Downton Abbey 1926

Episode 10 Chapter 1

Late Friday Night, October 29

Charlie and Elsie

"Don't tell me you're not happy with your work this evening." Elsie was fluffing up the bed pillows, but her eyes were on her husband. Across the room, he was very carefully hanging up his butler's livery. Seeing him in it, presiding over a society dinner, had made Elsie proud, which surprised her a little. She appreciated what it meant to him, but she hadn't realized how much it meant to her to see him in top form again.

"I'm not unhappy," he said, closing the wardrobe door and coming to bed. He said it, but she wasn't convinced.

"Was it Lady Merton who's put you off?" Elsie asked uncertainly. Lady Merton had been gracious in her thanks for all of Charlie's work – the dinner, and all that went with it, as well as the other thing. But Elsie had sensed something there.

"Oh, no," Charlie said, with a flick of one hand. "I know she was pleased with the dinner. And I believe she was grateful for the information." His eyes darted to Elsie. "I told you she had a talent for guileless indiscretion." He slid into bed and pulled the bedclothes over himself. "In this instance, though, I believe she was uncomfortable with the revelation."

Elsie shrugged. "It worked. And I'm sure she'll be eternally grateful to you for that. Or should be."

He sighed. "Amelia Grey. I was so focused on Mr. Grey that I forgot his wife could be quite as venomous. The whole thing almost went bottom-up because of my oversight."

This admission relieved Elsie. So, that was it. "Not at all!" she scoffed. "I thought she sounded quite the fool with rudeness at every turn."

"So did I. But her antics were disruptive all the same."

"I don't know about that. I enjoyed listening to her husband scrambling to recover after every barb she launched. And I'd bet a pound that the Dowager enjoyed it, too." She glanced sidelong at her husband. "You can take comfort in that."

"Perhaps. But it was Lady Merton I wanted to spare."

"You've given her a weapon to defend herself, Charlie. And now that both the Greys are aware of it, you've accomplished your long-range goal. They'll never bully her again." Elsie shifted onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. "And while we're on the subject, tell me now what you wouldn't explain earlier. Where did you get that information?"

Charlie's gaze slid her way. "From Mr. Raines, of course."

"The butler at Cavenham Park!"

"You sound surprised."

"I am. I'm glad he was so forthcoming because it made the muzzling of Larry Grey possible. But I am shocked that a butler, especially one as long-serving as Mr. Raines, would be so disloyal to the family he serves."

Charlie laughed a little at her indignation.

"You would never have done such a thing," she went on, stirred by his reaction.

"No. I would not. Not at Downton. But if I were the butler at Cavenham Park …. Mr. Raines is loyal, Elsie. To Lord Merton. So much so that he stayed on at Cavenham Park – which needs a sure hand – at Lord Merton's request, when His Lordship moved to Grantham House. But Mr. Raines is not at all fond of Mr. Grey whom he has known for many years."

"Ah."

"Yes. So when I explained the circumstances of the dinner at Grantham House, Mr. Raines told me what I needed to know. He knows that will be the end of it. Unless Mr. Grey is completely stupid, and I don't believe he is, he will elude justice in this matter because the only people who know, apart from his wife, are people who are not inclined to spill his secret – the butler and his step-mother. At the same time, Mr. Grey cannot act against them because they know."

"Will he know who the informant is?"

"I imagine he will figure it out."

"This is what happens when you live a life dependent on servants or slaves," Elsie said airily. "You become as dependent upon them as they are upon you, though in different ways."

Charlie didn't like that. "I like to think that most servants are honourable and most lords and ladies, too. But you have to be prepared to deal with a bad apple."

This recalled Amelia Grey to Elsie's mind and she smiled. "That was a trick, ringing the Abbey and having Mr. Barrow ring back."

"It was a gamble," Charlie said soberly, "both in its reliance on Mr. Barrow's cooperation and on Mr. Grey's reaction. He might have dressed me down for noticing his agitation, rather than seizing the opportunity to restrain his wife."

"I thought you were very solicitous of him. He certainly looked like he might burst a blood vessel, and I think we've had enough experience with things bursting at a formal dinner." Elsie's words recalled them both to the frightening experience of His Lordship's ulcer crisis the previous year. Knowing how much the memory of this bothered her husband, Elsie slid a comforting hand over his chest and changed the subject.

