DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

NOTE: I inadvertently left out a section in the previous chapter. Episode 9 Chapter 9 now opens with downstairs reacting to Lewis's departure.

Episode 9 Chapter 10

Friday October 29

Cocktails at Grantham House

Promptly at seven the guests began to arrive and shortly thereafter the drawing room was abuzz with the conversation of people practiced in the art of exchanging pleasantries. The two footmen hired for the occasion circulated among them, bearing trays of cocktails. Molesley was answering the door and taking coats.

"I thought you didn't believe in cocktails," Mrs. Carson said to her husband. She was keeping well behind the scenes, not having a public role to play in the theatre of a formal evening.

He had stepped out of the drawing room for a moment. "I don't. But Lady Merton wanted them, and I thought she should have something her way."

Mrs. Carson was surprised he'd made even that concession. "I think Mr. Molesley's got more about him," she said. "I think being a schoolteacher has been a boost."

"He's the acting butler at a society dinner," Mr. Carson said shortly. "He ought to have more about him."

"I hope you've not put him in charge of the wine."

"He gets to pour it. That's all. Now, if you'll excuse me, Elsie. I have a battle plan to execute."

* I * I *I *I * I *I *

Dickie stood before the mantle, affable and at ease. Although he had happily dispensed with all the formal obligations that came with the great house at Cavenham Park, he enjoyed a social occasion and was entirely comfortable in this milieu. If he felt a twinge of discomfort, it was only because he knew that Isobel was on edge and that his son was the cause of it. But for that shadow, the evening would be perfect.

The Greys aside, it was a companionable gathering. The Metcalfes, the Hunt Leighs, and Sir Evan Fares were all friends of Dickie's through county connections, Belgrave Square, or the Lords. Isobel was acquainted with them all and they had taken pains, when entertaining the Mertons, to welcome her to their circles. Either they were all generous people or they had not been especially fond of the first Lady Merton.

Isobel was gratified to see the Crawleys. They were from her side and on her side. Cora murmured compliments about the house. Robert greeted Isobel with a kiss and offered his best wishes for success. She thought she heard a waver in his tone. Clearly, like Isobel, Robert harboured the shade of a doubt. But Violet was stalwart.

"Have you reined him in, then?" she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

"He's not here yet."

"Has Carson proven up?"

Isobel raised an eyebrow. "Carson would rather be shot at dawn than disappoint you. You know that. And, for good or bad, he views me as an extension of you." She sighed. "He has told me what I need to know," she added.

Violet gave her a discerning look. "Are you hesitating?"

"Well…."

Violet took Isobel's arm in a grip surprisingly firm for one who looked so delicate. "If you have the knife, Isobel, now is the time to plunge it in to the hilt. If you wait until he gets going, you will be lost." Then she smiled graciously and moved off to greet the Metcalfes.

Isobel looked after her, just a little discomfited by such bloodthirsty advice.

The Greys were the last to arrive.

"I wouldn't put it past them to have waited down the lane just to make an entrance," Robert muttered to Cora.

"Well, they're here now. I hope Carson has everything under control," Cora said.

"He does. Of course, he does!" Robert said bracingly, perhaps trying to convince himself.

Cora gave him a sceptical look and then, fixing a welcoming smile on her face, went to greet the Greys.

"She is wonderful." Isobel had come up on Robert, her eyes following Cora.

"Yes, she is," he agreed. "Tell me about your other guests."

"Dickie's known Lord Metcalfe since his days at Harrow. And the Hunt-Leighs are neighbours in London."

"Of course, he knows Sir Evan Fares from the Lords," Robert murmured, "as I do. I've never spoken to him, though. He always seems joined at the hip with Ranskill."*

Robert understood the social obligations of the evening and moved off to engage Sir Evan. The Hunt-Leighs had joined Cora and Amelia. And Violet, now ensconced in a chair by the windows had mesmerized Lady Metcalfe.

But where was…. Isobel turned to find Larry Grey at her side and Carson fading away behind him.

"Larry! Welcome!" She could hear the false heartiness in her voice.

He heard it, too, and favoured her with one of his contemptuous stares, one eyebrow arched disdainfully. "What a lovely evening you've arranged," he said in that deliberate way he had. "Hirelings everywhere, your old butler turned schoolteacher changed back for the occasion, and the Granthams' even older butler hovering over all."

