DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.

Episode 1. Chapter 3

Charlie and Elsie

Charlie Carson had conventional expectations of his wife including that she would take primary responsibility for domestic chores such as getting the meals together. And this is how it was in the first months of their marriage. If they did not eat at the Abbey, then she would put breakfast on in the morning and supper at night. And so it might have gone on had not their lives taken an unexpected turn with his forced retirement. Things hadn't changed immediately. In the depths to which he had descended following his resignation as butler of Downton Abbey, he had continued to expect and she to provide that essential function of every day life.

But when he had emerged from the haze of depression and self-pity into the real world of his days at leisure and hers still filled with the demands of her job as housekeeper at the great house, he had seen things differently. They had a relation as husband and wife, but it was just a year old. They had, however, worked together for almost thirty years and in that capacity had been more flexible in terms of where their responsibilities began and ended. In his half century of work at Downton Abbey he had never failed to muck in when necessity required it and he had suddenly understood that their own situation demanded just that.

And so he had taken up cooking, not every night but most nights, doing all the work some of the time and making most of the preparations otherwise. Cooking did not come naturally to him, but he could read a receipt. He avoided things that required a lot of peeling, as the unpredictable spasms of his palsy made such tasks laborious and potentially dangerous. But there were a few dishes he'd made his own and he had come to take a small measure of pride in doing so. They sat tonight over a boiled dinner. The preparation did involve cutting, but nothing fine and he was careful. It was a simple meal and they both enjoyed it.

Elsie had spent the day pondering her future - their future - and wanted to talk about it, but force of habit prompted her to ask him first about his day and she could see he was eager to convey his news.

"I met with the Dowager this morning and..."

"Oh, my lord!" Elsie's cutlery clattered on her plate and a look of remorse appeared on her face. "And I forgot all about it and wasn't here to help you!"

It wasn't just peeling potatoes or handling bottles that had become difficult. He'd been shaving himself for fifty years and now it had become a dicey proposition. His father, afflicted with the same debilitating palsy, had bled to death after a hoof knife slipped and nicked his femoral artery.* He looked with a new wariness now at the straight razor he had wielded without conscious thought for decades and Elsie, at one with him in his caution, often helped him with this. She'd suggested, tongue in cheek, that he might grow a beard like King George, but he had not graced this remark with a response. He'd been clean-shaven all his life and would remain so. And on the occasions when she was unable to shave him, either because he was still in bed when she left or she was in a hurry, he had found an alternative.

"Not to worry," he said, with a gentle gesture of dismissal. "I went into the village. Mr. Braddock was glad of the business."

"Well, I am sorry," Elsie said. "I know it's important for you to look your best when you're seeing the Dowager. What did she want then?"

"Only what we thought," he said, and told her about the book project. "She was quite insistent I get started immediately. I wrote out the notices for employment this afternoon," in a now shakier script, "and will put them in the post tomorrow."

"I wonder that she's so interested in the story of the Crawleys," Elsie mused. "She's not one of them, after all, not by blood."

Charlie frowned a little. Elsie did not set that much store by history. She thought people ought to get on with their lives and not spend so much time looking back. Her husband disagreed profoundly. She did not have, he thought, much appreciation for how much the past shaped the present and the future, especially with regard to the stories of great families and great nations. "She is a Crawley," he said firmly. "By marriage. And her son is a Crawley."

Elsie shrugged this off. "So she's got her talons into you again," she said this lightly, although she was only half joking. When he did not take her to task on this, she looked up at him. He seemed more perturbed than he ought to have been at her irreverence. "Charlie?"

He raised his troubled gaze to her. "It was only... There was something about her. She seemed more...fragile than I've ever seen her."

The Dowager, Elsie knew, had a place in her husband's heart, so she suppressed an inclination to brush off his concern. "She is eighty years old," she told him gently.

"Eighty-two."

"Well, then?"

But he didn't really know. "Things just weren't...right."

They finished their supper and then moved to the sitting room, Shep, the great red-gold-sable collie, following them sedately. Getting a dog had been His Lordship's idea and Elsie had not been certain, at first, how her fastidious husband would adapt to having an animal in the house. But Shep had fit right in and now neither of them could imagine their lives without him. His facility for anticipating Charlie's tremors had also proven invaluable.**

On the table in the hall, Elsie noticed the already addressed notes about which he had spoken and briefly shuffled through them. "You're not advertising in London, surely," she said to his back.

"Just in a few papers."

This perplexed her. "But you want a local girl. No one will come all the way to Yorkshire from London for a project like this."