"Do you know why Mr. Molesley offered to help tonight?"

Charlie gave her a puzzled look. "No more than you. You were here when he volunteered. Why do you ask?"

"Lady Merton asked me. She was surprised."

"Well, he did work for her those first few years she was at Downton. Perhaps he felt the obligation of loyalty."

"Maybe." Elsie dismissed Molesley from her mind. "You did a very good job, Charlie. I was proud of you."

He turned his head her way and reached out to caress her cheek. "I enjoyed it, you know. But I'm glad enough to put my livery away again."

"Are you?"

"I am. There are a few other things I'd rather be doing." And before she could question him on this, he was leaning toward her, drawing her in for a kiss.

Saturday October 30, 1926

Upstairs Breakfast

"And, after that, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

It was Saturday morning, the morning after the dinner at Grantham House, and Robert was making a report at the breakfast table to Mary, Tom, and Henry.

"Vile woman," Mary remarked. "And Larry?"

"The man is a chameleon. He couldn't possibly be as ill-mannered in public as we have known him to be in private. He was silent – so much so that your mother despaired of conversation. And when he did speak, it was only to correct Amelia and defend the Crawleys. Including Isobel."

"So, Carson's plan worked." Mary was pleased.

"Well, Larry was gagged. And though I haven't spoken with Carson, I think he may have arranged the phone call, or at least manipulated it, so as to give Larry the opportunity to write that suppressing note for Amelia."

"Bravo Carson!" Mary declared.

The three men exchanged knowing looks.

"I saw that, you know," Mary said, feigning annoyance. "So, the rest of the evening went smoothly?"

"The rest of dinner went smoothly," Robert said. "We left early. Cocktails and dinner were exertion enough for your grandmother."

This cast a bit of a pall over them all, but no one pursued it.

"Sybbie and I will be out tomorrow afternoon," Tom said, after a while. "We'll go to Mass in Ripon in the morning and then we won't be back until after tea."

Robert had made enough progress on the Catholic issue not to react to the mention of Mass. He picked up his paper and perused the headlines. Henry acknowledged the information with a nod. Sunday was a day off for Talbot and Branson Motors, the day when the business partners could do as they liked. But Mary was curious.

"Going on an outing?"

"Yes."

Mary stared at Tom, but he said nothing more. "Keep your secret, then."

He grinned. "I will."

Mary rolled her eyes.

When Mary and Henry stood to begin their day, Robert looked up.

"Henry, might I have a word? And Tom."

As it was clear Robert did not mean to include Mary, she rolled her eyes again. "All right. I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you, Barrow," Robert said, over his shoulder to the butler.

Barrow hastened to the door to hold it open for Mary. Then he pulled it closed behind them.

Only then did Robert turn to his sons-in-law.

"I want to ask your advice about something."

Sunday October 30

Tom and Sybbie

"Where are we going, Daddy?"

Sybbie was always full of questions and Tom didn't always have the answers for her. He didn't know quite what to say now.

"There's something I have to say to someone," he said slowly, aware that his vagueness was no proper response at all. "And it's important. That's why I want you along."

"Do I have to say anything?" She asked this in a matter-of-fact way, merely trying to discern her role.

Tom smiled at her, meeting her solemn gaze, seeing her shoulders squared to assume her share of responsibility.

"Nothing in particular, darling. Only be with me. For courage."

Ordinarily, he would be enjoying a day out with Sybbie. Tom understood that when you lived with other people, they naturally asked questions about where you were going and what you were doing. And he didn't really mind when Robert and Cora and Mary did this, though he appreciated that Henry rarely did. He had less patience with Nanny's queries. After all, he was a father only wanting to spend time with his child. He chafed a little more at this these days for having had those brief few weeks at Shamrock Cottage. He'd begun to build his own life there and he was determined to take that up again. Soon. He could think about it again now that the prankster had been identified.

John Dunsany.

Tom and Sybbie were dressed in their Sunday best, he in a suit, she in a frock for company. When you had something important to say or do, dressing for the occasion was a mark of the seriousness with which you approached it. Tom had washed the car, too. All must be the best it could be.

They talked as they drove along. Tom already knew what he had to say when they reached their destination. He didn't need to practice. Indeed, he was glad of the distraction. Fortunately, Sybbie was never short of conversation.