Isobel had been having doubts. Threats and coercion did not come easily to her. She'd begun to wonder if she'd done Larry and Amelia a disservice and to hope that they would prove all her fears groundless with a display of reasonable behaviour. Of course, she had been foolish to entertain such thoughts. These few words from Larry, not even prefaced with a conventional greeting, put the steel in her heart.

"I want to apologize," she began, "for the lateness of your invitation. It was all my fault." She could see that he found that very easy to believe.

"Your borrowed butler took full responsibility," he said, his gaze steady and just a little unnerving.

Isobel gave a slight, self-deprecating laugh. "That was kind of him. He was just covering for me."

"Of course he was."

She pressed on. "I am so very glad that you and Amelia could join us tonight."

"How very nice to hear." His tone indicated that he thought quite the opposite.

"It's so difficult to arrange when you're in the City, but you seem to be spending more time at Cavenham of late."

Larry shrugged. "Country life has always suited me."

"No doubt it's lovely for little Edgar, though I might have thought it a little dull for Amelia."

It was clear that Larry already found this conversation too dull for him, for his gaze had drifted. But he looked at her sharply at this. "Amelia goes where I go."

It was a slight rebuke, a comment on the fact that in the Mertons' case, husband had followed wife rather than the other way around. Undaunted, Isobel pushed on.

"I suppose you're glad of the quiet, for the time being."

"What a curious thing to say."

"I only meant that it's for the best, isn't it? To keep at a distance until things settle down again."

Now, Larry did look at her, and there was an expression of bewilderment in his eye. He had too little regard for her to be wary. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Only that you have been so very busy of late. I don't pretend to understand the banking business…."

Larry snorted with derision.

"…but I can see that managing the affairs of … of a business like … the Yardley Colliery, for instance, must have been very … draining." Was there a flash of concern in his dark eyes? "Many anxious moments, I'm sure, until that merger was consummated. I've stitched up wounded men, but I imagine the pressure couldn't be any less in the financial world, especially when the numbers don't quite add up." She spoke gaily, unconcernedly, almost effervescently, her tone at odds with the information she conveyed.

"I beg your pardon!" He was incensed, but he did not move.

Isobel smiled gently. "But it came out all right in the end, didn't it? The money was there when it needed to be and that's all that really matters."

He was glaring at her now, searching, as though he couldn't bring himself to believe what he was hearing. "You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he said, sneering.

He thinks he's so much smarter than I am, Isobel thought. He thinks he can bluff me out of this. She remained composed, but affected a foolish perplexity. "Oh, I am sorry. I've made a frightful muddle of it. I'm sure Sir Evan can put it right." She looked around the room. "Where is…."

"What?!"

She turned back to Larry, her eyes wide in that disingenuous manner that came naturally to her. "Sir Evan Fares. I gather he's well-informed on such matters. He'll be able to explain it to me."

"No. No." Contempt and impatience had fled Larry's countenance, replaced by what Isobel thought just might be fear. He put a hand gently under her elbow, the first physical contact they had ever had. Isobel almost flinched. His tone now matched the tenderness of his touch. "My dear Isobel. There's no need to trouble Sir Evan. It's not a matter that would interest him. A trifling matter, really." His eyes were boring into hers now, willing her not to speak to Sir Evan.

He had called her Isobel. My dear Isobel. This was almost as radical a development as his touch. She was momentarily struck dumb.

But then she came over a little nauseated. She hated this. She hated playing this sort of game. The fact that it was working only exacerbated the feeling. She responded to him with a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Perhaps you're right," she said, meeting his gaze resolutely. "After all, why disrupt a pleasant dinner party?" She tugged her arm from his grasp and, hailing Lady Grantham, crossed the room.

She hoped that her body did not give her away. It felt as though her legs were sturdy beneath her, but she thought her knees might buckle. And her heart was fluttering at the exchange. Even as she smiled and made a perfunctory query of Cora about their grandson, she was hardly paying attention even to herself. Had she done it right? Had she said too little? Too much? Oh, she was no good at this sort of thing. And she almost despised herself for having done it.

She helped herself to an Old-Fashioned on the tray proffered by a passing footman, and kept her back firmly to Larry Grey. It was true. All she wanted was a pleasant dinner party. If she had failed in that quest, she would know it soon enough.

* L * L *L * L * L *

What a dreadful woman!

