So now, we reach the final chapter of this story.

Chapter Thirty Five

Afterword

And so the Turning Year wound its way inexorably down to Christmas.

Rotunda Lying-In Hospital, Dublin, Irish Free State, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Sybil was very tired.

For some unfathomable reason, here at the Rotunda Hospital, she had found it to have been a particularly long and trying day shift. Would be very glad indeed to be going off duty in a quarter of an hour or so's time. Knew, too, that she would be happy when she had caught the tram, packed as it undoubtedly would be at this particular time of the year, from Parnell Square, down O'Connell Street. across the Liffey, to the railway station at Westland Row. Happier still, when the six o'clock train finally pulled into the platform at Blackrock from where it was then but a short walk across the road to the Bransons' cosy home on Idrone Terrace. It was odd that: she always thought of the snug terraced house, overlooking the Irish Sea, as home. Much as, grand as it undoubtedly was, and with its magnificent views northwards of the distant Alps, Edith did of Rosenberg. But, never once, that Sybil could recall, had she ever heard Mary describe the abbey as home. As Downton Abbey, yes. As Downton, that too. But otherwise, when referring to the grandiose pile, Mary spoke of it as the house. Never as home.

And yet, while all of the three Crawley sisters had been born at Downton, Mary had now lived there longer than any of them. Her own three children had been born there too, as no doubt would her fourth which, assuming all went well, would be early in the New Year. Sybil found herself wondering if Mary had told Matthew, as she had told Sybil at Rosenberg during their tête-à-tête, that she did not intend having any further children. Sybil thought it unlikely. That it had been ... What was the word Tom had used earlier in the year, in a letter written to Matthew, to describe the decision taken by Japan to withdraw from the League of Nations? A decision taken without consulting anybody else. Uni ... Unilateral! Yes, that was it. A unilateral decision, Sybil thought Mary's decision regarding having no further children had been just as unilateral. A question, so to speak, of metaphorically pulling up her drawbridge, and then repelling all boarders. For which read Matthew. For her part, Sybil could never have envisaged taking such a decision herself without first consulting Tom, as she had done when, finding herself expecting Dermot, they had then agreed that they would have no more children. And which was why, after Dermot's birth, on their first visit to England, Sybil, through contacts she had in the medical profession, had made arrangements to have a coil fitted; there being no chance of that happening, except clandestinely, in the Irish Free State where the Catholic Church reigned supreme, and taught that all forms of contraception were an abomination.

Now, as Sybil waited while Dr. Ryan continued with his examination, standing behind him, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand, she stifled a yawn. Hoped no-one had seen her do so; thought it unlikely.

With Erin on hand to care for Dermot, she being the latest in a long line of young girls engaged by Sybil to help about the house, all of whom had so far been found wanting in some respect or other, partly because Sybil liked to try and do everything herself, and with Tom home early tonight, it was his turn to make supper, even though it was Christmas Eve, Sybil was looking forward to a quiet evening. This morning, before she went into work, Tom had said something about making the family one of his famous stews which, on this cold winter's night, would be very welcome indeed. That, along with a nice cup of tea, while with her shoes off, her feet curled under her, seated in the old, threadbare armchair in a corner of the warm kitchen, Sybil watched Tom busying himself about the stove preparing the evening meal for her and the three children.

Sybil smothered another yawn.

At last, Dr. Ryan straightened up. Turning round, he nodded.

"Yes, for sure. Just as you thought," he said, confirming what Sybil herself had suspected: that the new arrival on the ward - a young unmarried girl from Rathmines, in the last few weeks of pregnancy, was suffering from preeclampsia which would be treated by the administration of morphine and chloral hydrate to keep her sedated and so decrease the chances of convulsions, as well as the intravenous administration of magnesium sulfate.

This put Sybil in mind of what had happened several months ago at Rosenberg, when her own diagnosis, that Esther Herzog had been suffering from the same condition, had resulted in Edith telephoning the local doctor to attend upon the young Jewish girl and which, in due course, Dr. Berger had done. However, by the time he had arrived, the baby, a little boy, had already been successfully delivered by Sybil. Fortunately, in the case of Esther, that her baby had come so quickly, had helped considerably; though not that this, in itself would prevent the onset of preeclampsia.

