DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.
EPISODE 1. Chapter 2
Daisy and Mr. Mason
At Yew Tree Farm, Daisy and Mr. Mason had easily fallen into a routine. They got up early - with the chickens, as he would say. Ever since her promotion to assistant cook a few years ago, Daisy had had the luxury of an extra half hour's sleep in the morning. Now, because she had to get from the farm to the Abbey, she reverted to her old schedule. Bicycling to work, rather than walking, cut down a little on the time she had to spend getting there, leaving her a brief window in which to enjoy a cup of coffee with Mr. Mason as he had his breakfast. They talked of their plans for the day and the weather and basked in the companionable warmth of the family atmosphere of that congenial kitchen.
"Daisy."
The serious look on Mr. Mason's face dispelled the slight fog from a mind still emerging from slumber. Daisy took a sip of her coffee and willed herself to pay attention. There was an eagerness in Mr. Mason's eyes that she'd seen before, usually when he had something important - and personal - to convey. She felt a little shiver go up her spine. Was this about Mrs. Patmore?
"I've been thinking," he said. "You've been here six months now and I hope I can say that we're getting on well together."
She nodded vigorously. It was as he had always intimated it would be - family-like. Never having known anything like it, Daisy was still getting used to it. "We are," she said agreeably.
"Well," he said slowly, "it seems a little awkward, your calling me Mr. Mason."
This was an idea that had never occurred to Daisy and it startled her now. Was he going to suggest she call him Albert? The only people she called by their given names were the junior staff at the Abbey. Everyone else in her life had been Mr., Mrs., Dr., or His Lordship, Her Ladyship, my lady, or my lord. It might not even be proper to address an older person so familiarly. Daisy wondered if she could do it.
"Only..." It was apparent that Mr. Mason was himself a little nervous about his own proposal for he spoke hesitantly, almost brokenly, and this was not like him at all. "I was wondering...given that you're my daughter-in-law and all...if it might work if...but only if you'd like to, I mean...call me...dad."
It was one of the most extraordinary things anyone had ever said to Daisy. Her eyes went round in astonishment and she could only gaze at him in slack-jawed shock.
Mary and Henry
The dawn light of a summer's day was shimmering through a gap in the curtains as Lady Mary slipped into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly lest she wake her sleeping husband and moved to the window to look out on the gravel drive and vast front lawn of Downton Abbey. In the distance, a ray of light glinted off the folly. Her eyes were drawn to a figure on a bicycle - Daisy Mason - peddling her way up the road and then disappearing round the edge of the house. Daisy was now one of the Abbey's "day" employees, coming up every morning from Yew Tree Farm where she had taken up residence with her father-in-law. In general, Mary was not very supportive of the shift to day employees, although she accepted the change as inexorable. Daisy, however, was different. Like the Carsons and the Bateses, she was an "old hand" at the Abbey, and could be relied upon to uphold the standards of the house. The same could not be said of the new employees who had never lived in.
Dawn was not a time of day with which Mary was very familiar. Until this year she had seen it only when she had stayed up all night, dancing until dawn. The thought of such a frivolous indulgence brought a faintly nostalgic smile to her face. Now it was different. Motherhood saw to that. This time around, anyway. She'd just come from feeding Stephen - Stephen Henry Charles Talbot - her second son. He had yet to conform to a reliable schedule, which meant that she was up at odd hours. And tired in the middle of the day.
A sound behind her drew Mary's attention and she turned to watch Henry shifting restlessly in his sleep. It was still a common habit among the aristocracy to sleep in separate bedrooms, but Mary, like her parents before her, would have none of that. She had liked going to bed with Matthew and waking up with him, and she had insisted on the same with Henry. Neither man had raised any objections. The rooms were different though. Mary had accepted Matthew's death, after a struggle, and moved on, but she had not married Henry to replace her first husband and she never wanted the shadow of one to fall on the other. Fortunately there were rooms aplenty at Downton.
Henry was a very handsome man, tall, dark, and mercurial, though not in that brooding, slightly unsettling manner that Bates had. Mary's eyes lingered on her husband, studying him with an almost detached air.
