Authors Note: A warning: this chapter has some violence (including violence of a sexual nature) so please proceed with caution if you don't like that sort of thing. M chapter.
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"Farnham," Donald Watson poked his head around the corner of the door to the younger man's office. "Have a moment? I've a job come in. One I can't take."
"Yes, Sir. With you right away." Arthur Farnham stood, picked up his notebook and pen, and followed his boss back to his office.
The job seemed innocuous enough. An allegation of possible shareholder misappropriation: the client was an Englishman with a minor shareholding in a company neither lawyer had heard of, and of which, they therefore presumed must be of modest size. The man now resided in America, and as such he was including an offer of a first class return passage to New York with the fee.
Mr Farnham cleared his throat. "Why put me on this, Sir? Looks to be a modest job. A few perks with it, I mean a passage to New York and the opportunity for a week in the new Hotel Pennsylvania isn't to be sneezed at. Surely one of the senior partners…?"
Mr Watson's lips twitched at his protégé's hidden meaning. "Well, Farnham, that's just it. This Mr John Smith, whom I must say I've not heard of before, seems a mighty suspicious chap. He will only take on a lawyer that will swear on the bible to having absolutely no connections, or potential conflicts with this rather long list of other shareholders," and he pushed a piece of paper across the desk. Arthur ran his eye over it quickly. He gave a low whistle. "If you don't mind me saying, Sir. This list reads like a page from Burkes Peerage! Are we sure it's just a small company?"
Mr Watson gave a snort. "Must be, given none of us around here have heard of it. Besides, you know how the nobs work. Put a dime here, a dime there. I mean look at the uptake that Ponzi chap has been getting, his agents working all the gentlemen's clubs! Fishy if you ask me. But there they all are, lining up. Purses out!"
"And this is why you're asking me. Unlikely I'd know any of these gentlemen," Arthur stated.
"Exactly." Mr Watson confirmed.
Arthur slowly exhaled. Strange how things worked out sometimes, he pondered. Rare that a lad like himself with his background might ever find that working in his favour when it came to landing such a cushy legal job. For Arthur Farnham, despite his sharp clothes and modulated Oxford accent, was the only son of a humble factory clerk.
Mr Watson stood, indicating to his employee that his time was up. Arthur did likewise.
"Well then. Have a good look at it. Double-check that list. And if you can swear on the bible to no connections, familial or otherwise, then get a letter organised, and we'll take it on. Shame to waste that first class return passage eh?" he raised his eyebrows, his gaze following his employee as he left. He was pleased to be able to offer the hardworking lad a bit of a perk. He worried for him. Always a serious type, he had returned from the war brooding and silent. And his smile, rare at the best of times, had not been seen by any of the partners since.
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Mary put down her copy of The Custom of the Country and looked out at the rain pelting against the windows. Inside a fire crackled merrily in the grate, its warmth and glow lending a cosy feel to the Shipton's gracious drawing room. They had the residence to themselves: Clarissa and Alex were in Kent for the weekend visiting friends. A sudden gust sent a branch of the large oak outside lashing noisily against the side of the house and Mary felt a blast of chill air as the draught forced its way in around the edges of the French windows.
Stormy. Like our last months have been, she found herself reflecting a little sadly. She and Matthew had struggled being apart: hated leaving each other, but finding themselves rowing far too frequently each time they were reunited. If it hadn't been another urgent decision needed for the renovations to the vicarage or an argument about what staff their new household would need, it was a disgruntled farmer worried about their new tenancy agreement, or worst of all, yet more news of an expensive problem unearthed as the overdue maintenance to the cottages continued at pace.
She gave a heavy sigh, recalling it all. Both of them had been exhausted: her morning sickness, which was thankfully now over, had left her drained and cross, and she hadn't managed to achieve as much as she had hoped for the Estate, after returning so full of confidence from New York. And Matthew, whilst he had continued to make progress, seemed to be perpetually tired. They had both expected his tiredness to abate, as it had the previous times he had embarked on a new regimen, but it hadn't. If anything it seemed to be getting worse, and with it, Mary observed darkly, his mood.
No wonder it had all come to an explosive head one Saturday afternoon a few weeks prior, when she had been reduced to tears and Matthew to stony silence after a seemingly pointless fight over the placement of light fittings in the reception room at the vicarage. Thank goodness Isobel had arrived when she did: sitting them both down she had seen immediately the problem, and gently insisted they schedule some time off together, where there would be no talk of work, the estate, nor the progress on their home to be.
And here they were. Together in London, on a cold and wet autumn weekend.
She sighed again and turned back to the warmth of the fire. It was so pleasant to be relaxing, but it would be over too soon, and the relentless schedule would resume once more.