However, while having undertaken what needed doing, Dr. Berger had done so with a very poor grace. Quite why that had been, at the time, Sybil had not been entirely sure. After all, he had been solicitous enough in his care of Danny and Robert following their accident out at the Old Tower. Given the raid on Rosenberg by the Austrian police, Sybil wondered if with what had happened, she had been overwrought, that she had imagined it, but to her the doctor's manner in dealing with the young woman had, in her view, been both abrupt and offhand. When, much later, Sybil had made mention of this to Edith, saying that she might have been mistaken, after all she did not speak German, and might have misunderstood, Edith said she had not. Explained that the doctor's brusque manner had to do with the fact that, while no-one had said anything to him, Esther was undeniably Jewish. Sybil said she couldn't see what that had to do with anything; Jewish or not, Esther had been in need of medical attention and it was the duty of any doctor to do what needed to be done to alleviate pain and suffering, otherwise they would be in breach of their Hippocratic Oath. Edith nodded but had gone on to say that, given the political situation here in Austria, these days such things did not count for very much, if at all. That one of the specialists who had treated Max was Jewish; that, some time ago, Edith had received an anonymous letter advising that she should not have Jewish vermin treating her child.

"What did you do?"

"What on earth could I do? I tore it up of course".

Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Late yesterday afternoon, just as the light had begun to fail, but before it grew too dark to see, Edith had chanced to look out of the window of her Writing Room. Saw that the sky was leaden; the swirling clouds charged with menace. Then, in the night, long after everyone at Rosenberg had gone to bed and was fast asleep, the blizzard swept in from the north, a whirling vortex of fine dry snow, borne on a keen north-east wind, which turned the blackness of the winter's night into a howling maelstrom of white flakes.

So, when this morning Max had awoken, slipped out of bed, knelt on the window seat in his pyjamas, unlatched the shutters, and looked outside, to his astonishment he found the landscape beyond the house had changed beyond all recognition. Familiar features in the gardens below the house, the flagstones of the terrace, the balustrade with its ornamental urns, the steps, the flower beds, all, along with everything else, were no longer to be seen; buried as they now were beneath the heavy fall of snow, the landscape outside Max's window levelled to the uniformity of a counterpane, the sombre pines shrouded in mantles of white, and from which, from time to time, branches overburdened by the weight of the snow came cracking.

A short while later, washed and dressed and on his way to the Dining Room, Max came down into the Entrance Hall where, with the heavy front door having been repaired by a carpenter from the estate and the broken glass of the vestibule replaced, all traces of the damage, wrought on the night of the raid by the Bundessicherheitswachekorps, had been erased. With the splendidly decorated Christmas tree - according to Mama it was nowhere near as tall as the one she remembered from her childhood at Downton - standing at the foot of the Main Staircase, the hall looked even more magnificent than it did usually. And clustered beneath the tree there were a multitude of presents, brought according to tradition, not by Santa Claus, but by the Christkind, the Christ Child, both for the family and the household staff, which here in Austria would be distributed later tonight following the lighting of the candles on the tree; after which carols would be sung. Amid all the changes wrought in the country over the last few years, thankfully some traditions still endured.

Dining Room, Rosenberg.

For all of its lofty proportions, with the large porcelain tiled stove long since lit, as indeed they had been in all the other principal rooms of the house, the panelled Dining Room was both snug and warm. With today being Christmas Eve, the pine logs had been mixed with incense and herbs, it being the belief here in Austria that the resultant sweet smelling scent would keep evil spirits and misfortune out of the house. While Max wasn't at all sure about the existence of evil spirits, in his short life he had experienced his fair share of misfortune and then some, but this only because of his haemophilia. However, following his accident out at the pool, he had been very well indeed. The only cause for concern had been when, a few weeks ago, he had suffered a minor nosebleed, this on account of a heavy cold, which was just as well, what with Papa away in Palestine, and little Kurt now claiming more of Mama's time than hitherto.

Seated at the long table Max sat sipping his hot chocolate, while on the floor beside his chair Fritz waited expectantly for yet another piece of croissant. So far, this had still not materialised and Fritz was beginning to wonder if it ever would, unaware, as was Max, that his young master's mother did not approve of the little dog being fed at the table. Seeing Mama engaged in looking at the newspaper, Max knew it was now or never and surreptitiously dropped another piece of croissant onto the floor. It was gone in a moment, Fritz signifying his approval with a contented, sharp yap which, as far as young Max was concerned, could not have come worse.

"Darling, you know what I've told you before ... about feeding Fritz at the table?" said the voice from behind the newspaper.

"Yes, Mama". Max sighed.

"Besides which, you know it isn't good for him. It will make him fat," continued the disembodied voice and in the same level tone.

Fat? The very cheek of it! For a dog of his breed and age, Fritz considered himself perfectly proportioned. He snorted his displeasure.