Henry loved her. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his arms when they encircled her in the night, and had tangible evidence of it in the personal sacrifices he had made for her. They lived at Downton Abbey in uncomfortably close proximity to her parents. She had a son, by her first husband, who was destined one day to inherit his grandfather's title of the Earl of Grantham and, with it, the vast estate. And Mary herself was committed to the protection and augmentation of her son's future, which was in fact a full-time job for her, manifested literally in the management of that estate. There were few men who would have tolerated any one of these with equanimity, let alone all three, and yet Henry had shouldered these burdens manfully and not complained about them. He was an extraordinary man and she was very lucky to have him.
The problem was that she did not love him. And she had begun to wonder if she ever really had.
Mrs. Patmore
Mrs. Patmore was reading His Lordship's note when Daisy arrived. Mrs. Patmore was irritated, in the abstract, with this upstairs invasion of her kitchen. They had, after all, eaten food that she had made plans for and they had left the dishes, although they'd probably have made a greater mess if they'd tried to clean up. But the note itself made her laugh. His Lordship might have asserted his right, as lord of the manor, to do what he liked in his own kitchen, in which case, of course, he would not have left a note at all. The mere fact of this epistle reflected a respect and regard for Downton's cook, independent of the sentiments expressed in it, although the sentiments themselves were revealing, too.
His Lordship had pleaded hunger, alluding not-so-discreetly to an unsatisfactory dinner elsewhere at a house not blessed with the culinary skills of Mrs. Patmore. Flattery, she thought. But she liked it anyway, and it was not untrue. She knew where they had been the night before. Then His Lordship went on about not wanting to disturb Mrs. Patmore so late, as she had already put in a long day and faced another on the morrow. That was true enough, too. He'd noted, as well, that he and Her Ladyship very much appreciated all the hard work Mrs. Patmore put in on their behalf. And then he'd hoped that they'd not inconvenienced her by what they'd eaten and said that they'd tidied up as best they could, not wanting to infringe any more on her good will. And then the note had ended with, "Everything was delicious," (underlined!) "as meals from your kitchen invariably are. With warm regards, Lord Grantham."
Of course she laughed. His obsequiousness was a little overdone, but she appreciated the acknowledgment of her rights and the implicit sincerity of his compliments. And she hoped they wouldn't be making a habit of it. Mrs. Patmore folded up the note and put it in one of the expansive pockets of her apron. She thought she just might put it aside as a keepsake, a reminder of a kind employer and pleasant man.
Daisy had been oblivious to Mrs. Patmore's absorption and was at work preparing the staff breakfast and the cook had noticed.
"You're bright and chipper today!" Mrs. Patmore declared sarcastically, for Daisy had not said a word beyond a distracted 'good morning,' and was frowning in a way that told Mrs. Patmore she was deep in thought. "God help us!" the cook muttered, having had long experience with Daisy's trials.
Daisy glanced at her darkly. "I've got a lot on my mind," she muttered.
"Oh, don't we all," Mrs. Patmore responded, shaking her head a little. It was one of the pleasures of the job to have watched Daisy grow up - physically, emotionally, and intellectually - but Mrs. Patmore did sometimes miss the days when her rebukes could send tremors of fear shimmering up the spines of the kitchen staff. She sighed. One always mourned the loss of power. She turned to other things. Daisy would come out with it eventually. She always did.
Everything was well in hand when Mrs. Carson appeared. She made it a point to join the staff for breakfast most mornings, believing that it was part of her job to be present as a support to the butler and an example to her maids.
Mrs. Patmore glanced up when she came in and then stopped kneading dough so as to give the housekeeper her full attention. "The signs of wedded bliss," she said airily. "Exhaustion and contentment."
It may have been accurate, but it was entirely inappropriate, and it chased the smile from Mrs. Carson's face. Although she scowled, she didn't bother to castigate Mrs. Patmore for her impudence because she knew it would do no good. Instead, she turned on her heel and stalked off, more irritated still at not having gotten the cup of tea she had come in for in the first place.
Behind her in the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes. It was true, she told herself, brushing off a fragment of remorse at her persistent inclination to choose wit over tact. And that was who she was and there was no fixing it at this late date. Mrs. Carson was just too sensitive when Mrs. Patmore was only having a bit of fun.