This time, Matthew looked up from his book. "What is it, my darling? You're sighing a lot."
"I've missed this," she said softly. "Weekends like they should be. Relaxing in each other's company without a to do list hanging over us," she paused.
"But come Monday, it will all go back to how it's been. Be apart all week. Back together for too short a time, with too many decisions to make. We'll be grumping at each other again before you can say Jack Robinson!" there was both resignation and a little bitterness in her tone.
Matthew frowned slightly, pressing his lips together. "It's not for much longer. The deal is through. And we start interviewing for a principal for the office this week. The vicarage is almost ready. And…" he paused and shook his head slightly, not sure what to say about his rehabilitation, which had been getting him more and more down of late.
"Oh God," he heard his wife mutter. "The movers. They're still not booked!" Damn it. Something else I am behind on! Mary was immediately bothered.
"Sorry," Matthew said more gently. "We weren't supposed to be talking of such things."
"I should say sorry. I interrupted you," Mary sighed yet again. "You were about to say something else."
"Oh…" a shadow crossed his face and he blew his cheeks out. "Nothing." He really didn't want to think about it. When his programme had been officially due to end in the middle of October, he had agreed, at the urging of the medics, to stay on to take part in another trial. In agreeing, he had reasoned if there were a possibility for even more improvement he would be a fool not to try. Now he wasn't so sure. True, it had seen him manage on his feet for far longer, but the intensity of it all was such that he had been struggling in a fog of exhaustion ever since.
"Are you sure it's nothing?" she persisted.
He frowned. "Well…" he wasn't sure where to begin.
"It's your rehab, isn't it?" Mary surmised. "Not going so well. When do you see Doctor Jones for your next review?"
"Three weeks," he replied. "The Tuesday after our benefit concert," he paused. "Would you come with me?"
She sensed his apprehension. "Of course!" she said quickly. "And let's hope he has a better explanation than your other doctor for why you are so tired," she tried to sound reassuring.
"If only," Matthew said heavily. "God, Mary. I never…" he shook his head. As he opened his mouth to continue, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.
"A telephone call for you, Lady Mary," Giles announced, entering with a bow.
"For me?" Mary glanced at Matthew and stood up. "Excuse me Matthew. Perhaps it is Mama. She said she had something she might call about," and she followed Giles from the room into the hallway.
It was cold in the foyer where the telephone was. She pulled her wrap tightly about her and picked up the receiver.
"Hello," she said expectantly.
"Mary. Thank goodness you're there. I wanted to catch you before you went back to Downton." It was Edward. Something in his voice put Mary instantly on alert.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"Well, to tell you the truth, it's all a bit strange. It's some information you might want me to send on to that associate of yours in New York," he paused.
Mary inhaled sharply and clutched the receiver closer to her ear. "Tell me," she said abruptly, and Edward began.
"You wouldn't believe what I've just heard," she announced to a surprised Matthew upon her return to the drawing room. "Eddie received a dossier. No idea who from. But," she lowered her voice and looked around to check that Giles had left, "it includes bank statements and transactions that show it was Lord Doncourt who paid Sir Richard for the information passed to the German operatives." Matthew gave a low whistle.
"Lord Doncourt, it appears, has then been paid by some sort of entity that is actually a cover for a German armaments company," Mary continued. "And it appears that Lord Doncourt is not the only one."
"My goodness," Matthew breathed. "Has… who else knows of this?" he frowned.
"No one. Eddie is quite aware just what he's dealing with. He's going to arrange for them all to be copied, confidentially," she added hurriedly seeing Matthew's frown deepen. "And then he'll send it all off to New York."
"Without a return address I hope," Matthew stated.
"Of course."
"Who were the others?" Matthew asked.
"One was Viscount Thomas Trent," answered Mary, and Matthew rolled his eyes.
"No surprise there! Who else?" She rattled off a list of names. One of the names rang a bell: a Viscount Rochester. Why do I know that name? he muttered half to himself, but try as he might, he couldn't remember. And perhaps it didn't matter. This information might be all it took to bring these men to account.
"You know what this means," Matthew leaned forward on his elbows and drummed his fingers together.
Mary nodded, knowing what he was about to say.
"Someone else knows. Someone who is on our side! But the thing is who is it? And how the devil do they know what we're up to?" he stared at Mary intently. They looked at each other, thinking.
"I wonder if it's Richard himself?" Mary said at last.
Matthew shrugged. "It seems the most likely explanation. But how he has achieved that when Doncourt must have his spies out, I've no idea. I mean, these are bona fide copies of Doncourt's bank statements for goodness sakes."