There it was, again. Her disdain for history. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, don't get your back up," she said soothingly. "If you were a professor at Oxford, it might be one thing. But this is a private work for the family, largely. All you want is someone to take notes and to type things up. And who can be discreet."

"I want the very best," he countered stiffly. "And I've got the money to pay for it."

Elsie let it go, certain it would sort itself out. No one from London would bother.

She poured the sherry now and he didn't even think to regret the surrender of this task any more, only being careful to put his glass down when he was not drinking so that a sudden tremor did not lead to spilled sherry on the sofa.

This was the moment for Elsie to raise her own preoccupations of the day. As was her wont, she took a direct approach.

"Charlie, what would you think of my retiring from Downton Abbey?"

They were sitting side by side on the sofa and his face was in profile to her. Even in that half-glimpse of him, she saw his face brighten, his eye widen with elation, but his voice, when he spoke, was deliberately casual.

"Retirement," he said, turning toward her. There was an eagerness in his eyes, even as he tried to maintain a facade of equanimity.

She slid a hand over his. His hands were always warm. Her fingers travelled lightly over the bones and the veins, now so familiar to her. "I always accepted the rule against servants marrying as a matter of course. But I've begun to appreciate the sense of it. I may not be eighty-two, but some days I feel like I'm eighty-two!" She said this lightly, hoping to make him smile and give himself away.

But he didn't smile. Instead his hand tightened in hers and his gaze turned smouldering. "Let me assure you, love," he said softly, holding her eyes with his, "you never feel like you're eighty-two."

And even though they'd been married for a while and had achieved a degree of comfort in their intimate life, she felt her face grow warm with this suggestive remark, and was glad to see that he'd flushed a little, too. She swatted him gently. "Go away with you!" She heaved an exasperated sigh, largely for effect, and pulled her hand from his. "I'm tired," she said. "In the mornings." Before he could distract her again, she moved ahead quickly. "I'm not at all sure I'm doing justice to my job, and...," without thinking about it, she reached out to stroke his face, "I'd like to spend more time with my husband."

He turned into her hand and gently kissed her fingers. "I'm sure you're giving as much to your work as ever," he said confidently. "But...your husband would be delighted to spend more time with you," he said. He leaned over her and their lips met in several soft kisses. After a little while, he withdrew a little. "Are you only thinking about it? Or have you made up your mind?'

"I wouldn't make a decision like that without talking to you," she said, though she appreciated his regard in the matter. He was a man like other men in many ways, but the boundaries of their work responsibilities had allowed for some of the autonomy exercised there to be carried over into their marital relationship. He did not tell her what to do where her work was concerned.

"There are things to think about," she went on, and then hesitated. "It'll be hard for me to give up earning my own money."

"You'll have a pension of sorts from the family..."

"A pittance."

"And we've income from the rental of our house," he went on. "That's ours, not mine. And there's my pension and investments. And it's not as though we've any major bills to pay, not living here."

All of this was true, though her uneasiness remained. Still, that wasn't the really important thing. "I've been tired," she said again. "And I'd like to focus on us. To make all we can of the time we have together."

This time he said nothing, only gathered her into his arms.

"And you wouldn't mind having me around all day?" she murmured, when the opportunity presented itself. That wasn't a question he could really answer, not until they'd tried it, but she wondered what he'd say.

"I've always had you around all day," he reminded her, "and I've missed you." He had been nuzzling her neck, but now desisted for a moment. "I only want to be sure you'll be happy," he said. "Retirement isn't as easy as it looks, you know. It takes some time to get used to."

She wanted to roll her eyes at this. Had she not agonized through every day with him as he struggled to make this adjustment at the beginning of the year? "So I understand," she said circumspectly.

He took both her hands in his again and his expression was a serious one. "I want you to do what's best for you, Elsie."

"I want to do what's best for us," she said.

They did not fall on each other as a more youthful or perhaps more impulsive couple might have done, but the passion that surged through them as they moved smoothly into each other's arms was no less intense. It was a particularly pleasurable several minutes. But when he suggested wordlessly that they might advance to the next stage, she pulled back.

"I do have to work tomorrow," she said, affecting sternness, but he saw right through her on that.

He stood and drew her up after him and into his arms again. After two more light kisses, he breathed, "Then let's get you to bed."

Robert and Cora

From Robert's point of view, it had been a good evening. Mrs. Patmore's dinner was so much better than the abominable food the Northrops had served up the night before. He sent his compliments downstairs with Barrow. Perhaps Cora was right and they ought to be even more appreciative all around if they wanted to keep their remaining staff.

