DOWNTON 1926.

EPISODE 2.

Chapter 1*

Tom and Henry

Tom and Henry strode from the house to the garages at a brisk pace, talking excitedly about their shop and their plans for it. They were admirably suited for a partnership in cars, as both shared a consuming passion for automobiles in their every aspect. Tom divided his time between affairs on the estate and the shop. Henry was involved full-time in the business in York.

Downton still had two chauffeurs for the Rolls Royce and the Limousine in which Robert and Cora were driven around, but the younger men had their own cars, housed side by side in what had once been, before the war, carriage houses. The estate still maintained a stable of riding horses and Robert, and sometimes Mary, and recently the children, rode them, but the elegant matching pairs of high-stepping carriage horses were long gone.

"I ought to be there by ten," Tom said, as he approached his car. "Don't start working on that Vauxhall without me."

Henry laughed unsympathetically. "I'll have it done before you get there."

Tom laughed, too, knowing that this was not so. He pulled open the door of his car and such was the distraction of Henry's remark that he almost missed the great mess on the driver's seat.

"What on earth...?" For a moment he could only stare. There on the seat was a large, moist, and quite pungent cow patty on a bed of straw.

"What is it?" Henry came round to look. He turned to Tom. "Who've you riled?"

"Kids!" Tom said, shaking his head and then looking around the garage for something to use to clean it up. "Someone's idea of a prank, no doubt. Best check your car and the others."

Henry did so and then returned to watch Tom take a shovel to the dung. "Only yours, I'm glad to say. How would it be to send the car to pick up Robert and Edith at the station this afternoon with it reeking of cow manure."

Tom did his best to clean it up and then, resigned, threw a car blanket over it. "Well, I'll do a better job at the shop. I've got to get on now."

"You're taking this remarkably well," Henry observed, wrinkling his nose.

Tom shrugged. "It's a prank." Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added with a wry grin, "I'm in no position to throw stones. During the war, when I was conscripted, I had big plans to announce myself as a conscientious objector and embarrass the British Army, only I was rejected on medical grounds. So I decided to pour a bucket of slop, including a cow patty, over a visiting general. General Sir Herbert Strutt," he added, making the name sound pompous.

It was an anecdote that might have stirred anger in some, with its irreverence for the cause to which so many Englishmen had sacrificed so much. But for Henry the war was over and he heard Tom's story in the light-hearted spirit with which Tom imparted it.

"Good God!" he said in astonishment. "And you're still here?"

"It didn't come off. Long story. Mr. Carson dragged me from the dining room before I could do any damage."

Henry threw back his head with a loud guffaw. "Carson wrestling you down! I would have paid money to see that!"

"Yes, well, my life would have changed dramatically, and not for the better, if I'd gone through with it. But you do stupid things when you're young and politically motivated."

"If I've finished with the Vauxhall, I might help you clean that up," Henry said, waving Tom off.

Mr. Molesley

They were into the final days of the summer term and Joseph Molesley, standing before his class in the Downton village school, could hardly believe how much at ease he felt. He'd been trained as a valet and butler, but though he had done the jobs competently enough, he had never been entirely comfortable. There had always been so much about which to worry, so much pressure to get it right. He'd thought that was just the way he was, but now he realized it was because he hadn't been in the right place. There was a great deal of work involved in teaching, but he loved every minute of it. And he loved the children, too. They were bright and curious, most of them - though he had a soft spot for those who weren't - and he enjoyed opening the doors of their minds, helping them learn to see beyond the narrow confines of their lives in a small English village to the possibilities that existed. The world was more accessible than ever it had been and he hoped, in some small way, to prepare them for it.

He'd even been able to relax at work and sometimes to depart from the set lesson for the day when the children's queries and comments raised worthwhile avenues of discussion. So it was this morning, when he'd opened the floor to questions, any questions, just to keep them actively attentive in the classroom rather than looking longingly out the window as if the freedom of the holidays were lurking out there, beckoning to them. He was startled by the first question.

"What did you do in the war, sir?"

In retrospect, it was surprising that no one had asked before. It was a question for which every man over twenty-five and under sixty could reasonably be expected to have an appropriate answer. They all looked at him with eager eyes, keen to hear his story. And he gave it to them. It came rolling off his tongue as though he'd been practicing for this moment for years. A self-effacing demeanour came naturally to him and he fell into it now, his tone half-rueful, half-resigned.