"Perhaps it's time Violet had another chat with Mr Craddock. Dropped him a hint. See if he takes the bait," Matthew pondered.
Mary frowned and pursed her lips. "Very well," she said eventually. "I'll visit Granny on Monday."
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Sunlight burst through early afternoon. Transformed the storm-weary city. Water droplets glittered, jewel-like on telephone wires. Wind-tossed twigs and leaves softened the usual hard angles of the paths. Folk began to venture out, pleased at the chance to enjoy some fresh air after days cooped up inside. Mary and Matthew, taking a turn in Chester Square's private garden, found themselves energised by the sharpness of the freshly washed air. They joked together. Brushed hands. Lips. Kicked piles of leaves like over-excited children. Flirted.
Returning indoors they were both of a singular mind. The bedroom door had barely clicked shut before Mary began to remove her clothes. He stood and watched her, entranced. She was magnificent in her pregnancy. Her skin glowed. She was curvy. When her blouse came off, he couldn't help but gasp at the sight of her fuller breasts straining against the flimsy lace brassiere. Every move she made was sensual - the dropping of her skirt. Suspenders carefully unclasped. Silk stockings delicately smoothed off.
He felt a frisson, and his whole body trembled. He clutched his sticks tightly to steady himself.
Purring, she moved and stood so close to him that their foreheads touched and their breath mingled. Her bosom pressed tantalisingly into his chest.
"Your turn?" she whispered. He sat down on the bed, and they dealt with his shoes and the brace first. As he reached to undo his tie, she put her hand out to stop him. "Let me." She was blushing.
He cocked his head at her, questioningly.
"I want to see you naked in the daylight. And," she paused. "Standing up," her voice was sheepish.
"Standing up, naked?" Matthew echoed in astonishment.
She nodded, her blush deepening. "I want to…" she felt too shy to say it: that she wanted them to stand together and hold each other, stark naked. Instead she looked at him beseechingly, willing him to understand.
Confused he frowned at her slightly for a moment. But then he shrugged. Whatever turns my insatiable wife on!, he reasoned, and he smirked slightly to himself.
He reached for his sticks and rose slowly to his feet. "Well," he said breathily as Mary stood too, in all her naked magnificence. "You'd best get on with it. Because I'm desperate to throw you back onto that bed right now."
"You'll be more desperate in a minute," she murmured, her dark eyes glittering and she reached for his tie.
"You are a witch. You know that, don't you?" Matthew chuckled as she quickly worked it loose. Mary undressing him was quite the experience. Nothing practical about it: rather it took the form of a slow, sensual dance of her hands (and usually her lips as well) that left him completely unhinged.
And so it was. The jacket, waistcoat and finally the shirt all rapidly unbuttoned: the shiver that stole through his body as her tongue dragged lazily across his chest; the heat that began to consume him as her fingers stroked feather-light circles around the sensitive skin of his waist. He uttered a moan.
The pants were unbuttoned next. Last the shorts. She let them drop to the floor, and steadied him whilst he kicked them away with his good leg. Reaching for his groin, she took him in her hand and squeezed, a thrill going through her own body as she felt his arousal. Releasing him, she stepped back, and ran her hands up and down the smooth lines of his body. Noticed the tone, back to some extent at least, in his legs. The deep scars across his torso starting to fade.
No longer rail thin, she relished how sleek he was looking and how it served to accentuate his strength and the nice proportions of his body. Her pulse quickened. She caught his gaze and lost herself for a moment in his exquisite blue eyes. There was a lump in her throat. He was utterly beautiful.
Stepping forward, she pressed herself against him, wanting to feel every inch of his skin against hers. One arm wrapped itself firmly around him, stroking his back, squeezing his backside. The other grasped his length and began to work him with more than a little vigour. She gave a sultry smile as she felt him hardening still further under her touch.
"Good god, woman," he bit out. She quietened him with a firm kiss and continued her efforts. She knew what worked for him now: knew he could sense and enjoy a change in the pressure, or in the rhythm of her touch. And that touching him under his tip seemed to hasten his arousal.
He growled, wanting more of her. Couldn't feel enough of her body, his hands having to be otherwise occupied. "Mary, please…" he gasped, and dropping his sticks, he grabbed at her bottom and the two of them tumbled giggling back onto the bed.
What joy to feel her warm, yielding body atop his! To brush his hand over her rich, glossy hair; to explore her mouth with his tongue, delighting in the softness of her lips possessively owning him. He wanted to take her. Growling again, he rolled her over, and with a bit of effort, managed to position himself kneeling above her. With a smirk, he pinned her arms back and leaned forward intending to give her a seductive kiss.
"Matthew!" she gasped looking at him wide eyed.