Larry Grey stared after his father's wife, suspended in a state of shock. A movement to his left caught his eye. With the unerring instinct of a man who had been waited upon his whole life, he knew without thinking that a servant was nearby and he acted accordingly.

"Is there any whisky about?" In such circumstances, a frothy cocktail was of no use at all. A good solid drink was required.

It was the Granthams' old butler. The man nodded obligingly and went off to fetch it.

Larry stewed.

How could she know? He'd discussed it with no one, no one. Except Amelia and he did not doubt her. There had been no one else. Yet …. Had he made a mistake? Was he in imminent danger of exposure? Isobel could not know this on her own. Someone else must know!

The butler appeared with a glass of whisky and before downing it in one, Larry ordered another. The whisky calmed him. He drew a deep breath and squinted across the room. There she was, her back to him, casually chatting with the ladies Grantham. She hadn't even glanced back at him. She is confident.

Had he made a mistake? But …no. No. He knew what he was doing, what he had done. He'd covered his tracks well. The indiscretion was imperceptible. Isobel knew nothing. There were no means for her to know anything. She was bluffing, trying to fight fire with fire, trying to best him. Good luck to her! She was no match for him.

The butler handed him a fresh whisky and took the empty glass away. Larry lifted the drink to his lips and then changed his mind.

Because she did know something. She knew the name of the company. She had identified the merger as the moment of legerdemain. She might not understand exactly how he had managed it, but one did not need to understand the technicalities of a fraud to put a name to it. And she knew someone who would understand the technicalities. Sir Evan Fares was only steps away.

Larry swirled the whisky in his glass and considered possibilities and consequences.

Had she told Papa? Larry's flinty eyes slanted towards his father, standing amidst his friends, relaxed and cordial, chattering on about who would succeed Boyd-Dawkins as president of the Royal Archeological Institute. She might have done. But Larry wondered about this. There had been nothing in Papa's greeting to suggest dismay and Papa was no longer hesitant in expressing disappointment in his sons.

Would she speak to Sir Evan?

At heart, Larry was consumed with self-interest. He could not know what Isobel Crawley – for that is how he continued to think of her – could or would do. Though utterly contemptuous of her, he did not think she would expose him out of spite, but she might do so out of some distorted sense of honour. If that were the case, he was done for. But if that were the case, then surely she would have told Papa. What if … what if she was as small-minded as her casual parting remark suggested? What if … she wanted a pleasant dinner party? Of course, that wouldn't be the end of it. The knowledge would not disappear with the evening. But if he could only get through tonight without any nudges to Sir Evan, then he would be able to devise a strategy going forward. He might have to negotiate with her. He put his drink down on a nearby table. This evening would require a clear head.

He would worry about additional implications later. Right now, he must focus on the immediate threat: giving Isobel no reason or opportunity to wield that knowledge to his detriment. Things must go her way tonight. He could manage that.

Tomorrow, or later tonight, perhaps, he would have to turn his mind to exactly how Isobel, of all people, should have come into that information.

But, first, he had to speak with Amelia.

Dinner Is Served

When Carson announced dinner, Robert offered his arm to Amelia Grey and escorted her to the table, drawing a wrathful look from her husband for doing so. As Robert took his place, Amelia to his right at the end of the table, he could not wholly conceal his disgruntlement from his mother, who sat to his left.

"What did you do to deserve this?" Violet murmured.

"I blame Carson," Robert said through lips that hardly parted. He would do his duty to his hostess and for the greater good of the evening, but he would not enjoy it.

"The Crawleys are bearing more than their fair share of the burden," Violet said, nodding toward the far end of the table where Larry Grey had taken his place, with Cora at his left. That man was glaring daggers down the table. Violet did not envy Cora the task of dealing with him.

"How is your son?" Robert asked Amelia. There were certain topics of conversation that could make even the most undesirable of dinner partners manageable and children were one of them. "Edgar, isn't it?"

"He is very well, thank you," Amelia replied, and then, with the obliviousness of the self-absorbed, filled several minutes with an account of the achievements common to every reasonably healthy year-old child, always remarkable to the parents of that particular child and of minimal interest to anyone else.

Robert began to doubt the wisdom of his question. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Amelia was dreading having to make conversation with him, too.