She enjoyed school and though she didn't say, perhaps was not even aware of it, she was miles ahead of the other children in her grade. Tom was human enough to take pride in this fact as a reflection of her extraordinary character. But his political outlook tempered parental myopia. The village children did not have Sybbie's advantages. Though he rolled his eyes at the whole idea of a nanny, it was an unassailable fact that the children had been well served these past few years by their nanny and Sybbie had benefited from this. According to Mary, nannies had come a long way since she'd had one.

Sybbie had been squabbling with George.

"He's named for the King and for a saint who fought a dragon!" Sybbie said, with yearning.

Tom glanced at her. "You're named for your mother, who was more impressive than this King George or all the previous ones."

She grinned at this. There wasn't a soul at Downton Abbey who had known Sybil Crawley Branson who would have disagreed with this statement. Sybbie had only ever heard good things about her mother.

"And she had bigger monsters to slay than an old dragon," Tom went on.

"Like what?"

"Like class prejudice and injustice and the inequities of wealth and privilege." He wasn't surprised when she looked disappointed. She could picture in her mind's eye a fire-breathing dragon of the conventional sort. It was hard for prejudice and injustice to compete when they were faceless. Well, she'd learn the truth of that soon enough.

At last, they pulled through great wrought iron gates set in a stone wall, one flank of which the road had followed for the last few miles. A broad avenue unfolded between parallel lines of long-limbed oak trees to a circular drive before a stately home with a phalanx of windows looking out onto the park. His in-laws would have been able to tell him whether the architecture was Victorian or Georgian or Stuart or Tudor or Jacobean. But Tom only saw a roof that could shelter dozens being squandered on a few.

He banished that thought from his mind and went round to open the car door for Sybbie.

"Where are we, Daddy?" She was staring up at the great house, not so much awed – for she knew other great houses – as curious. Absently she reached for his hand. They often walked thus.

Tom stood still for a moment, gathering his courage.

"Ramsay Hall," he replied, and then stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

He hadn't been invited here. Nor had he sent word of his intention to drop in. He wanted to take the family by surprise, counting on the shock value of his name alone to ensure that he was received. Yet he could not be confident that he would be and it was only when the butler, who had left them idling on the step, returned to escort them in that Tom had his answer.

There were seven people in the library: a couple Tom took to be Lord and Lady Northrop, the owners of Ramsay Hall; Lord and Lady Drumgoole and John Dunsany; and the butler and a footman. The gentlemen rose at the sight of them. The ladies looked apprehensive. Lord Drumgoole spoke first.

"Why have you come here?" His displeasure was apparent in the lack of greeting, but his tone, though cold, was formally polite. There were ladies and a child present. Drumgoole's eyes fell uneasily on Sybbie.

Tom advanced into the room, unaware that he was holding onto Sybbie now more than she was to him.

"Lord Drumgoole, Lady Drumgoole." He nodded to John Dunsany who stared at him with a stony look. He nodded also to the Northrops. "I'm glad to find you all here." He turned slightly to Sybbie. "This is my daughter, Miss Sybil Branson."

Sybbie knew nothing of the Drumgooles and John Dunsany. Tom had told her that the person who had set fire to their home had been identified and dealt with, but had not gone into the details. In this innocent state, she naturally smiled at the family arrayed before her and offered a cheerful, "Good afternoon."

"We were not…expecting you, Mr. Branson." Lord Northrop said carefully. He extended his arm toward the woman Tom did not know. "My wife, Lady Northrop. With Lord Drumgoole, I am obliged to ask why you have come here."

Tom took a deep breath and then stepped forward to the very edge of the circle gathered before him.

"I've come to try to put things right between us" he said, knowing full well how frivolous and pompous that might have sounded. But he could say nothing else. That was why he had come.

John Dunsany scoffed and turned his back.

Lord Drumgoole looked pained. "Perhaps you are well-intentioned, Mr….," the address stuck in his throat, "…Branson. But I do not think this helpful."

Before Tom could reply, Lady Drumgoole intervened. "Would you like to sit down?" She caught Sybbie's eye and smiled at her. "I think we might have a bit of cake left if you'd care to join us, Miss Sybil."