He frowned confused, and then he felt a wave of panic. Perhaps this wasn't all right. Was this too close to what the ghastly Pamuk had done?
"Mary?" he let go and sat back up and his arousal faded. His eyes were questioning, clearly worried. She immediately understood, pleased at his thoughtfulness, but a little sad it had put him off.
"No. No darling. I know it's you. And I'm always safe with you. It's just… well, this is new," she tried to explain.
"If it's not all right we don't…" he began, but she sat up quickly and interrupted him with a firm kiss.
"It really is all right. And I'm thrilled if we can try to do this. A new way! So how about you get on with it," she whispered.
He looked at her a little uncertainly, and as if to reassure him, she flashed her eyes at him and reached to fondle him once more. And after an initial pause, he responded with a mischievous smile and a growl and they resumed their earlier kissing.
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He saw the Dowager and her maid well before they saw him. He wondered what cause she had to rendezvous this time. Last time it had been to dismiss him. Code, he knew, for them calling a halt to anymore digging. He had been oddly disappointed, but not surprised: punishment for what had been published of Lord Grantham's affair with his maid, he presumed.
After the initial terror of being forced into a double-cross – how the formidable old woman had ever found out his sordid secret he had no idea – he had managed the ruse, he thought, rather well. Certainly no hint of suspicion from his other client.
She passed him slowly on the path, continuing her idle chatter to her maid, the slightest flick of her eye indicating that she had seen him. When the pair reached the kiosk, the maid went inside presumably to order, and the Dowager continued on towards the lily pond. Straightening his tie he walked quickly to catch her up and fell into step alongside her.
"I've heard a whisper," she murmured, continuing to look straight ahead. "A gentleman has written evidence. He does not wish to blow the whistle. The question is whether your man wants to. He must plead guilty of course. Find out. Tell me next week." She stopped at a park bench and with the slightest lift of his chin to show he had acknowledged her message, he continued past her along the path.
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"Mr Barrow. Mr Barrow!" Barrow looked through the gloom trying to see who was calling out to him as he hurried, coat drawn close against the cold towards the station for the evening train to York. And then he recognised Charlie Connell, limping towards him from the direction of The Dog and Duck.
"Good evening Mr Connell," Barrow nodded to the younger man and slowed his step to allow him to catch up. "Not the warmest night is it?"
"Flippin' freezing," Charlie Connell hunched over a little more as an icy wind swirled around the two men, flapping their coats and scarves. "I'm glad I saw you. A long time ago now Mr Crawley was after a photograph. That fellow who had been causing the trouble for Lord Grantham."
"Oh?" Barrow glanced sideways at Charlie and tried to remember. And it then it came to him: the odd conversation with his employer that had followed a trip to the Tailor's in Ripon where Charlie worked: something about a man trying to get dirt from the locals on the Crawley family. He nodded. "Yes, I remember now. Have you seen this man?"
"Tim Bennett did," Charlie replied. "A few times in Ripon. And per chance this last time, he had access to a camera. The boss had one in that day for publicity photos. Some special car apparently. And the man walked past! So Tim took advantage and got the picture. But it's taken a while to get it – he had to wait for the boss to get the film developed and all. And here it is," He pressed a brown envelope into Barrow's hand. "Can I trust you'll get it to Mr Crawley for me," his teeth chattering now from the cold. "Never sure these days if he's in London or up at the big house."
"Of course," Barrow nodded. "And thank you for this Mr Connell. Mr Crawley will be very pleased." The two men nodded to each other and went their different ways, the bitter evening precluding any chance of a longer exchange. With no time to return to the Abbey and show it to Mr Crawley lest he miss his train, Barrow took the opportunity instead to show it first to Charlotte Jordan, Maurice's sister, who had arranged to meet her brother for tea after church on Sunday morning. A little confused as to why her brother's weekend valet even had the picture, Charlotte had confirmed, a little wistfully that yes, that was 'Peter' the suitor who had visited her twice and been friendly with her brother before vanishing, seemingly without trace, and without so much as a note to say good bye.
Immediately upon his return to Downton that evening, Barrow showed it to Mrs Hughes and Alfred. Both of them startled a little when they saw it. "There is a similarity," Mrs Hughes frowned. She walked across to her desk, unlocked it, and rifled in the drawer. "Aah. Here it is." Returning with one of two copies of the photograph that Alfred had managed to take (Lady Mary was in possession of the other), she placed it alongside and the three of them looked closely at the images.
"It is the same man," Alfred said at last. "Completely different clothes! I mean, there he looks like a right nob," he shook his head. "But when he showed up here, remember, Mrs Hughes? He looked just like your regular farm hand!" The three of them looked at each other.