"Is Edgar a family name?" Violet asked politely, when Amelia drew breath. Violet and Amelia were not on good terms, having clashed more than once in the later stages of the courtship between Isobel and Dickie. But good manners demanded an affectation of civility.

"No. My son is named for Edgar Linton, a character in Wuthering Heights. That's a novel by Emily Brontë," Amelia added, with a sweetly condescending air.

"Well, that's appropriate," Violet said, "given that you married Heathcliff." She did not often admit to having read novels, but sometimes a literary allusion was impossible to resist. She laughed.

At the far end of the table, Cora was perplexed. She was no more enthusiastic about her dinner partner than her husband was of his, but didn't waste time feeling sorry for herself. Instead, she embraced the challenge. Larry was known to be a disruptive element and, though the responsibility for keeping him in check had somehow been assigned to behind-the-screen machinations by Carson, Cora was not content to rely entirely on the butler's strategies.

She, too, opened with a query about the child, Edgar. If Larry Grey had a heart at all, Cora knew his son would guide her to it. But he responded vaguely, clearly distracted. His eyes kept darting toward his wife. He seemed to be trying to listen to what she was saying, which was next to impossible with several conversations unfolding at the same time.

Cora tried again, this time with a question about Cavenham Park. Larry and Amelia had established a greater presence in the county on taking over the estate, though Larry still worked in London. It would have been easier to talk domestic responsibilities with Amelia, but Cora hoped that Larry would have an opinion. He did not. And that, in itself, seemed strange.

Cora surrendered Larry to Lord Metcalfe, who sat at his right, and instead addressed Lady Hunt-Leigh, at Lord Metcalfe's right. Lady Hunt-Leigh was an attractive, slender woman with a commanding fashion sense. The distinctive ornament pinned to her breast drew Cora's eye.

"What a lovely brooch!"

"Jade," Lady Hunt-Leigh said, brushing the brooch with her fingertips and clearly pleased that Cora had noticed. "An ancient Chinese piece."

"That's rare! Have you been to China?" Cora's eyes were round at the prospect. She had seen Europe, but she was mesmerized by the idea of China, though she doubted she would ever get there. Robert disdained France and the United States; he would no sooner go to China than to the moon.

"We were. We were in Tientsin in 1900."

"During the Boxer Rebellion?" Lord Metcalfe shifted in mid-sentence from what he was saying to Larry, perhaps because he found his audience as unresponsive as Cora had.

"Yes."

"That must have been terrifying!"

"It was. We had our two boys with us, James and Francis. I thought we were at the end."

Such was the dramatic nature of the Boxer Rebellion that the attention of the table turned their way, though Cora noticed that Larry appeared to take the opportunity to attempt to communicate with his wife.

"How did you come through it?" Isobel asked.

"It was an international effort," Lord Hunt-Leigh replied, taking over the narrative. "Remarkable, really, to see the Germans, French, Americans, Portuguese, making common cause with us. And the Japanese. The Japanese carried the show, in Tientsin at any rate. After seeing them in action, I was not in the least surprised when they thrashed the Russians four years later."

"There was an American couple I remember best," Lady Hunt-Leigh said, speaking to Cora. "Bert and Lou Hoover. They were in Tientsin on their honeymoon, if you can believe it."

"I certainly can't," Robert murmured to his mother. Honeymoon in China? She agreed with him wholeheartedly.

"He organized the barricades," Leigh-Hunt continued. "A fine engineer and absolutely fearless."

"She helped me with the children," Lady Leigh-Hunt added. "She was kindness itself."

"Are you speaking of Herbert Hoover?" Sir Evan glanced between the Hunt-Leighs. "The American Secretary of Commerce?"

"Do you know him?" Dickie asked politely.

"We've met a few times. They've lived in London. Hoover was the only member of cabinet to emerge from the Harding administration untainted by scandal. He is the epitome of integrity. I expect he'll be the next president, unless honesty and ability have gone out of fashion. The Americans would be fools to choose otherwise."

Isobel didn't mean to do it, but her gaze flashed Larry's way at those potent words – integrity, honesty. And though he was still attempting, vainly, to signal Amelia, Larry's eyes were somehow drawn to hers in that instant as well.

"I had hopes for that young man from New York," Dickie was saying. "Roosevelt?"

"Franklin Roosevelt," Cora said. "He was a vice presidential candidate in 1920. But he was stricken with polio shortly after that. My mother was devastated. You'd think it had happened to her."

