintly familiar about the handwriting, as yet the individual who had penned it remained a mystery. Mr. Carson placed the envelope before him and drummed his fingertips on his desk. A lady's hand to be sure, But, not that of Lady Sybil. In any case, she would hardly write privately to the butler of her parents' own house. It simply wasn't done.

Then again, considering how far she had fallen socially both by her injudicious choice of future husband, anything was possible. And when, with her lineage and her looks, young Lady Sybil could have had the pick of the county. To marry a former chauffeur, who from all accounts now aspired to be a journalist? Dear, oh dear. Mr. Carson shook his head. Whatever next? Would Lady Mary take up with the grizzled publican who ran the Grantham Arms in the village? Would Lady Edith depart the hallowed halls of Downton to pursue a career on the London stage? "Ozymandias. King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair" thought Mr. Carson.

Enough!

He reached for the paper knife lying on his desk, deftly slit open the envelope, and extracted the letter from within. Mr. Carson unfolded the neatly folded single sheet of paper. To his surprise, he found that the letter had been written from a place called Clontarf - no he had never heard of it - near Dublin, and but a matter of three days ago.

Still mystified, he read on.

"Dear Mr. Carson,

I hope you will forgive me the liberty of my presuming upon our old acquaintance ..."

The letter was signed by a Mrs. Hannah O'Rourke. Initially, the name meant nothing to him. "... presuming upon our old acquaintance ..." Then the proverbial penny dropped. Of course! When he had known her, she had been Hannah Wainwright. Hannah had been a housemaid here at Downton, when he was but His Lordship's valet. Well, well, well.

Hannah had left Downton to take a position with a family down near Cork, friends of His Lordship. What the devil had been their name? Tremayne! Yes, that was it. The Tremaynes of Curraghmore. Mr. Carson smiled, inwardly well satisfied. He prided himself on his ability to recall even the minutest detail of matters appertaining to the household here at Downton, including what had become of erstwhile employees. And to confirm that Mr. Carson was indeed correct in his recollection, later in her letter, Hannah asked if he had heard what had happened to the house "Curraghmore" of her former employers the Tremaynes? Set alight by the so-called Volunteers and burnt to the ground!

It transpired that long before the aforementioned incendiary outrage, Hannah had left service to marry an Irishman named O'Rourke, who, it transpired, worked as a farrier for the Oultons who rented the Clontarf Castle Estate, not far from Dublin, and lived in a tied cottage on the estate.

And now Hannah came to the point of her letter.

She was writing to Mr. Carson because, quite by chance, she had run into - "had an encounter" as she phrased it - with someone in Clontarf whom she felt convinced she recognised from the old days here at Downton. Hannah had been waiting in the grey light of a June morning to catch the first tram into Dublin, when a young woman dressed beneath her overcoat in a nurse's uniform, turned up at the tram stop along with a handsome young man whom Hannah did not recognise, but for all that looked familiar. In any event, he was obviously very much the young woman's "fancy piece". Here Hannah had added a remark, presumably detailing how she could tell this to be so; then, mindful of to whom she was writing, evidently thought better of it, and had neatly inked out the words which might possibly otherwise have given offence.

It was when the young man had spoken to the young woman, called her "Sybil" that Hannah's initial suspicions had been confirmed. The young woman was undoubtedly none other than Lady Sybil Crawley! Hannah was writing to Mr. Carson to ascertain whether she had been mistaken in her surmise.

The letter merited a response.

So, later, on the afternoon of that same day, having ascertained that the pieces of silver required for the dinner the Crawleys were hosting that evening had been cleaned and readied for service, finding himself with a few moments to spare, taking pen in hand, Mr. Carson once again sat himself down at his desk, this time to write a reply to Hannah.

Of course, even if he had known the precise details of where Lady Sybil was now living, he would never have divulged them, least of all to a former servant of the family.

However, Mr. Carson saw no harm, in fact none whatsoever, in merely informing Hannah that he believed - he would put it no stronger - that Lady Sybil had recently settled in Dublin. That she had become engaged to a penniless Irishman of no social standing whatsoever was not something to be noised abroad. On that particular subject, His Lordship and Mr. Carson were as one: it was totally unacceptable and the least said about the matter, the better.

But, by all but confirming to his erstwhile colleague that Lady Sybil was indeed now living in Dublin, Mr. Carson had broken the one, single, cardinal rule of one who considered himself to be in all respects the embodiment and personification of a good butler: that of continued discretion in all matters appertaining to the family he served.

He could not be blamed for not having foreseen it, but Mr. Carson's singular lapse in this regard was to have serious consequences for all of those most directly concerned.