After the meal the men sat for a while with brandy and cigars in the dining room and it was almost like old times. Oh, they talked about different things now, but it was the male camaraderie that Robert liked. Henry was interested in the estate, more than practicality dictated as he had no hand in it, but he wanted to know more so that he might converse intelligently with Mary about it. Henry was his own man and that was a good thing. Robert could see now that Tony Gillingham would have been a doormat and that wouldn't have been good for Mary. Henry adored her, but he didn't let her flatten him.

When they'd joined the women, the conversation lightened up a little, as Tom talked about his day with Sybbie and Mary related the latest accomplishments of George and Stephen. She was spending more time in the nursery than ever she had, and knew more about her children.

Robert took it all in, but his gaze kept flickering back to Cora. She sparkled, he thought. Sparkled. She always had. Yes, he had married her for her money, but he wouldn't have married her just for money. There were other American heiresses. All the things that had drawn him to Cora particularly - beauty, charm, wit, intelligence - had only increased with maturity. He was very fortunate.

He came out of his dressing room feeling quite warmly disposed toward Cora and hoping to find her similarly inclined. The vision of her, already tucked into bed with a book open in her lap, only enhanced her desirability. He slid into bed beside her and leaned over to press his lips to that enticing spot on her throat, just below her left ear. She giggled a little at his touch, though she did not lift her gaze from the book.

"What are you reading?" Robert asked, running the tip of his tongue along the artistic curve of her neck. He was not really interested in the answer.

"A volume of the Report of the Royal Commission on the Poor Law and Unemployment," she answered promptly, lifting the tome a few inches off her lap.*** She turned to him, her eyes alive with enthusiasm for the topic. "Can you believe we had this in the library? It's only the summary, of course, not the whole thing. I wasn't even looking for it. I must have passed it thousands of time. And yet this afternoon, somehow my eyes were drawn to it. And just after we were talking about the Poor Law this morning!"

"What a coincidence," Robert murmured. It occurred to him that if Downton still had a librarian, he would sack the man for making such an acquisition. "Why are you reading it?"

Cora's gaze fixed on a spot across the room, as she gave this some thought. "I just want to know, Robert." She paused, trying to find the right words. "There's so much I don't know about how the world outside of Downton Abbey works, and I want ... I'm beginning to think I need to know it. It's the only way I'll figure out what role I should play in it."

She was sitting upright, the book gripped in her hands, her chin up, thinking.

"Do you know," he said mildly, giving voice to the thought that had just come to him, "I'd always thought Sybil was an anomaly. Perhaps she came by it honestly, after all."

Cora turned her expressive eyes upon him once more and he saw that they were damp at his words. "That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me, Robert." Her voice broke a little over these words and she swept him into a heartfelt embrace, the book wedging itself uncomfortably between them. She pulled back and there was a look of longing in her face. "To be honest, I think I got it from Sybil, not the other way around."

He hoped that this moment of warmth might take them further, but she picked up the book again. "It's not that I'm going to follow up on this Poor Law business with Mr. Chamberlain, but ... it couldn't hurt to learn a little more about it."

"No," Robert said, falling back into his pillows. "I suppose it couldn't."

Mary and Henry

Henry had never had a valet. His family's financial situation had never stretched to it. Robert had hired a valet for Matthew and pressured him to accept the service both before and after the war. But times had changed - there was truth in that old cliché - and Henry's marriage to Mary had given rise to no comparable imposition or even suggestion on Robert's part. If Henry could manage without help, all the better for Downton's staff budget.

Mary had never been without a lady's maid and it never occurred to her that doing so was even a possibility. Anna had served her in that capacity for so long that job and individual had become intertwined in Mary's mind. She could not readily imagine life without Anna. But even that sacrosanct relationship was subject to change and Mary obliged to accept that fact. Anna had a child now and it simply wasn't realistic - or humane - to put the baby to bed in the nursery only to get him up later in order to take him home. It did not take much deliberation to arrive at a solution: Anna would dress Mary for dinner and then go to the cottage with Robbie. Bates continued in his duties, heading home after having attended to Robert as he had always done. Mary would undress herself, relying on Henry to help her when needed. It was an arrangement that suited them all, although Mary would have agreed to it for no one but Anna.

"It seems more natural this way," Henry said, making sure he got Mary's discarded dress hung up properly. She didn't get cross with him when he did it badly, but the look of exasperation on her face was something he wanted to avoid.