Looking down at the little dog, Edith smiled. She knew there was a very strong bond existing between Max and Fritz, so much so that at times it was almost as if the irascible little dachshund understood exactly what they were all saying which, of course, was ridiculous. How could he? Folding and laying aside her newspaper, Edith took another sip of her coffee, then smiled. "Now, my darling, I have some news for you".

"Mama?"

However, before his mother could say another word, the door to the Dining Room opened and ...

O'Connell Street, Dublin, Irish Free State, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Atop the tram - when Sybil boarded it the lower saloon had been packed to capacity and then some - thanks to the chivalry of a student, quite unexpectedly she found herself with a seat, sank down wearily upon it, having bestowed upon the young man her grateful thanks. Now, from her vantage point, as the tramcar rattled away from Parnell Square, Sybil took in the sights and sounds of Christmas in Dublin. As far as the eye could see, all the way down the wide thoroughfare of O'Connell Street, to Nelson's Pillar and then beyond, lamplight spilled out across the street from the brightly lit shops. On either side of the road, thronging the pavements, were crowds of people, many of whom, no doubt, were busy doing their last minute Christmas shopping while, on the corner of Cathedral Street, with its imposing entrance porch, lofty chimneys, and wrought iron crestings, the ornate premises of Messrs. Gilbey's, wine merchants and distillers, was doing a roaring trade.

At the Pillar, where Sybil had to change trams, the press of both people and traffic was decidedly unpleasant. While the monument - commemorating Admiral Nelson - served as a well-known meeting point for one and all in Dublin, the Pillar, as it was known locally, caused no end of problems for the ever increasing number of motors and all the trams negotiating their competing ways along O'Connell Street. Tom said he didn't know why the Dublin Corporation didn't pull the blasted thing down or else blow it up. Looking about her, Sybil took in the Metropole Cinema and Restaurant next to the GPO which, like the massive bulk of the Post Office and Gresham's Hotel, had risen anew from the ashes of the Easter Rising, the façade of the Gresham further back up the street gaily lit with Christmas decorations. So too, across the street from where she was now standing, Clerys department store, also rebuilt, its large plate glass windows a blaze of electric light, the large, ornate clock on the front of the building, like the Pillar, a well-known local landmark and the pavement below it a meeting point for generations of courting couples.

Sybil knew she could catch the Number 6 and travel all the way home by tram, but it was much slower than the train and would have left her with a long walk from where the tram stopped in Blackrock, up to the house on Idrone Terrace. Now, as she continued to wait for the tram for Westland Row, looking up into the blackness of the night sky, Sybil saw a firmament flecked with stars and a few flakes of snow powdering down. Hoped fervently that this did not herald a repeat performance of what had happened earlier in the year when, back in February, all of Ireland had been blanketed by heavy snow.

Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Max was overjoyed by his father's unexpected return from Palestine, which meant that the whole family would be together for Christmas. For the Schönborns, it was the same as it was with the Bransons. There was never any reticence in displaying affection. For, seeing his papa appear unexpectedly in the Dining Room, Max was out of his chair in an instant, and fairly barrelling into his father's outstretched arms.

"My dearest, darling boy!"

Having sailed in haste from Alexandria in Egypt, on board the MV Victoria, while Edith knew the reason for Friedrich's earlier than expected return from the Near East, Max did not, having believed that, as had happened several times in the past, Papa might well be away from Rosenberg for Christmas.

However, with the announcement made by the pint sized Dollfuss in September, that parliamentary democracy in Austria was at an end, that there would effectively soon be only one political party permitted in Austria, namely the Vaterländische Front of which the diminutive Chancellor was himself leader, it was inevitable that this turn of events would satisfy no-one save for the Chancellor and his supporters. That sooner, rather than later, the various other military and political factions within the country, whether outlawed or not, as the Republikanischer Schutzbund had been in June 1933, and shortly afterwards both the Communists and the Nazis as well, would attempt to wrest control of Austria away from Dollfuss and the Vaterländische Front.

Whatever his commitment to the Archaeological Institute in Vienna, irrespective of what Edith had told him, with rumours that civil war was about to break out in Austria, Friedrich felt it incumbent to return home at the earliest opportunity. So, with the excavation in Samaria underway, Friedrich felt able, at least in the short term, to leave its day-to-day running in the capable hands of his assistant, Otto Horst, board the train from Haifa, and make the long journey south to the port of Alexandria in British controlled Egypt, and from there by steamer back to Trieste. If all went well, he would arrive back at Rosenberg on Christmas Eve.

And, so he did, which meant that this year here at Rosenberg the festive season would be celebrated with much more joy than would have been the case had Friedrich been absent. All things being equal, which, of course, they were not, Friedrich had every intention of sailing again for the Near East in the New Year, but whether he did so was in the lap of the gods.

Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Come what may, somethings, never changed. Christmas was, and always had been, a time for children. Here in the Entrance Hall of the abbey, with a splendid log fire burning in the grate, arm in arm, Matthew and Mary stood watching while Robert, Simon, and Rebecca put the finishing touches to the lower branches of the tree - a splendid twenty foot high fir. Until yesterday afternoon it had stood in a grove of trees up on the hillside overlooking White Beck Farm, before being felled, loaded on to a horse drawn wain, and brought down here to the abbey. Earlier today it had been erected in the Entrance Hall by the new under keeper, helped by a groom from the stables, in whom, for men not on the domestic staff of the abbey, Barrow seemed to have taken an inordinate interest. Now, with the upper branches having been decorated earlier by two young maids, the tree looked absolutely magnificent. Festooned with tiny electric bulbs and decked out with a host of brightly coloured glass baubles, some of which went back to the time of Mary's grandmother the late Dowager Countess of Grantham, not to be confused with the present Dowager Countess, Cora, Mary's own mother who was still very much alive. A moment later, Rebecca pressed a switch and the tree was aglow, brightly lit by a myriad of minute twinkling lights. Mary wondered if Matthew would have something to say about the cost of the electricity.

This in turn reminded Mary of the tale her late grandmother had once told of how, after the Russian Revolution, the Dowager Tsarina, then living in exile in her native Denmark, had incurred the displeasure of her nephew the Danish king, Christian X, by running up enormous bills. The king had sent a footman to his aunt to demand that she reduce the amount of electricity being used in her wing of the Amalienborg Palace. The Dowager Tsarina had been furious. In front of the hapless servant, she had ordered one of her own retinue to light the palace from cellar to attic. Mary admired her style; wondered what Matthew, in his relentless drive for savings, would say were she to do something similar! Not of course that she would, although ...

The last time Mary could recall such a dazzling display of lights had been when Matthew, Tom, and she had arrived at the Arizona Nightclub in Budapest; a lifetime ago, or so it seemed and yet it was only four months since.

As for the Christmas tree, there still remained one final task ...

Upstairs, in the gallery overlooking the hall, a squabble had broken out between Robert and Simon over which of them was to have the honour, as they saw it, of placing the large gold star on top of the Christmas tree; a ticklish task, necessitating whoever did it leaning out over the balustrade and fixing the star firmly in place.

"Give it here, Si'!"
"No! It's my turn to do it!"

"No it isn't!"
"Yes, it is!"

"It isn't!" Robert mouthed a silent Irish obscenity at his brother, one among many he had learned from Danny.

"But you did it last year!" pleaded Simon, tears starting.
"So what? Give it here!"

"Why should I?"

"Because I'm the eldest, that's why!"

Matthew sighed; wars had been fought over far less. Ever the diplomat, he now proceeded to adjudicate the dispute, saying that either Robert and Simon buried their differences and agreed to put the star on the tree together, or else Rebecca and he would do it themselves instead. That did the trick. A few moments later, albeit with none too good grace on the part of the two boys, the star was affixed where it belonged. Downstairs, seated beside the fire, staring into the flames, Mary heard none of this, preoccupied as she was, thinking about something which had happened here in this very room but a couple of weeks ago.

Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, two weeks earlier.

"No, he didn't. Tibor, darling, I'm so very, very pleased to see you both safe, and looking so well. But, why here, of all places?"

Again Tibor smiled.

"I had to go somewhere. As to why, well ..." However, before Tibor could answer her, Matthew interposed.

"I said you'd find Harriet's fiancé a rum chap now, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Mary answered tonelessly, not for an instant taking her eyes off Tibor's face. "But, never for a moment did I imagine that ..." There was something here she did not understand but realised instinctively that now was neither the time nor the place to seek further enlightenment. And even if it was, Mary sensed a conspiracy of silence on the matter. Had it to do with Matthew's other activities? She supposed it must. But before she could say anything else ...

"Mary, I'd like you to meet my fiancée. This is Harriet. Darling, this is Lady Grantham".

Standing before her, Mary saw a pretty, dark haired, vivacious young woman, graceful, and with an engaging smile who reminded her somewhat of Tibor's sister, Ilona There was something else about her too. Some indefinable quality. Quite what that was, at that point in time Mary couldn't say but, thinking back to what she had heard tell of, how Tibor and his fiancée had first met, in Istanbul, it was her considered opinion of Harriet Astley that she was not the kind of woman who would be prone to fainting whether in a bazaar or, for that matter, anywhere else. Indeed quite the reverse.