"I was deemed unfit, medically," he said, a little mournfully. "M'lungs," he added, pointing at his chest. And he sighed as though this were a great sorrow for him.

They were disappointed. They had come to admire him, the village children. He told a good story and he made lessons lively. He expected things of them, but also encouraged and helped them so that the goals he set were attainable, if they made an effort. They'd hoped, naturally for some stirring personal account, peppered with details of life in the trenches perhaps. But he had nothing more to say. It was an awkward moment, but it passed and they moved on to other topics.

But the question hammered away at Molesley, even as he went through the motions of the lessons for the rest of the day, for although the story was true enough in its essentials, the fact at the heart of it was a lie. His lungs had not kept him out of action. It was a lie about his lungs that had done so.

The outbreak of war in 1914 hadn't disturbed him unduly. It would be over by Christmas. And then it wasn't. And then the numbers of volunteers had begun to dry up, put off by the ghastly news from the front, the horrendous death rates, and the almost as frightening spectre of the wounded. Although he was at the older end of draft-age men, he still waited with trepidation for the letter to come. It didn't, but only because the Dowager Countess had intervened, in what others saw as an outrageous exercise of influence and for which Molesley had been very grateful. But when this came out and he faced the possibility of being thrown into the conscription pool, he had approached Dr. Clarkson and confirmed the lie that the Dowager had already created - that he had weak lungs. The doctor had been sceptical, but acquiesced, only advising Molesley to do something for the war effort, and he had agreed. And then done nothing. Perhaps that was what had driven him to support so enthusiastically Mrs. Bird's ad hoc soup kitchen run out of Crawley House.

Dr. Clarkson never mentioned it, but he knew. As did the Dowager, Mrs. Crawley, and his Dad, of course. No one ever said a thing. And he had been able to put it to the back of his mind where it was easy to convince himself that it was in the past, gone, not to be trifled with again. He'd had an uneasy moment at the dedication of the war memorial, especially when his eyes fell on Mr. Barrow, who'd done his bit admirably and been wounded, too. And when he saw the names of William Mason on the cenotaph and Mrs. Patmore's nephew memorialized independently. And then the crowd had dissipated and he'd tucked that uncomfortable thought away again.

He passed the cenotaph every day, walking to and from the school, and could see it, through the branches of the oak tree just outside, from the window of his classroom. Until today, he'd taken no more notice of it than any other building or structure in the village. But now, even after the children's attention had turned elsewhere, his eyes kept straying to it.

Because he realized this wasn't just a burden on his conscience, although it was certainly that. There were other things, other people, to consider now. He had not confided in Miss Baxter about his wartime behaviour because he had not let himself think about it. Now he must. She had, he thought - he hoped she had - a good opinion of him and that would be dashed with this revelation. He would have to tell her, for he could not now imagine going forward in their ... relationship ... yes, he supposed he could call it that, ...without doing so, now that the thing had raised its ugly head again. She would revile him for it, as would anyone of sound mind.

What did you do in the war, sir?

I was a coward.

And now he was lying to children, too.

Mary and Anna

"I gave no thought to it at all when I married Mr. Crawley," Lady Mary said, pausing only to shift the child at her breast. She did so with some ease now, although it had been a bit of a challenge at first. It had come as a surprise to her that she had to learn how to breast-feed her own child. Wasn't that knowledge just innate? "Perhaps because I didn't have to change my name," she continued. "But it's odd, still, to think of myself as a Talbot. And of my son as a Talbot." She smiled down on the dark-haired infant who was preoccupied in the moment with a late morning meal.

She sat with her son in the nursery and across from her, with her own child suckling contentedly, was Anna. Robbie Bates was five months older than Stephen Talbot, and though just as hungry, now had the wherewithal to return his mother's fond gaze while he ate. Although it was no longer a novelty for her, Anna could hardly tear her eyes from her son. She had waited a long time for this miracle of life, and she gave in only reluctantly to any distractions from it. But she did acknowledge Lady Mary's words with a quick glance.