"Good evening," Anna Bates walked in. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?" she said quickly, seeing their perplexed expressions.
"No my dear," Mrs Hughes straightened up. "What was it you wanted?"
"To tell you that Queen Anne is ready for Lady Shackelton." She looked at them more closely. "What is it? You all look a little mysterious!" Following their eyes down, she saw the two photographs. "Who are they?" she said, walking over to take a closer look.
"Well, that's just it," Thomas began. "We believe this man might be the one behind all the trouble for Lord Grantham."
"Oh?" Anna looked questioningly at Thomas and back at the photographs again.
"Hmmm," she lent closer over one of the pictures. "How strange," she murmured. "I don't know about the man you're pointing at. But I've met his friend," and she pointed to other man who had been captured in the photograph taken by Tim Bennett.
"You've met that man he's talking to?" Mrs Hughes's mouth dropped open in surprise, looking from the photograph of the partially obscured man to Anna and back again.
"Well, I think it is who I met," Anna looked again at the picture. "He was with Edna. I was going into a menswear in York to pick up a new tie for Mr Bates. And she was on her way out, with him! Quite a while ago now of course," her expression sobered at having to mention a now deceased colleague.
The silence in the room made Anna look up. "What is it? Have I said something wrong?" she stammered.
"You didn't catch his name, by chance did you?" Barrow asked urgently.
"Um… ah. Alex? Mr Alex perhaps? Why? What's wrong?" She asked again.
"Anna my dear, this is naught to do with you! But you've been very helpful!" Mrs Hughes hastened to reassure her. She pulled out a chair, motioning it to Anna. "Take a seat, and we'll tell you the story."
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Downton Abbey was a hive of activity. Lorries rumbled up and down the drive delivering meat, groceries, flowers and extra seating. From upstairs came the hum of the new electric hoovers as the maids prepared one room after the other for the large number of guests expected for the weekend fundraising event. The downstairs staff had been up even earlier than usual, and breakfast had been a hasty affair, such were the tasks to be completed before the day was out.
"It must be six years since we have had a house party of this size," Mr Carson remarked as Butler and Housekeeper reviewed the task list.
"Indeed," Mrs Hughes replied. "Except that six years ago we had twice the number of staff. And hiring in extras is very difficult when good help is so hard to find," she tsk tsked. "Only two days to go, and I still haven't sourced the last of the extra kitchen maids we need for Mrs Patmore. And her Ladyship has been down every morning this past week worrying over the menus!"
"Hmm," Carson frowned. "We will have to look harder. You do know that they say that this Dame Nellie Melba is more 'royal than the royals," there was a slight note of disapproval in Carson's voice.
"And not just where the menu is concerned," Mrs Hughes pressed her lips together. "Her Ladyship had new curtains hung in Princess Amelia this week past. And a new rug bought! It seems a stone won't be left unturned in attending to the Dame's comfort."
"But all for a good cause, of that there is no doubt," Mr Carson knitted his bushy eyebrows. "Mr Crawley and Mr Napier's efforts supporting our wounded heroes. We must all do our part."
There was a knock on Mrs Hughes's sitting room door. "Come in," the Housekeeper said, and Anna Bates entered, clutching a folio.
"Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes. Her Ladyship has just given me the final changes to the guest list," She placed the folio on Mrs Hughes's table and opened it to the page. "Lord Gillingham is now bringing his own valet. A Mr Green. The Honourable Evelyn Napier has finally confirmed his attending staff: with him and Lady Sarah are a Mr Dorset and a Miss Lisbon. Oh, and Mr Charles Blake asks if he may have the services of one of our footmen for the duration."
"And of course, he may," Carson responded, doing a quick tally in his head of the additional rooms required to house the guests' attending servants. The three conferred about some further details and then Anna left, a list of errands for Lady Mary still to do.
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Matthew was angry. Furious it had worked out this way. Unaccountably tired. He and his exhausted, pregnant wife supervising movers the same weekend they were supposed to be courting Yorkshire society.
And it was his entire fault.
You really buggered this one up, Crawley he berated himself for the umpteenth time as he pointed four lads struggling with the oversized Chesterfield sofa in the direction of the drawing room. And now you are going to be late to your very own fund raiser. It's not a good look.
Mary had been onto him for weeks about the need to employ a Butler. "We need one," she had implored, many times. "We're both too busy to run the household. And when the baby comes it's only going to get worse!"
But he had railed against the mere thought of another man running his house. Delayed looking at the advertisement she had penned. Contemplated Barrow, but then remembered Maurice and decided, without asking his valet, that it couldn't possibly work. Announced to her in a tone that allowed for no argument, that they should wait until they had moved in.