"It's a dread disease." Lady Metcalfe spoke in a hushed voice. "And we're having a bad year in this country. It was all over Essex in the late summer and there have been cases in the North, too, including a few in York."

"Oh, good. Disease and death." Violet glanced meaningfully at her son and he took her cue.

"I understand you've opened Cyppel Manor for tours," he said to Lady Metcalfe. "We tried it once at Downton, but I wasn't keen."

His disdain for house tours was not shared by Lady Metcalfe, who seized on this diversion. "We've taken to offering tours two days a week whenever we're in London."

"Is there that much call for it?" Robert was stunned.

"It's a Tudor house that escaped the nineteenth-century mania for Georgian and Victorian renovations. Apparently, visitors are enthralled by the size of the beams in the ceilings and the floors."

Robert listened with fascinated horror. Even Amelia took an interest. Violet was content with having turned the conversation.

"What do you mean by giving up Cavenham Park, Dickie?" Sir Evan demanded of his host.

"I've not given it up. I've only moved out. When Isobel and I married," he added, and then nodded toward his son. "Larry is in residence at Cavenham now."

"I'm sure Grantham House is very nice." Sir Evan made this small concession to his hostess. "But you are still lord of the county. Marriage hasn't changed that."

This was just the kind of social failing Larry had emphasized in conversations with Dickie and Isobel, the thing that had goaded Isobel into this dinner party in the first place. She opened her mouth to respond, but Amelia spoke first.

"It was Isobel's doing. She fairly kidnapped dear Papa. He's been a hostage here ever since."

It was Amelia's tone, more than what she said that captured the attention of the table. Had she spoken in a light-hearted way, her words might have evoked polite laughter. But there was nothing light-hearted about her manner, and the look on her face was devoid of humour. It was a very awkward moment.

"Amelia, darling, what a thing to say," Larry declared, wading into the void. "It is only that Isobel's only grandchild is at Downton and her son, Matthew, is buried in the churchyard here. Naturally, she wishes to remain close by. My father is a compassionate man and a devoted husband. He understood that." Larry paused. "And he remains lord of the county, Sir Evan, with all its responsibilities. I have merely relieved him of the day-to-day management of the place." He swept the table with a reassuring gaze and then, as attention shifted from him, finally caught his wife's eye. They glared at each other.

"He was a country solicitor, Matthew Crawley was," Amelia said, not getting her husband's message.

Robert opened his mouth to defend Matthew's honour, but Larry seized the initiative once more.

"Matthew Crawley was heir to the earldom of Grantham and a war hero," he said firmly.

The duel between the couple, played out over the length of the table, arrested all other discourse. It was precisely to avoid such tennis matches that dinner table conversation rules had been devised.** Isobel faltered for a moment, a stricken look flashing over her face. Though Larry was behaving peculiarly, in that he had now intervened twice against Amelia's mean-spiritedness, this kind of engagement between the Greys was almost as disruptive.

"Have you heard of the plan by that mad Austrian for a European union?" Robert interceded, addressing Lord Hunt-Leigh and Sir Evan. He was ruffled by Amelia's slight on Matthew, but the more pressing demand was for smooth conversation.

"The Pan-European Movement," Dickie chimed in. "They've just met in Vienna. I read about it in The Times."

"A European Union!" Lord Metcalfe was aghast. "Imagine trying to govern with the French!"

"They were our staunch allies in the war," Cora pointed out. "And suffered more than a million war dead."***

"Oh, my dear lady! Not the same thing at all."

"I don't think it's their intention to invite Britain to join," Isobel put in, regrouping. "I read Count Coudenhove-Kalergi's manifesto. In it, Britain's sphere is to be the Commonwealth. And I think the whole idea of a continental European union is to create a bulwark against the Soviets."

"Communism!" Sir Evan muttered darkly. "And we thought German militarism a threat to civilization."

"The Bolsheviks are no threat to anyone!" Hunt-Leigh declared. "Only this week the New York Times published … what are they calling it? Lenin's testament. It turns out he didn't like any of his comrades either. Castigated them all as thugs or incompetents or narcissistic pretenders. Trotsky's out of the Politburo now. No doubt they'll have him lined up against a cellar wall and shot in a day or two."