"I feel sorry for George," Mary went on. "No, I feel badly about him. I as much as abandoned him for the first six months of his life. I hardly ever saw George before he was Robbie's age. And he had a wet nurse, as Sybbie did. Only George's mother wasn't dead. I'm ashamed of myself," she added.

Now Anna did look up. "You were grieving, my lady." At the time she had thought Mary self-indulgent, but seeing her now with Stephen softened Anna's perception.

"Too much," Mary countered. "That is, I was grieving badly. Of course, I loved Mr. Crawley ... very much..." Even now she felt that constriction in her chest that always came upon her when memories of Matthew surfaced, "...but George shouldn't have had to suffer for it with my neglect. And that," she said, smiling down at the infant in her arms, whose tiny fist was waving in agitation, "is why Mummy is here with you, my darling." She looked up and caught Anna's eye. "I mean it. But I do still miss working. Time slows to a crawl when you're dealing with a baby. Look at you. Robbie is six months old and here you still are."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, my lady," Anna said lightly, but with conviction. Anna, who very rarely made demands on anyone, was determined to care for her son as much as she could, and for once had put her own concerns first. She had wanted a child, this child, for so long and endured so much to have him, that she would let nothing interfere with motherhood. Work would have to accommodate to this. Fortunately, Lady Mary had concurred. Carrying her own child had, perhaps, made her more sympathetic. Or possibly it was the bond with Anna that had made it acceptable.

"They grow up much too fast," Anna said, her eyes falling on her child again with an adoring look. She cherished these moments with her son. When he was weaned, Robbie would need her less and she would have fewer rationalizations for visiting him so often during her working day.

"Well, I'm glad you're here," Mary said. "It's more fun to do something together."

Anna gave her a warm smile. She and Lady Mary had a long history of collaboration that made them more than employer and employee, but she heard an odd wistful note in the other's voice.

"I do love the time I spend with Stephen," Mary said, lest she'd been misunderstood. "It's just relaxing my hold on the reins of the estate that bothers me. I had such a battle getting them in the first place. God knows what Papa is up to without me." She raised her eyebrows, tempering the apprehension in her voice with this expression of amusement.

"It'll all still be there for you to take up again, when you're ready," Anna said confidently.

They sat quietly for a few minutes.

"Anna," Mary began casually, keeping her eyes on Stephen, but acutely aware of Anna's body language. "Did you ... go off ... Bates, just a little, after you gave birth?"

Anna knew Lady Mary well and heard in her voice both a yearning to confide and a reticence at doing so. So that's what's been bothering her, Anna thought. She liked Mr. Talbot, but she had wondered. Lady Mary, who was not easily pushed in anything, had, Anna thought, been pushed about by Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot himself a bit, last summer. Perhaps too much. But this was not for her to say and she could only respond to Lady Mary's question directly and in honesty. "No. But it would take a lot more than a baby to put me off Mr. Bates, my lady, given what we've been through together." She could say this cheerfully now, now that their dark days were behind them. "It takes a lot of an adjustment, a baby. But it passes."

Mary gave her a quick smile and nodded, grateful that Anna had not turned her question back on her. Having a child did change things, but the birth of her sons had not been as disruptive to Mary's life as Robbie's had been to Anna, because of the different levels of support they had. Yet Anna had not succumbed to the malaise that gripped Mary. And that was a troubling revelation.

Cora and Elsie

The two women were seated at the delicate writing desk that had come down through the Crawley family from Robert's great-grandmamma. His mother had consigned it to storage, finding it too ornate for her tastes, but Cora had resurrected it for her sitting room. It was by the window so that whenever she looked up from her correspondence, her eyes fell on the cultivated expanse of the east lawn and on the rose bushes that had been planted to welcome her to Downton so many years ago. But when she raised her eyes from the account books this afternoon, it was to meet the gaze of a woman who had worked at Downton for thirty years and who Cora could not, in all honesty, say she really knew.

"There," she said, with a note of finality, closing the ledger before her. "That's done. Was there anything else?"

Mrs. Carson said nothing. Nor did she move. Cora put her head to one side and waited.

"Yes, my lady. There is."

The other woman's gravity affected Cora. She folded her hands in her lap and adopted a sober demeanour to match that of Mrs. Carson. "Is it something serious?"