Oblivious to the tensions around her, Sybbie nodded eagerly. "Yes, please." And she let go of her father's hand to move to Lady Drumgoole's side. That woman got the cake for Sybbie herself and had the little girl sit beside her on the sofa.

Lord Drumgoole frowned at this but focused on Tom. "Say what you have to say then."

Drumgoole, Northrop, and John Dunsany remained on their feet. Tom did, too, feeling more comfortable this way.

"We can't go back," he began. "I did what I did and Mr. Dunsany…." Tom was not one for titles or rank and privilege, but he had been a boy once and not so very long ago. Dunsany was sixteen, on the brink of manhood as this was defined in English society. He might be going up to Oxford next year unless such plans, like his current education, were disrupted by the events which had entangled the Drumgooles and the Bransons. He was now somewhere between master and mister. But Tom addressed him as a man, as an equal. The boy glanced sharply his way, whether in surprise or disapproval, Tom did not know.

"…Mr. Dunsany did what he did. We can't change that. But we can alter how we look at what happened and how we choose to go forward from it."

He had not expected a warm response, but they did not cut him off so he continued.

"The results of our actions were unsatisfactory all around. I'm not in jail and neither is Mr. Dunsany."

"Why would you be in jail, Daddy?"

He'd brought Sybbie with him deliberately and could not now ignore her inconvenient question or rebuke her for interrupting.

"I broke the law, darling," he said forthrightly, addressing her directly. And then his gaze swept the room. "It was an act of desperation in an atmosphere of suspicion and hatred on both sides. But I did not come here either to condone my actions or to challenge yours." He heard the conviction in his voice growing with every word and hoped he might carry them with him, at least in part. "We can't solve the problem – the colossal national and historic problem of Ireland – that set us at odds. But I hope we can agree that if that problem is ever to be solved, good will and trust are more likely to win out than mob action or the Black and Tans." He paused and then directed his next remarks directly to the Drumgooles. "Lady Drumgoole, Lord Drumgoole, I want to apologize for my part in the destruction of your home. I saw it and you as symbols of oppression. But you're not symbols. You're a family, as my daughter and I am. Whatever the cause, to dispossess a family and to frighten children are means that cannot be justified. I'm not proud of them."

Then his attention shifted to John Dunsany. "And I apologize for frightening you and the children of your sister and brother-in-law." Unconsciously, his eyes slid for a moment to Sybbie before returning to the young man, who had partially pivoted his way in response to these words. "But mostly I want to apologize for not seeing you as a boy, as a person. That is the very worst thing about troubles, letting the greater rights and wrongs of the world get in the way of seeing and treating other people as people."

It was quite a speech, the kind Sybil Crawley might have teased him betrayed latent political ambitions. But before anyone could be persuaded one way or another by his golden words, the library door was flung open and three children burst into the room, followed more sedately by their nanny.

The smallest of the children was a little girl, slightly older than Sybbie. She would have been the child in her mother's arms as their home burned before them. There were also two boys, perhaps nine and twelve. They would have been about three and six on that night in Ireland.

"Mama!" The girl ran to her mother and then drew up a little shyly when her eyes fell on the dark-haired girl sitting by Lady Drumgoole, holding a plate with a half-eaten bit of cake on it.

The boys, though clearly bundles of energy, were old enough to be somewhat more circumspect. They looked to their uncle cum older brother, John Dunsany, for direction. For once, the teenage boy seemed himself uncertain. He shrugged, but his gaze shifted to the little girls.

It was the family hour, that practice peculiar to the aristocracy which saw their children brought in for the daily visit with their parents. Tom, who had grown up knowing not only where his mother was every hour of the day, but also that he might have her company almost any time he liked, found the aristocratic habit off-putting. He accommodated it to some degree at Downton, but he also looked for every opportunity to thwart it.

Tom had timed the visit to Ramsay Hall deliberately to coincide with this hour, which, in his limited experience, occurred about the same time in every household. He might make his case eloquently, but the Drumgooles and the Northrops and, for that matter, the Bransons, could be dismissive of adults. Children, however, had a way of breaking down barriers that adults hid behind.

"Lily, this is our guest, Miss Sybil Branson. This is my daughter, Lillian."

"Lily, Mama!" the little girl said promptly, and then, to Sybil, "Is it sweet cake?"

"Would you like some?" Sybil took up the dainty china plate and held it out to Lily.