"Alfred! Really!" Lady Hunt-Leigh gave her husband a reproving look and, then, determined to shift the conversation, addressed Isobel. "It must be a comfort to have your son so close by. Our son James fell at Gallipoli and is buried there. There's a war graves cemetery, of course, but … it is Turkey."****

"I am sorry to hear about your son," Isobel said gently. "Have you been to Turkey to visit his grave?"

"Once. I envy you having your son here."

The men wrestled over the European Union movement for several minutes more, but it was a matter on which they all could agree. The English language and the pound were declared sacred; the possibility of the French and the Germans ever managing to cooperate was dismissed as a political impossibility; and the mere whiff of foreign direction in affairs domestic or diplomatic raised blood pressure all around. Only the idea of Beethoven's Ode to Joy as a Union anthem won any plaudits.*****

"Crawley, what's this I hear of your consorting with the American ambassador?" Lord Metcalfe had to stick his neck out to address Robert at the other end, but it seemed he didn't want to wait for brandy and cigars to bring this up. "It came up at the club last week. I told them I'd get to the bottom of it with you tonight."

"Lord Grantham has a history of consorting with Americans," Amelia said, smiling. She stared at Cora, who did not give Amelia the satisfaction of an exasperated reaction. It was bad enough, Cora thought, that she had to listen to that from her mother-in-law.

"Ambassador Houghton wanted a country weekend," Robert said, ignoring Amelia. "We gave it to him at Downton."

"Word has it at the club that you've been tagging along after him ever since," Metcalfe blundered on.

Tagging along. Robert stiffened. His association with Ambassador Houghton had given him a few uneasy moments and he had not been deaf to similar critiques at his own club.

"Lord Grantham," Larry Grey interceded smoothly, "has been acting informally at the request of the Foreign Office. Relations with the Americans are … sensitive … at the moment. The scale might tip either way. Lord Grantham is acting to protect British interests in the matter."

Lord Metcalfe deflated. "The Foreign Office, you say."

"My brother Tim is associated, in a minor way, with the venture," Larry added.

"If the object is better relations between our countries, what fool invited Oswald Mosley to a cocktail party with Houghton?" Sir Evan demanded, glaring at Larry, as though he were somehow to blame.

"Mosley invited himself," Robert explained. "Or, rather, tagged along on the coattails of an invited guest."

"I've never seen Ranskill so deranged! Nationalize the banks! What rank nonsense!"

"You're a banker, Larry," Isobel said with a guileless air. They exchanged meaningful looks. "Perhaps you could explain that to us."

Unfazed, at least on the surface, Larry embarked on a careful explanation and, for several minutes, dinner unfolded as such dinners sometimes do, with the guests affecting polite interest when, in fact, they were bored. Only Sir Evan looked animated, muttering "Hear, hear!" at every incisive point in Larry's critique. Robert took the opportunity to make another attempt at civil conversation with Amelia Grey.

"We have a bedroom at Downton named Amelia," he said.

"The Princess Amelia," Violet immediately corrected him.

"Of course," Robert murmured.

"The fifteenth child of King George III," Amelia said promptly. It might have been expected that she should be acquainted with famous women who shared her name. "How did Downton come to name a room for her?"

"Downton was the occasional site for assignations with her lover, Charles FitzRoy, 1st Baron Southampton," Violet replied. "He was a close friend of the 3rd Earl of Grantham. The daughters of King George III were discouraged from marrying and the couple had no alternative but to make private arrangements. After her premature death, the room was christened in her honour."

It was a tale in which even Amelia could not find grounds for assault, but Robert was more concerned with the tale itself.

"I did not know this. Mamma, why have you never told this story before?"

"You never asked," she said, with the hint of an impish smile. "Not to worry, my dear. It's all in the book."

"And what book is that?" inquired Lady Metcalfe, who had been equally entranced by the story.

"The history of the Crawleys of Downton that I have commissioned. It's being written by our former butler, Carson. He's here somewhere. I think it a story worth preserving."

"Ah!" Amelia had a revelation. "Isobel mentioned this book. Isn't the real work being done by a Mr. Daniel Rider?"

Violet came over a little perplexed. "That is the name of the young man who is assisting Carson. I can assure you that Carson is doing the real work."

Robert was suddenly alert. There was something in the way Amelia had referred to Daniel Rider and he knew she could not be counted on to keep her thoughts to herself. He was right.

