This one goes out to all of you. You know who you are.
June 1919
The Dowager is seated in the library at Downton, cheerily sipping at a glass of sherry. She shakes her cane irritatedly at her son, who, for the past few hours, has been nervously pacing the floor. Two floors above him, Mary is in agonies of pain. Her labour had come a little earlier than expected, precipitated by a rather rigorous walk through the estate that she had insisted on being a part of that morning. The younger Crawleys had all decamped to Downton for the beginning of the summer, as Mary and Matthew had agreed that, from July through September, they would assist with matters of the estate. This also allowed them (well, Matthew), to pick and choose which events of the London season they attended.
No one expected Mary to join the others on their tour, but then Mary thrives on unpredictability. However, let me say, dear reader, that she deeply regretted this need in her at this very moment. Additionally, while Mary would never swear that there was a God, she jolly well hoped that he existed. Matthew, being unable to bear the moans he could hear in the bedroom, had kept bursting in at intervals. Eventually, he was frogmarched to the car and despatched to the pub, with the Countess promising all manner of revenge upon him if he returned before he was sent for. Mr. Bates was sent with him, a grim, if kindly, bodyguard. Mr. Barrow went, too, and, as Matthew was not much for speaking, you could say that all three gentlemen passed the next three hours in their own comparative hells.
The Dowager decides that Robert, too, is particularly annoying and sends him to the music room with a decanter of whisky. Being the kind of English laird who listens to everything his mother says, he despairingly does so.
Two more hours go by. Then silence. A long silence. Cora, waiting outside the bedroom, knocks and goes softly in. In the doctor's arms is a baby, and he and the nurse are urgently ministering to it.
Mary, clutching her mother-in-law's hands is sobbing, "Oh God, is it dead? Oh where is Matthew, oh my dear."
Dr Clarkson sits quietly in a chair. He massages the baby's windpipe, all the while tapping the baby softly on his leg. Suddenly a clearing sound, and a little whimper is heard. It is not the lusty yelling that heralded his brother George's entry into the world, but it is a signal of life.
"I think it's time for Matthew to see his new son, Cora.", says the Doctor nodding in a satisfied way. Cora smiles, but before she leaves the room, goes to the doctor and whispers something that makes the man blush with pleasure.
"Congratulations on your new grandson."
The baby is named Reginald Richard Crawley, much to the annoyance of the Dowager, who had hoped the child would bear her husband's name. But Matthew is resolute, and, as he smiles down at his second child, he feels deeply grateful for the man who oversaw the birth. Little Reg will always be a little on the delicate side, a little shy and retiring, but his compassionate heart and artistic soul will endear him to his father in a very special way.
But Mary is still very weak, and she and the baby are ordered to several weeks of rest and recuperation. Dr. Clarkson, frowning a little at Mary's slender frame, says to Matthew, "No more children, I think, Matthew. Your wife won't come through another one."
Xx
Hot on the heels of a Crawley comes a Strallan. Patrick Anthony Strallan, named for his father and maternal great grandfather, and also the first man to steal his mother's heart, is three weeks premature. The early birth is brought on, in part, says the doctor, by the heightened state of anxiety that Edith has been existing in since Anthony fell ill. Patrick slips quickly and quietly into the world, a generous hearted boy with an exceptional mind. He is a bonny child, and had he been carried to term, may well have been the largest of all the Crawley grandchildren. He and Reginald, much to the surprise of their mothers, will share a bond almost as if they were twins. Indeed, during their teenage years, the villagers will come to refer to the pair as "them Crawley twins."
After Patrick has been cleaned and presented to his Papa, and put to bed, the Doctor asks for a quiet word with Edith. He sits, fatherly like, on the chair by her bed.
"How are you feeling, Edith?"
"I am well, just a little tired."
"My dear, may I speak to you? As a proto-uncle?"
"Of course you may. Is it Anthony? Was the whole event too stressful for him?"
"It is not Anthony. It is you. You have worried yourself beyond a point where it is healthy for you to do so. Anthony is recovering well and quickly. He doesn't push himself too far, in fact, I'd like him to be a little more active than he is. It is you that concerns me, as your doctor and as your friend."
"Shouldn't I worry for him, care for him?"
"Certainly, certainly, but I believe my dear that it is too much. What troubles you so?"
"What will happen to me if the worst…?"
"You will survive my dear. All three of you Crawley girls are fighters, look at what you have accomplished. Look at what you continue to do. You must go back to your magazine, to your writing, to the estate."
"I am only able to do it because Anthony is by my side. I am not like Mary and Sybil."
"Nonsense. I dare say Anthony was only the catalyst in your case. The spark to the flame. Besides, it will not do for the children to have two invalided parents. Will you try?"
Edith just looks down and picks at the embroidery on the coverlet.
"During the war, you wrote once about how the war transforms, and emboldens, how women must find reserves of strength as the lead the fight for their country. This is your little country, your nation, you are it's General. Patrick is the first casualty of war, for he will take time to come to full health. Do you see?"
"Yes, I see."
I should add, because I am your slightly gleeful narrator, would like to note that with the births arriving as they do, there is a period of about a week during which time both Edith and Mary are consigned to bed rest (albeit separately, and in different homes). The shared fate of the sisters causes much suppressed amusement amongst the family and various staff, especially as neither is keen to share the spotlight. Even Cora, concerned mother, who had to spend a few days shuttling between the two estates, watched Robert shaking with laughter and pronounced him as "dreadful", before succumbing to her own giggles.
But if you ask any of them, they would swear it was a most serious time, a most serious time in deed.