Lady Northrop, who had been silent to this point, moved forward. "Perhaps you would like a little tea at a table of your own?" She spoke to the girls, but her eyes posed the question to Lady Drumgoole, who nodded. The girls readily followed Lady Northrop to a small table by the windows.

"Our sons, Kenneth and Robert," Lord Drumgoole said to Tom, drawing the boys forward. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice; he was following the conventions of a social encounter, but was not wholly convinced they were appropriate. "This," he said to the boys, "is Mr. Branson. From Downton Abbey."

Tom felt a pang as he looked at them. More casualties of war. "I'm pleased to meet you," he said.

"Mr. Branson."

Tom turned to Lady Drumgoole.

"Mr. Branson, would you care to sit down?"

Violet and Isobel

Isobel did not venture to the Dower House for a post mortem until Sunday afternoon. Cousin Violet had made an early evening out of it and Isobel herself felt she needed a little time to recover. Spratt conducted her to the drawing room and then withdrew to arrange tea.

"Congratulations!" Violet's greeting was one of triumph. She was seated in her usual chair and, in her lavender day dress, was a cheerful sight.

"Thank you," Isobel said, taking up her usual chair, a small table between them. "Of course, Carson did it all."

Violet seemed puzzled. "You chose him, you let him organize things. Take the credit, my dear. It is the choices we make, not necessarily what one actually does or does not do that counts." She did not miss the sceptical look that crossed Isobel's face.

"You don't look like a victor," Violet said bluntly. She frowned. "I hope you're not still suffering from some middle-class disquiet about means and ends."

"You wouldn't understand," Isobel said drily, "never having been middle-class."

"Hmm. Well, you have me there. But, really, why second guess yourself? Bullies need a good smack down. You delivered it to a bully who was long past due. Enjoy it."

"We are very different people."

"And you're only just noticing that?"

"It's done now," Isobel conceded, "and with, I admit, the result for which I hoped. But I wish I could forget what I know."

"Oh, no! You know my motto: forgive, yes; forget never!"

Any inclination to exasperation evaporated and Isobel laughed. There was no one quite like Cousin Violet. "You're teasing me," she said.

"You teased me about Prince Kuragin," Violet countered.

It seemed an odd direction to take the conversation, but Isobel shifting obligingly. "And I will again. It is the most remarkable story of your fascinating life."

Violet shook her head, gazing at Isobel in an almost pitying way. "You are so easily impressed," she lamented.

"Well, I haven't got any flings with Russian princes in my closet," Isobel retorted.

"No. But we were speaking of my remarkable life." Violet paused. "You remember when I told you of my … romance … with Prince Kuragin." Fling was such a vulgar word.

"Yes, of course. Christmas Eve. We shut ourselves up in the library over a whisky. I was surprised you took me into your confidence that way."

"Why? We are friends. You understood the gravity of the moment.'

Isobel came over pleased with this endorsement which was about as warm as Violet ever got.

"The fact is, at the time I told you only half the story."

Isobel tilted her head to one side in an offhand shrug. "So, limits to friendship then."

"I like to dole out my secrets in manageable doses," Violet responded tartly. "And I'm about to tell you the rest now, with the same expectation of discretion.'

The very gravity of the elder woman's voice sobered Isobel. "You may count on that, of course," she said solemnly. "But don't feel obliged to tell me anything that you might regret."

"I am beyond regret," Violet declared emphatically. And, with Bates's report in mind, she felt she truly was. "And if I did not want to, I would not do so."

Isobel knew as much. "Go on."

"When I met Prince Kuragin in the magical wonderland of the Winter Palace at the zenith of Tsarism – Alexander II, the Tsar Liberator, was Russia's last good leader – I fell in love with him and he with me, the exotic beauty that was an English countess. I've told you how it ended. Our elopement was arrested by the Princess Kuragin. A miserable creature, as you saw yourself."

"She had just spent several years in abject misery in China," Isobel noted, unable to stifle her compulsion to defend the downtrodden.

"Her personality was fixed. Her sojourn in China affected only the externals. And yet I knew what I owed her for … rescuing me, us, from the social ostracism that would have followed us. I was casting away my husband. I would have abandoned my children and been lost to them forever." These events were fifty years in her past and yet, recounting them this time, Violet shuddered. How close she had come to disaster.