"I do wonder about your associating with a man like that, Lady Grantham. I would have thought you would find repulsive a man with his … unnatural proclivities." Amelia looked delighted to be making such a suggestion.

Violet was more confused still. "I don't quite …."

Now it was Robert who was seeking out Carson, hoping that he was nowhere nearby, that he had not heard this conversation. Fortunately, the butler, who had been haunting the shadows of the room, keeping an eye on things while staying out of the way of Molesley and the footmen, seemed to have disappeared.

Lady Metcalfe was also puzzled by Amelia's obscure reference. But Lord Hunt-Leigh was not.

"Oh, lots of men are slow to shake off their public school antics," he said dismissively. "Tell me, Grantham, did the house team get thrashed by the village in your annual cricket match again this year?"

Somewhere in the distance the telephone rang.

"Cursed things," Sir Evan muttered to Isobel. "It used to be one could get right away at the weekend. Now, the business of the nation follows one everywhere."

Carson reappeared and Isobel half-turned toward him, expecting he would report on the caller, but he went instead to Larry Grey. Carson spoke quietly to him and then Larry got up and followed the butler from the room. This was an odd development, but as Larry had almost entirely abdicated his conversational responsibilities anyway, his dinner partners did not miss him. He returned a minute later and so did Carson. Larry resumed his seat, his impassive manner giving no clue as to the cause of the interruption.

Everyone at the table was practiced in the art of ignoring servants. At a meal at Downton Abbey, one or another member of the family might occasionally address a servant directly, but they seldom did so at formal dinners. And so it was at this dinner. Carson moved discreetly to the far end of the table without drawing anyone's eye. When he handed a small note to Amelia Grey, those next to her could not help but notice, but they ignored it and carried on with the earnest discussion of cricket.

Amelia glanced disdainfully at the butler, well aware of the impropriety of both her husband's behaviour in taking a phone call and the delivery of a note while she was at table. But she opened the paper and read it. And then looked straight down the table into Larry's expressive glare. Then she crumpled the note and buried it in a fold in her gown. And at the very next break in the conversation among those around her, she smiled graciously and intervened.

"There's a charming new children's book that has only just come out this week, written by a Mr. A.A. Milne. I'm sure your grandchildren would enjoy it very much, Lord Grantham. I'll send a copy along to Isobel. Perhaps she could read it to George when next he visits. It's called Winnie the Pooh."

For the first time all evening, Larry breathed easily.

END OF EPISODE 9

* Author's Note 1. You may recall Lord Ranskill, a figment of my imagination, from Chapters 31 and 32. Robert attended a cocktail party with the American Ambassador at which Lord Ranskill was present. I put him on the House of Lords Banking Committee. Sir Evan Fares, the Metcalfes, and the Hunt-Leighs are also all fictional characters.

**Author's Note 2. Formal dinner party rules were best displayed in Downton Abbey in that scene where Mary finds herself discussing farming and shooting with Sir Anthony Strallan and is greatly relieved when Cora turns and relieves Mary of the burden of making conversation with him. There are a few other examples on the show. I have ignored these highly structured rules so that the necessary elements of the plot may unfold more smoothly here. Isobel's dinner party is an unruly one.

*** Author's Note 3. The tendency in popular culture these days to contempt for French military ability is one without much foundation, in my opinion. There was a shambles in 1940, but the fact of more than one million war dead between 1914-1918 goes a long way to explaining that. The nation that made victory at Yorktown possible for the Americans and also produced Napoleon Bonaparte ought to get more respect. In my books, anyway.

****Author's Note 4. Gallipoli is the sacred soil of the Australians and the New Zealanders, but there were British forces there, too. The Newfoundland Regiment was also there, before returning to the Western Front to face decimation on the Somme, at Beaumont-Hamel on July 1, 1916.

*****Author's Note 5. Count Richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi's brainchild didn't get very far in the 1920s. It took another world war to give life to that idea. But Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," first proposed by this Pan-European Movement, was adopted as anthem by the European Union in 1972.

On Literary Logjams: Writing a dinner scene with more than a dozen characters present takes a great deal of time. It is a big enough challenge when all the characters already exist; creating five more, just for a dinner, is tough. And what are they all to say? A dinner scene like this is like doing a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle when all the pieces are the same shape and are all the same colour. It takes ages to piece them together. Downton Abbey 1926 has a few more large ensemble pieces ahead.