Nonetheless, Mary smiled.

"Welcome to Downton Abbey. And ... my very warmest congratulations ... to both of you".

"Thank you, Lady Grantham".

"Mary, please. After all, you're family".

Harriet's reply was not at all what Mary would have expected.

"Am I? Oh, well, yes, in a way, I suppose I am. How very kind of you". Evidently disconcerted, the younger woman nodded her head.

Mary's eyes narrowed.

"Forgive me, I could of course be mistaken, something which happens but rarely, I was given to believe that you were related, albeit distantly, to my husband's late father". Mary shot a sideways glance at Matthew seeking confirmation of what she had thought to be the case. She saw him smile.

"Well, not exactly," Harriet said.

"How, not exactly?"

Mary saw Harriet bite her lower lip, then glance herself at Matthew who now slipped an arm around his wife's waist.

"Darling, whether she is ... or whether she isn't, it is necessary that others believe her to be so".

"Others? Which others? Why?"

"Well, apart from the fact of being a writer, which means that she is an excellent listener, Harriet here is also an acute observer. Her travels mean that she has made certain contacts ..."

The penny dropped.

"I see," said Mary.

"I'm glad that you do," said Matthew, quietly.

"Then, I rather suppose, I should be very careful of what I say. At least in your hearing".

Harriet smiled at Mary.

"Perhaps you should," she said, softly sardonic.

So, there it was.

And there too, at least for for now, the matter had to rest.

Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, County Dublin, Irish Free State, Christmas Eve, December 1933.

Bound for Wexford, the little train puffed off noisily into the snowy darkness. The exhaust beat of the engine faded away and soon all that could be heard was the sound of the waves breaking on the foreshore below the railway line. Having left the station, crossed the road, and then walked the short distance up to the house, Sybil saw in the window of the sitting room the lighted candle placed there to help guide Mary and Joseph on their way to the stable in Bethlehem, and stood beside it the small Christmas tree. Of course, it was not a patch on the one which at this time of the year graced the Entrance Hall at Downton, but for all that it looked splendid, decked out in its transient finery by Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby.

Reaching the front door, Sybil put her key in the latch, and stepped inside the narrow tiled hallway, to be greeted by three excited children, Tom standing behind them in the doorway of the kitchen, and a wonderful savoury aroma of stew.

Sybil smiled broadly.

"Well, I'm home," she said.

Whether at Idrone Terrace, Downton Abbey, or Rosenberg, no-one could possibly tell what the New Year of 1934 held in store. But, in an ever changing world, the ties which bound the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns together, those of kinship, devotion, and love, were bonds that were immutable, which, whatever came to pass, would endure forever.

Author's Note:

Japan withdrew from the League of Nations in March 1933 following a critical report, adopted by the League, which said the reason given by the Japanese for their invasion of Manchuria was spurious, laying the laid the blame for the fighting there squarely on Japan.

Launched in June 1930, the MV Victoria was the pride of Lloyd Triestino. Known as "The White Arrow", "The Dove of the Orient", and "The Ship of Maharajahs", this beautiful ship was sunk by the British during WWII.

Civil war broke out in Austria a matter of months later, in February 1934. While it lasted only a couple of weeks, the violent clashes between the Fascists and the Socialists led inexorably to Dollfuss consolidating his grip on Austria and ultimately to his own assassination in July of that same year.

In 1916, much of the commercial heart of Dublin was laid waste when the British Army shelled the centre of the city during the abortive Easter Rising. Throughout the 1920s O'Connell Street resembled a huge building site, it taking more than a decade before the damage done was made good, achieved by the wholesale rebuilding of most of the street. In the 1960s and 1970s uncontrolled speculative redevelopment led to the destruction of buildings which had survived the Rising, including that belonging to Messrs. Gilbeys, demolished in 1972. Tom's tongue-in-cheek comment regarding the demise of Nelson's Pillar, that someone should blow it up, foreshadowed the eventual fate of the monument - destroyed by the IRA in 1966 on the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising.

In Ireland, the snowstorm of late February 1933 was especially severe.

The story recounted by the late Dowager Countess concerning the Dowager Tsarina of Russia, Maria Feodorovna, formerly Princess Dagmar of Denmark (1847-1928) the widow of Alexander III, is perfectly true. Christian X repeatedly tried to make her sell the jewels she had brought with her from Russia and so pay her own bills. This, she steadfastly refused to do. On her death, in a clandestine operation mounted on the orders of King George V of England, the Dowager Tsarina's jewel box was spirited out of Denmark and taken to London where its contents passed into the jewellery collection of the British Royal Family, in whose possession they have remained ever since.