"But she did intercede and saved you from that fate," Isobel said soothingly. "And you were both restored to your families, and Lord Grantham, at least, was spared any knowledge of it."

That was the ending Violet had related when narrating the story two years earlier. And it was a false one.

"That was not quite the case," she said vaguely.

Isobel's eyebrows arched slowly. "Meaning?"

Violet met the other's gaze steadily. "I thought Lord Grantham was unaware. But it seems he had more about him than that for which I had given him credit."

"He knew? Or he found out?"

"Yes, and in lieu of the scandal of divorce, or even of a separate existence, he chose to … well, let us say even the score, if I may use such a coarse expression."

Isobel grew sombre once more. "Oh, I am sorry, Cousin Violet."

Violet appreciated the sentiment but did not wish to tread the path of maudlin pity. "I was in no position to throw stones," she said bluntly. "Only, of course, Lord Grantham and I never spoke explicitly about Prince Kuragin and so, in his determination to right the balance through a second wrong he … overdid it." She shook her head in resignation. "As men will do."

Isobel's round-eyed look narrowed as suspicion descended.

But Violet had no inclination to keep Isobel in suspense. "First, exhibiting a limited imagination, he chose a woman of lesser rank." Violet had had the wherewithal to choose a prince of tsarist Russia. That Lord Grantham had been so … undiscriminating … exasperated her. "And … he had with her a child."

Violet was prepared for the shocked look that formed on Isobel's countenance. She still remembered how she had felt when the revelation had been made known to her. It was not something one ever forgot.

"Oh, dear," Isobel murmured, a wholly inadequate response, but then there was no correct way to react to such a confidence. "What happened then?"

"Well, he told me, of course."

Isobel's eyebrows climbed to their greatest height.

Violet ignored this. "Men," she said dismissively. "He'd gotten himself into a situation and needed sound advice on how to get out of it again. I was always his best counsellor."

"Is there an unacknowledged Crawley resident on the estate?" Isobel asked breathlessly.

Violet sighed. The middle classes were both unimaginative and predictable. "She went away, of course. His mistress, that is. And bore the child in London. At our expense," she added, to fend off any indignation on Isobel's part. "And while she might have dreamed of better things, she had always known, as had he, that there was no place for it to go." This was, perhaps, the single saving grace. The lower orders might fantasize about rags-to-riches, but the middling classes had too much a sense of bourgeois respectability to expect divorce and a happy ending. "She meant to start again and we wished her well."

"Both of you?"

Again Violet ignored Isobel. "But shortly after contact between the parties was severed – as had been agreed – shortly after she gave birth, she died."

"Oh, goodness! Your tale has more twists than an Agatha Christie novel!"

This allusion stalled Violet momentarily. "I do not understand you."

Isobel brushed it off. "It's not important. What happened to the child, then? Boy? Girl?"

"Boy. We didn't know. That was the arrangement. We knew nothing at all, until recently, that is." Violet was beginning to think she ought to have served up whisky instead of tea, for Isobel had gasped.

"You've found him?"

"Yes. Or, rather, my agent has done so. And now it is only to complete the final act. Lord Grantham and I established an inheritance fund for the child which is shortly to be paid out."

"That's … astounding! Where is he? Who is he? What do your children have to say of this?"

"My children … know nothing," Violet said with finality.

"Oh."

"As for the identity of this child born the wrong side of the blanket, I will not say."

Isobel did not press her and for this Violet was grateful.

"How … how did you and Lord Grantham … go forward?" Isobel asked tentatively, thinking this an impudent question, which it might have been were the two women not on such intimate terms.

"Our misadventures were illuminating both to ourselves and to each other," Violet replied. "We both realized that our marriage was more important than our grievances."

"Very civilized."

"Yes. You should try it."

This dry remark only brought a smile to Isobel's face. "You are one of a kind, Cousin Violet."

Violet smiled in return.

"May I ask," Isobel began again, offering this introduction only as a formality, "why have you sought out this long-lost child only now?"

Well, they had come to it. Violet gazed for a moment into the open face of this woman whom she had known for little more than a dozen years but who had become so important to her. "Because it is well to tie up loose ends before one leaves," she said quietly.

A few seconds passed as Isobel digested this. And then her face fell.