At that moment, Mr. Barrow strode in, his sharp eyes taking in the work in progress. Everything that happened downstairs was within his jurisdiction and he never stopped noticing, even when his mind was preoccupied with specific tasks.
Mrs. Patmore looked at him critically and said, almost belligerently, "I hope you're not in a cranky mood today."
Mr. Barrow was accustomed to the cook's brusque ways, but this caustic comment momentarily froze him. "What did I do?" he demanded.
Mrs. Patmore only pounded the bread dough before her with an disconcerting thwack and the butler hurriedly withdrew.
Elsie
Elsie knew she had overreacted to Mrs. Patmore's remark, though it did rile her that her friend made such pointed remarks and did so in public places like the kitchen. If she could not be tactful, could she not at least be discreet?
But Mrs. Patmore wasn't the real focus of her agitation, although she had lit the fuse. Elsie was tired this morning as she was the morning after every indulgence of marital intimacy. These things took time. They had discovered, through the trial and error of their first months of marriage, that they preferred a slow-burn approach to love-making and it did not seem right to sacrifice that to time constraints. Their compromise had been to engage less often. Yet she still fell behind in her sleep and it showed. There was a reason why people married when they were young.
So she had at least to think about retirement.
She had chosen not to retire when Charlie did. For one thing, at sixty years of age she was still a distance from the usual retirement age. She could carry of for another decade if she had a mind to do so.
The real consideration six months ago was whether it was the right thing to do for Charlie and she had immediately seen that it was not. His great grief - the grief at parting from work that he loved and that was so intertwined with his identity - was his own, and so must the remedy be. To retire with him would have seen him surrender the independence of his working life to an unhealthy dependence on her. Never had it been more important that he should sink or swim on his own. She had had a few moments of trepidation in those first months, as he descended into depression. And then, prompted by the Dowager Lady Grantham, and encouraged by his wife and Lord Grantham, he had begun to see his way clear. Direct intervention in the unlikely form of Lady Edith (now the Marchioness of Hexham) had given him a new lease on life.* And while he was only now working out the possibilities, he was a happier man. Elsie might now herself retire without fear for his independence.
But was it really necessary? She stifled a yawn and the thought of the long day ahead of her, only just begun - she hadn't even had breakfast yet - bore down heavily upon her. Marriage had not changed all that much in her life. Perhaps it should have done.
Upstairs Breakfast
It was a full house at breakfast upstairs. Oddly, as the ranks thinned below stairs, they seemed to grow in the dining room. Edith could almost always be counted upon to be present, but she was gone now. Cora and Mary were the ones who had in the past taken advantage of the married woman's prerogative to take this meal in bed. But Mary had given that up when she became estate agent and Cora now opted for it only on rare occasions, having come to see it as a somewhat conspicuous class indulgence. Robert, who had often found himself the lone male in a houseful of women, was gratified by the reliable appearance at breakfast and usually at dinner, if only intermittently at lunch, of his two sons-in-law. He had come gradually and grudgingly to a liking of Tom, whom he now embraced as a son. Henry he had taken to immediately.
The room was abuzz with conversation, with everyone exchanging their plans for the day, but also dabbling in informative asides, gossipy tidbits, and the occasional political jibe. Robert was inclined to the last whenever the news gave him good material, as it recently had, in the Chinese revolution. Early in the year Britain had had to send troops to protect its interests there.
"Ah, another revolution raining down violence in the name of liberation," he sighed, with a provocative glance over his newspaper at Tom.
"Where there are oppressed peoples, there will always be violence," Tom quipped.
Mary rolled her eyes. "Why do you always rise to his bait?" she asked her brother-in-law. She turned to her mother. "How was your evening at the Northrops?"
Cora and Robert had agreed in advance not to mention the political unpleasantness they had encountered the night before. The culinary upset was another matter.
"It was a digestive nightmare," Robert responded before his wife could speak. "They employ the worst cook in England."
Thomas, who was standing at the sideboard in the place long occupied by Mr. Carson, saw Andy coming in with the morning post. In keeping with past practice, Thomas took receipt of the letters and put them on a small silver tray, along with a silver letter opener, and then approached the table. He offered the tray first to His Lordship, who cast aside The Times and reached for the topmost letter. He slit open the envelope and returned the opener, and then Thomas moved on to Mr. Talbot.