"Natural," Mary said drily, "is the thing to which one is accustomed." She knew that Henry was looking at her with a desiring eye. Undressing together fed that. She was not put off. She might privately despair over her emotional detachment from her marriage, but this did not extend to their physical relationship. She had always enjoyed sex and he was her husband. There was nothing wrong in indulging in it. And they were both enthusiastic and adept lovers, so she wasn't cheating him there.

While she brushed out her hair, Henry got into bed and struck a deliberately sexy pose. She almost smiled. He was so very good-looking and his silk pajamas fell like a sleek second skin across his lean and muscular frame. He had very nice shoulders.

"I've been thinking."

Mary met his eyes in the reflection in the mirror. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said deliberately, staring back at her. "We've been married for a year now, and I think we ought to consider finding a house of our..."

"No." Mary said this flatly, cutting him off.

"...own," he finished, and then frowned. "Can we not talk about it?"

"No," Mary said shortly. She tossed down the brush, threw off her dressing gown, and got into bed beside him, turning slightly so as to meet his dispirited gaze. "You've never mentioned this before," she said querulously. "Why now?"

"It seemed right, at first," he said slowly, "to live at Downton. We had a bit of a turbulent start." He was trying to cajole her into good humour, but Mary would have none of it. Her expression remained stony. "Well, we've a family now and..."

"We've been a family all along." Mary's voice was sharp. "You remember George."

His colour began to rise. "Of course, I do, darling. I only meant that we do have our own family and that it would be...natural...to live together, on our own. We don't have to move off the estate," he added, "just...somewhere on our own."

Mary did not really want to know what had prompted him to this outlandish idea. She had thought that their arrangements were both acceptable and permanent, and resented his challenge to this. "You do understand, I hope, that George is the heir to the title of the Earl of Grantham," she said in a formal tone. "To succeed in that position, he must grow up at Downton Abbey where he will learn to appreciate what that means. Papa will be his mentor."

Henry was sceptical. "He's only five years old, Mary. A few years out of the spotlight might be good for him."

"I disagree." She had almost cut him off again.

Silence fell on them for a moment, and then Henry leaned toward her, his voice filled with a quiet eagerness. "Try to imagine us - the four of us - together in our own house, Mary." His hooded gaze rested on her and she felt the measure of passion that lay behind those intense eyes. "You, me, George, Stephen..."

But Mary was unmoved. "The four of us and another cadre of servants? Our own cook? Housemaids? Butler? We can't afford that."

Henry was no Sir Richard Carlisle and Mary was eternally grateful for that fact, but it meant, too, that he did not have the financial wherewithal to establish an independent home. And why should they, in any case? She would never agree to move, especially not with George. As if to indicate that this was her final say in the matter, she reached over and turned out the light.

In the darkness, she slid down under the covers and turned away from him. He didn't deserve her cold shoulder. She knew that. But this was not the moment for him to pour more water on the dying embers of their relationship by raising a sensitive issue like this. She felt Henry roll over onto his back and imagined him staring up at the ceiling.

After a few minutes' silence, he said, "I've written to Reinhard Morden to invite him to Downton. Should I ask your father before I send the letter?" His tone was neutral, but his words stung her, all the same.

"You don't need anyone's permission to have guests, Henry," she said, trying to temper her own unsettled feelings. Then she added, "Downton is your home."

He said nothing.

END OF EPISODE ONE.

*Author's Note 1: The information about the death of Carson's father is something I made up. It is related in greater detail in I Loved Her First, Chapter 3 "The Heart Stirs Again."

**Author's Note 2: Carson acquires Shep in The Way We Live Now, Chapter 2 "Surprises." The dog's intuition regarding Carson's infirmity is alluded to in Chapter 3 "Fundamental Truths."

***Author's Note 3. In the parliamentary systems of Britain and those former Dominions that remain constitutional monarchies, Royal Commissions are specially appointed investigative bodies that study a particular problem. Their usually extensive reports often make fascinating reading, in part because they include substantial witness testimony regarding the subject. They also help a government to avoid making a decision or addressing a problem by delaying it through the appointment of a Royal Commission. Such investigations take months and sometimes years, and a government may be out of power by the time the Commission(s) it has appointed report.

The Royal Commission on the Poor Law and Unemployment, appointed in 1905 and reporting in 1909, had a profound impact on the organization of assistance to the indigent of Britain and laid the foundations for the reforms (although "reform" is a dicey word here) enacted under the authority of Minister for Health, Neville Chamberlain, two decades later at the end of the 1920s.

On Posting: This may slow a bit - I can't promise to post every day. But I will promise a diligent effort.