Until now, when he was forced to confront the unpalatable reality of his over-stretched wife having had said 'yes' without thinking, to a moving date that directly clashed with their fund raising event. And worse, the first he had heard about it had been only a few days prior by which time it was too late to rearrange.
They hadn't shared a civil word since.
He groaned and leaned against the wall, wanting it all to go away. He heard the front door open and shut, and rapid footsteps in the hallway. Barrow appeared, puffing slightly. "Sir," he said a little urgently. "I know you wanted it all finished, but with the delay with the rain this morning, the men have only done the first load. It will take until midnight to finish it all! May I suggest you call a stop: Tell them to secure the trucks and come back Monday. If you don't dress now you and her Ladyship will miss the cocktails."
Matthew blew his cheeks out and gave a heavy sigh. "For goodness sakes. It's all a right balls-up," he rolled his eyes. "But let us do as you suggest, Barrow. Tell them. Let Anna know, and then come straight to the dressing room. We'll have to hurry."
As Thomas helped him quickly into white tie, Matthew reflected on how the fundraiser had come about, and how fast it had crept up on them. It seemed only yesterday that Cousin Rosamund had swept into his office at the Carey Street branch of Harvell and Carter to triumphantly announce that she had Dame Nellie Melba's agreement to sing.
It had been quite a coup: the Dame had agreed to sing twice. In fact it had been her suggestion to perform at no fee for the veterans and their families. Held the week prior at the Royal Hall in Harrogate, the free concert had been a roaring success. They had been able to use the festive occasion to publicise the work of their Trust directly with veterans, talking, handing out pamphlets, explaining what aid was available, and also using the opportunity to sign men up to the various returned services associations represented. All of the Trustees had been there to help. Matthew had returned home at the end of the night tired but extremely satisfied.
"Marvellous event. Just marvellous!" Robert said effusively as they drove through the dark and slightly misty countryside back towards Downton.
"It was," Cora smiled. "And to think we filled every seat in the Royal Hall!"
"All thanks to you and your team of organisers," Matthew gave his mother-in-law a grateful look. He felt indebted to Rosamund and Cora: their efforts had seen free buses from the surrounding towns and villages for the concertgoers and provision of a small Christmas gift to each child in attendance. "And the crowd just loved Dame Nellie," he added.
"They certainly did," Cora agreed. "There were few dry eyes when she closed with Puccini's Addio. Although I have to admit that my favourite of the night was Annie Laurie."
"Well, the newspapers were out in force," Robert said. "And if there are good reviews it should bode well for our society concert next weekend."
And now it was that weekend. And it needed to go well if they were to reach the ambitious fund raising target they had set. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. And hoped that he and Mary could come together enough to get through it without another row.
It was the Christmas tree that did it. Adorned with glass and silver decorations, the large tree in the Grand Hall, together with the candles wreathed in mistletoe and holly created a magical scene. Neither of them could help smiling when they saw it, and it broke the frosty silence that had reigned during the short trip in the motor from the vicarage to the Abbey.
Turning to his wife, regal in her dark green gown and an emerald and gold tiara, Matthew uttered "Truce?" in an apologetic tone.
"Truce," she echoed, touching his arm briefly, and with a peace brokered, the two of them proceeded to the drawing room where the cocktails were now being served. It was time to go to work. The evening was all about wooing Yorkshire's patricians and doing everything possible to get them to open their purses. Mary's intent was twofold: instil confidence in employing the wounded by sharing her own experience; and in so doing, underline the importance of proper support and how to provide it. Matthew's was to emphasise the scale and harsh realities of the unmet need, sharing the personal approaches and letters he and the other Trustees were fielding on an ever-increasing basis.
It was a very busy few hours indeed, and by the time they were expected to go through to the ballroom for the concert, Matthew was exhausted and stumbling on his feet. Barrow, who had been keeping a watchful eye out, sidled up to him and asked quietly, "Sir, might I fetch you your chair?" But Matthew, annoyed with himself for being so tired and knowing full well the reason why, stubbornly refused. With more than a little misgiving Barrow chose not to argue the case: instead he kept close by as Matthew made his way slowly to the ballroom with his wife. He was so focused on getting him safely to his seat near the front, he didn't see the man seated with the servants near the back: a man whose profile he might just have recognised. A man who appeared in a photograph, that thanks to the chaos of the week, Barrow had still not had the chance to show to his employer.
Twenty minutes into the concert, the lights now dimmed for the 'semi-staging' Rosamund had insisted upon, Anna Bates finally gave in to her pounding headache, and reluctantly stood to go in search of a much needed draught.