As he put the letter opener back on the tray, Robert said, "Thank you, Barrow." Then he glanced at his wife and gave her a quick wink, indicating that he had absorbed her admonishment the night before to be more appreciative of the butler.
Henry took his letter and murmured his thanks absently as his eyes sought out the return address.
"Germany!" Mary declared, noting the stamp. "Why are you getting a letter from Germany?
Henry gave her a warm, but enigmatic smile. "I've friends there," he said.
Cora took the opportunity of Robert's distraction to steal his paper. Almost immediately she emitted an exasperated sound.
"What is it, Mama?"
"Mr. Chamberlain!" Cora said darkly.
"The Minister for Health? How can anyone be antagonized by a Minister for Health?"
"He was pleasant enough when he was here," Tom put in, remembering the polite, soft-spoken man who had visited Downton a year earlier.
"You liked him because you champion the underdog and you knew Granny had him over a barrel," Mary said drily.
If he did not often ignore Robert's good-humoured political taunts, Tom had no difficulty dismissing Mary's almost reflexive barbs.
"Mama?" Mary prompted Cora again.
"He seems determined to make war on the Poor Law Boards of Guardians," Cora reported. "I thought his Widows, Orphans and Old Age Pensions Act was worthwhile, and necessary, but he seems to have an animus against the Poor Law."
"That Act will bankrupt the nation," Robert declared, without lifting his eyes from his letter. "And the Poor Law Boards are infested with Labour supporters who are abusing the system."
Before Cora could respond, Tom cut in. "The Pensions Act is less of a burden than caring for the indigent directly would be, or coping with the social problems caused by their poverty. And it's motivated by compassion. Even Mr. Churchill got behind it. He said he'd cut anywhere else to find the money."
Robert's gaze rose to meet Tom's. "That should tell you everything."
"I hadn't heard about this business with the Boards of Guardians," Tom went on, ignoring Robert's comments about a Labour infestation. "I've not been keeping up with politics as I should have."
Cora held up the paper. "Read this later."
"Who's your letter from?" Mary asked Henry, thinking to redirect a conversation that was declining into tedium.
"Reinhard Morden," Henry said obligingly. "We were at Oxford together. He's heard, through a mutual acquaintance, that I'm in the car business and he wanted to get in touch."
At the word 'car,' Tom perked up. "What does he do?"
"Well, before the war, he was being groomed to succeed his father in the management of their estate in Prussia. They were largely dispossessed by the Weimar government," he added, as an aside. "But now he's manufacturing and selling cars."
Tom laughed aloud.
"It's a funny thing," Henry went on. "We were in the same college at Oxford. We corresponded afterwards and I met him in Berlin when I accompanied my father there on a business trip. Then, in the war, we fought on opposing sides. He was with the German Army on the Somme. We might have been shooting at each other. And now we're both in the car business and he's interested in renewing our friendship."
"It sounds to me as though he just wants to sell cars," Mary observed.
"So do we, my darling."
"Who wrote to you?" Cora asked Robert.
"Shrimpy," Robert announced, and he looked around the table to collect their surprised stares. "And he's soliciting my assistance in a diplomatic matter."
"I thought he'd left the Foreign Office," Mary said, frowning a little. She'd thought it ridiculous that a talented diplomat had to retire because he'd gotten a divorce, especially when his wife was one of the most disagreeable women in England, notwithstanding that she was the blood relative of the Crawleys.
"Well, he has no formal role, of course. Or salary. But you're never out of the game."
"And what world problem requires your input, darling?" Cora asked.
Robert shrugged. "I don't know yet. He's asked if I would come to London next week to discuss it."
"Can you get away, Papa?"
Robert glanced at Mary. Her pregnancy and confinement had opened a door to Robert's return to the management of the estate, which a health crisis had forced him from a year earlier. Mary, he had noted, took loss of control just as poorly as he had. "The estate won't fall apart if I leave it for two days." He turned to Cora. "It'll give me an opportunity to see Edith. She said she would be in London then and would be coming through Downton on her return trip."
"Oh, joy," Mary murmured, affecting tact but speaking loudly enough for all to hear her. She turned to Tom again. "What are your plans for the day?"
"I've got a lot of errands to run. And I thought I'd take Sybbie with me. It'll give us some extended time together." He had never reconciled himself to the aristocratic practice of seeing his child for only one hour a day and he resisted it as often as possible.
"She'll enjoy that," Cora said warmly.
"What about you?" Tom asked Mary.
She tossed her head. "Mother things."
Tom grinned. "Then I know you'll be enjoying yourself."
Isobel and Dickie
At Crawley House, Lady Merton - formerly Mrs. Reginald Crawley - was looking through her wardrobe.
"Where is it we're having lunch, Dickie?" Her voice was slightly muffled, but her husband, who listened attentively to her every word, caught the gist of her question.
"The Pryors. At Crofton Grange," he said. He was across the room from her, standing by the window to which he had given his back that he might gaze at his wife. They were married not yet a year. The bloom might have worn off in other relationships after several months, but this was not the case with Dickie Merton. He well knew what it was to be unhappy in marriage and so now, blessed with a second chance - and such a lovely one! - he was determined not to let a moment go by unappreciated.
Isobel emerged from the wardrobe, dress in hand. "I think I wore this one to the Emersons two weeks ago, but I'm sure no one will notice." She was well enough acquainted with society to know that this was untrue and that her dress would probably be the first concern of every woman in the room, but she had never cared for what other people thought, especially about such superficial things, and had adopted denial as the best mechanism to sweep away such considerations.
Dickie was not of a mind to correct her. "Of course not," he intoned agreeably, not even looking at the dress. She looked wonderful in anything.
"I don't think I've attended so many luncheons and teas and dinners as in the past several months," Isobel observed. "And I'm accustomed to the Granthams' schedule!"
Dickie shrugged. "I imagine that the county is curious. About you."
She was bemused. "But I've lived here for fourteen years and no one's ever bothered with me much."
He sidled up to her, his hands clasped behind his back, and leaned down conspiratorially. "It's because I've told everyone I know five times over that you're a sensational conversationalist."
She laughed aloud at his silliness and then reached up to stroke his cheek. It hadn't come easily for them, this late-in-life romance, what with his obnoxious sons and his flirtation with a life-threatening illness that fortunately had proven a false diagnosis. He was so very different from Reginald, her earnest, ambitious, and intense first husband, by whom she had been widowed too soon and with whom she had had a son, her darling boy, Matthew. The thought of either of them - Reginald or Matthew - always stopped her heart for a moment. Dickie, in contrast, was light-hearted, witty, endearing, and so much in love with her that he was impossible to resist.
"I imagine we'll have to reciprocate, one of these days," she said airily. "In social terms, we must have amassed a great debt."
Dickie only shrugged. "Are you going to wear your garnet earrings with that, my dear? You're an absolute delight in them."
"I don't think Cousin Violet has ever worn the same dress twice," Isobel mused.
"Then she must have very large closets!"
Isobel gave him a look, but laughed again with him. "I haven't seen Cousin Violet for more than a week. I must do better."
"Perhaps after our luncheon."
"No. I'll go tomorrow, I think. After I've had my interview with Dr. Clarkson at the hospital."
Dickie opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then forged ahead. "Why so formal with Dr. Clarkson over this hospital business? Why not just invite him round for tea?"
But Isobel shook her head. "Better this way."
The Dowager and Mr. Carson
The Dowager Countess of Grantham was comfortably ensconced in her sitting room awaiting her visitor. He was, she knew, scrupulously punctual, so she could make her own arrangements to the minute. She knew he was eminently reliable in every way and this was why she had summoned him this morning. She had two tasks for him, although she had not as yet decided whether he was in fact the most appropriate individual for the second. This was, in part, why she had summoned him to the Dower House - to assess his capacity for that assignment.
"Carson."
He was a graceful man, for all that he was such a big man, and as he moved smoothly into the room she had cause once more to note this. He had always lent such an air of dignity to the proceedings at the Abbey, and especially in the dining room.
"My lady."