Thomas wasn't sure why he had even glanced back at that moment. Perhaps it was the slight scrape of her chair. But it was then he noticed him: some familiarity in the man's silhouette, a man who, like him, had turned to watch Anna leave. He frowned, staring intently for a moment. Unable to place him, Thomas turned his focus back to Dame Nellie.
Only seconds later, another movement caught his eye, and turning his head again, he saw the man stand up and slip silently out of the room. A sudden beam of light from the stage illuminated the man's profile for an instant and he saw it more fully. Distinctive. That sharp jaw. The jutting eyebrows. He felt strangely uneasy. Where was the man going? He exhaled impatiently, and tried to focus back on the singer. It's nothing, he told himself. Poor devil's probably got a headache. Like Anna. Anna. Anna. The photograph. Blimey, was it him? It was him. The man she had met who had been with Edna. A jolt of fear charged through him. Had he recognised her? What if he was Green? And what if she ran into him now? He gasped so sharply that Matthew turned to look at him.
"Sorry, Sir," he mouthed. "Not feeling well," and all of a sudden he was on his feet, desperate to get out of the room. He needed to find Anna. Matthew shot him a questioning look and Barrow forced a reassuring smile onto his face but touched his head briefly: Matthew gave a brief nod: his valet had a headache and he was going in search of a draught. He turned back to the front and focused back on the singer, who was beginning the opening verse of Faust's Jewel Song.
Being so close to the front, and with the seating so tightly packed, Thomas heard more than a few murmurs of disapproval from the guests as he tried, as quickly as possible, to make his way through to the exit, all the time trying to catch Bates's eye. Unfortunately he caught Carson's first, and Carson gave him a look of such venom that he froze and stood uncertainly for a few seconds, wondering what to do.
Bloody hell Thomas! He told himself. Forget old Carson. You know that bastard has to be the Green chap. The brute that did Jane over. Whose mate tried to set up Maurice. And Anna is out there alone! The thought of her running into him was too awful to contemplate. Impassive but defiant he kept his eye on Carson whilst continuing, as fast as possible, to work his way through the tangle of guest legs and chairs. He finally reached Bates glad the man was in an aisle seat. His face now burning red under the furious gaze of Mr Carson, he tapped the older man on the shoulder.
"Mr Bates. Come. It's Anna!" he hissed.
"What the devil…" Bates frowned at him suspiciously.
"Just come… that man! A bad man! Anna!" Thomas whispered desperately, and he tugged on the man's arm.
His unexpected touch and the desperation in his eyes shocked Bates. He had no idea what Thomas was on about, but he could tell it was something serious and it involved his wife. After a furtive glance left and right, he nodded, and reached beneath his seat for his stick.
"I'll go ahead," Thomas muttered under his breath, knowing Bates would be slow, and he walked silently but quickly to the doors. And once through them, he began to run. Behind him, Bates was less fortunate. He had just got to his feet and was turning to go, when he found himself blocked by a furious Mr Carson.
Thomas saw that the door to downstairs was open, and calculated that it was there that Anna would have gone. He was barely through the door when he heard her terrified scream.
Fucking hell! He increased his speed, taking the steps two at a time. Anna screamed again, even louder, and this time she didn't stop. Thomas groaned out loud, fear prickling the back of his neck. Reaching the bottom of the stairs he bounded towards the kitchen. He could hear the menacing voice, "… aren't you a pretty little bitch! But you know too much. And I'm going to enjoy..." and the rest of his words were drowned out again by Anna's terrified screams.
Barrow flung open the kitchen door and in an instant he was back in the trenches: The raw smell of fear. The blood. The ugly one to one combat. But this German wore a valet's livery and the English tommy was a woman. Spots came into his eyes and he swayed.
Anna screamed again, snapping him out of it, and he was back in the Downton kitchen facing a horrifying sight. Blond hair clutched in a brutal fist. The sound of clothing viciously rent. An animalistic growl.
A blood spattered kitchen knife lay on the table. Spying it, Thomas felt his stomach lurch. What the fuck has he done with that already? And acting on pure instinct, he dived first for the knife, picking it up and flinging it across the kitchen where it slithered, thankfully out of sight, under one of the stoves.
Next he wheeled round and jabbed his elbow hard into Green's solar plexus roaring, "Get your hands off of her!" directly into his ear. He had caught Green by surprise, and the man stumbled sideways, hampered by his loosened clothing. He lost his grip on Anna who fell to the floor and doubled up in pain.
Enraged, the man began wrestling Thomas.
"Run Anna!" he shouted desperately, and sobbing in terror, she began a desperate crawl towards the door. Thomas managed to sidestep Green's first few blows, but it got harder as the man became even angrier.