She was inclined to invite him to sit, for her business was of a somewhat intimate nature. But she knew Carson. Such a break with tradition and practice would get the wind up for him and she did not want that. Even as she greeted him she saw his eyes roving over her and a little furrow of concern taking shape on his forehead. He had noted her frailty. She knew he was too well bred to remark upon her appearance, so she forged ahead.
"You will recall our conversation, some months past, regarding a history of the Crawley family and of Downton Abbey, and of my interest in having you undertake such a project," she said.
He nodded. "I do, my lady." Perhaps the firmness in her voice had reassured him, for he had resumed the attentive, yet impassive mien he had always affected with her.
"At the time you lacked confidence in your ability to research and write such a volume, but in the meantime you've produced an article for Lady Hexham's...magazine...and she tells me it was a stellar piece, for that sort of thing."
"Thank you, my lady. I've not yet seen it myself. It's only just come out."
"Well," Violet went on, "I hope that has bolstered your confidence and made the prospect of my project more appealing. Because I want you to begin it, as soon as possible."
He raised his formidable eyebrows a little, but this could not have come as much of a surprise to him. He knew how devoted she was to the family and to securing its rightful place not only in the present but also, through the past, in the future.
"There were, Your Ladyship may recall, a few ... technical obstacles," he said carefully.
She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, you must hire an assistant to take the notes and prepare the text that you will dictate. If you will accept the ... job, Carson, then you must get on that straightaway. Put advertisements in the appropriate places as soon as possible. And then there is financing. I have made arrangements with my solicitor to establish a fund for the purpose of paying both you and this assistant for the work and for any incidental expenses you may incur. You should see Mr. Fairleigh in Harrogate at the first opportunity to make it possible for you to draw on them."
"My lady, I will begin inquiries regarding an assistant immediately, but I will not be reimbursed personally for this undertaking," he said firmly.
"You will, Carson," she said, fixing her eye upon him.
The battle was a brief one. He sighed and nodded. She allowed herself a small smile in triumph.
"And I should like you to begin, in chronological terms, with my husband's era, if that does not seriously disrupt your approach." She made it sound as though she were giving him a choice, but he knew her well enough to discern her meaning and nodded again. "There are boxes of papers in the attics here and, of course, you may interview me." She gave one of those calculated giggles that she usually paired with the bestowal of a favour that was not really a favour. And then something caught in her throat and she coughed and then was overcome by a coughing fit, her whole body wracked with the spasms.
Carson abandoned his formal bearing and hastened to her side. He quickly poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her side table and then crouched beside her, holding it out to her. He even, in an unprecedented departure for him, patted her tentatively on the back.
Eventually, the spasms did fade. Hoarsely she gasped, "Thank you, Carson," and took the glass of water from him. Her hand shook a little but she managed to take a few small sips, and then, after a deep breath, sat up straight once more. "Thank you, Carson," she said again, nodding at him gratefully. He was kneeling beside her now and she could look him directly in the eye. There was apprehension in his face. She had shocked him with this display of debility. He would be asking after her health in another minute or preparing to summon the doctor.
In that moment of meeting him on this level, of seeing so clearly in his face his emotional reaction to her little fit, she decided against raising the second task with him. Persuaded, at least superficially, that she was well again, he stood and they resumed their conversation. They spoke a little more about the practical details of the history project and of her expectations. She found, not at all to her surprise, that they were on exactly the same page on each of her concerns. Well, that was what made him the perfect choice for this effort, wasn't it? The family could have as easily hired a professional writer - Edith could have put them on to someone - to take it on, but no one save Carson was so devoted to precisely the same conception of the Crawleys' place in history. The story he told would be that which the Crawleys - or, at the very last, Violet - wanted to be told.
After he went away, Violet breathed a slight sigh of relief, and then her own brows knitted in thought again. Carson had been her first choice for the other task as well. His loyalty was unquestioned. But he cared almost too much and that was his flaw and, if she were honest with herself, she'd known that all along. She would have to choose someone else. But who?
* Author's Note: The story of Carson's post-resignation dip into depression and his emergence from with, with a little help from the Dowager, Lady Edith, and Elsie, is chronicled in Enough of That.