"You cock-sucking little shit," he sneered, and this time Thomas couldn't dodge the punch: the blow sent him flying across the room with such force he hit the wall.
"Aaargh," he grunted, and black spots were again swimming before his eyes. Furious, he dragged himself to his feet, swaying a little, and ran at Green once more, desperate to keep him from Anna long enough for her to escape.
Green gave an evil laugh, easily repelling the now dizzy and weakened Thomas. He set upon the slighter man with a series of cruel blows. Thomas felt the first few: One, he guessed, had loosened teeth. Another, he was sure had broken something. But a later blow knocked him out cold, and Anna let out a blood-curdling scream when she heard his body fall heavily against the table, and thud to the floor.
In the moment of terrifying silence that followed, she continued her painful but determined crawl towards the kitchen door until two large feet appeared and blocked her way. With a sickening jolt of fear she recoiled and curled herself back against the wall, shaking violently.
There was a strange timbre to the man's voice when he spoke. "Well, well. Fancy a Nancy boy for the first course. A little spice for what is to come!"
His titillation sickened her.
"Thought he could be your saviour!"
His laugh nauseating.
"But no. Oh no!" and with an evil grin he reached towards her. But just as his hands brushed her trembling shoulders, she heard a loud thwack, and the man jerked backwards, his shoes slithering away from her as if by some invisible force.
And then it was him who was howling in pain.
"You fucking bastard!" John Bates spat, yanking hard again on his walking stick. Green's face went a queer shade, and he staggered and half fell back against the table. "How dare you put your filthy hands on my wife!" Bates roared, yanking his walking stick roughly from out between the man's legs, and whacking it hard across the man's chest. He doubled over, winded and grunting in pain.
Bates lifted his stick ready for another strike, but the sound of shouting and hurried steps outside startled them both. Green jerked upright, trying desperately to catch his breath. He eyed Bates and the raised stick. And then, like a cat, he sprang sideways, avoiding the stick by a whisker as Bates crashed it down again. He shot out of the door just as Mr Carson arrived, shoving the older man brutally against the wall and dodging past Mrs Hughes. The slapping of his shoes against the stone floor echoed down the hall as he sprinted off. Mrs Hughes shouted indignantly.
Bates roared, "Don't let him get away!" He heard Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes scrambling to give chase, but he knew already it was futile: injured or not, the man was strong and fast. None of them had the capability to overpower him, and Alfred, the only one who might have, wasn't there.
"Dam and blast!" he swore in frustration. And what the hell... what the hell had the bastard done to his precious wife?
His skin prickling in fear, he turned back to her and not giving a jot about his bad leg, threw himself down onto the floor and took her in his arms.
Anna gave a ragged sob of relief. As she raised her head to look at her husband, her eyes fell on Thomas's still body curled against the table leg. She gave a start and tried painfully to straighten up.
"John," her voice trembled. "John look! Look at Thomas! He's hurt Thomas. We need to get the Doctor. Now."
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Sir Richard Carlisle was apoplectic. Speechless with rage.
"You promised me you'd keep that thug under control!" he hissed.
Doncourt shifted uncomfortably. "He did what you wanted," he answered testily. "Confirmed it can't have been Lord Grantham!"
"But he outed himself! Showed his hand! And all because he couldn't keep his flies shut," Richard hissed.
"He says he meant to kill the maid. Said she recognised him," the man retorted.
"And why didn't he? Well, we know why. Just like the other time, he let himself be ruled by his bloody prick," Richard whispered venomously. "How many days till he's found now? So many witnesses! I hope you've got a back up plan," he rounded on Doncourt. "Just imagine what he'd say to the right policeman. You'd better get cracking or you'll watch it all tumble down on top of you," and Richard looked away, seething.
For once, Lord Doncourt was actually chastened. It was a balls-up. And it could be a very expensive balls-up. Richard was right. The thug, so very valuable to them all these past years, was now a liability. And liabilities had to go.
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Author's Notes:
A little about Nellie Melba:
When the First World War broke out, Nellie Melba became involved in fund-raising for war charities, raising £100,000. In recognition of this, she was created a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire (DBE) in March 1918, "for services in organising patriotic work."
I wanted the circumstances in which she sings at Downton far more realistic than portrayed by JF in DA: Her singing in aid of a war charity is this.
One critique of the inaccuracies of the Fellowes portrayal of Dame Nellie makes this observation: "In 1922, she had enjoyed 30 years of being received as a social equal by crowned heads and aristocrats throughout Europe, and she would only have sung at a private party as a personal favour to her host."
And of course the real Dame Nellie never would have countenanced, nor do I believe would a host like Robert have been so uninformed, as to assume she would take her meal in her room and not in the dining room with the other esteemed guests!