Mrs. Carson smiled a little. "Serious, my lady, but not sombre. I've been thinking about retirement." She looked directly at Cora as she spoke. Mrs. Carson always had an open manner, one of the many things about her that Cora admired.

"Are you finding it too much?" she asked solicitously.

"Well," Mrs. Carson said, almost with a sigh, "it was never too much for Mrs. Hughes. But, yes, I've discovered, in very practical terms, why it was that servants did not marry."

Cora smiled sympathetically. "I was saying as much to His Lordship, only the other night. I mean, that it must be a challenge for you to balance work and home life now. You've always given so much to Downton." She paused and then said delicately, "Were you thinking of retiring outright?"

This brought a puzzled look to the housekeeper's face. "I wasn't aware that there were options," she said.

"It isn't just Carson who hates change," Cora said, with a rueful grin. "The rest of us just don't show it as blatantly. I would hate to lose you." She thought for a moment. "The fact is, we're going to have to overhaul the whole way we run the house, and possibly the estate. We've made some cuts and the bulk of the house staff live out now, but we've just been nibbling around the edges so far. It's going to take more than that." Again she paused.

"I respect your wishes, Mrs. Carson. If you would like to retire, we can discuss when you'd like to submit your resignation and I'll put Barrow onto advertising for a replacement. But .. I don't want to pressure you, because I will accept any decision you make, but... would you consider reducing your hours?"

This perplexed Mrs. Carson. "The work is still there, my lady. Someone will have to do it."

"Yes. And you're very conscientious, so I can see that things might begin to pile up again for you, even with the best of intentions. But..." A shrewd expression took form on Cora's face. "...we might be able to manage that. Would you consider a part-time position?"

The housekeeper clearly had not imagined this possibility. She looked thoughtful. "What did you have in mind?" she asked carefully.

Cora's mind was racing. "Well, you could make up a list of all your duties and we could review them, see if there are any natural dividing lines where responsibility might be handed off to another employee, possibly a junior housekeeper. Or we could expand the role of the head housemaid. You could maintain control over, say, the books and the stores, and perhaps the overall administration of the housekeeping staff, any place where there was a significant degree of authority and trust." As she spoke, Cora became more animated about it. "You could draw up your own working schedule."

When Mrs. Carson remained silent again, her bright blue eyes alive with this unexpected offer, Cora hastened to reassurance. "I'm not trying to talk you out of your decision, Mrs. Carson. If you're intent on retiring, you know that His Lordship and I will wish you all the best and that we would make a very generous settlement with you, in gratitude for your long service at Downton. I am proposing an option. You must feel free to make a decision that will suit you. You and Carson." Cora spoke with a ringing sincerity. There was no one among the staff for whom she had any more regard than Mrs. Carson.

"You're very generous, my lady," Mrs. Carson said at length.

Cora favoured the housekeeper with one of her glittering smiles. "Not generous so much as pragmatic," she admitted. "It's only natural that you should want to spend more time with your husband, especially so early in your marriage. Downton will not stand in your way. But...," she added, almost a little mischievously, "if we can make it work..."

Cora's manner was infectious and Mrs. Hughes gave her a warm smile in return. It was uplifting to Cora only insofar as she had so rarely secured such a response from the housekeeper.

"I'll draw up a list, my lady, and see you about it in a few days." Mrs. Carson got to her feet.

"That'll be fine," Cora said. And then another thought occurred to her. "Oh, there was something else I wanted to ask you, not that ... Well, I'll just ask."

Mrs. Carson looked intrigued by this.

"Do you know anything about local application of the Poor Laws?" When the housekeeper stared at her, flummoxed, Cora almost winced. "I ... know. It's a strange thing to ask. I've just been reading about Mr. Chamberlain and his war on the Boards of Guardians, and trying to find out more about the Poor Laws, but it all seems very remote to me. I'm not...suggesting...that you've had any acquaintance with such things, Mrs. Carson, of course not. But... do you know anything?"

She had clearly taken Mrs. Carson by surprise, but the woman regrouped quite quickly. "I've been reading about Mr. Chamberlain's reorganization of the Boards, too," she said. "As for more direct information... There is a Union workhouse in Ripon, my lady. Were you aware of that?"

Now it was Cora's turn to be surprised. Dumbstruck, even. "In Ripon? How have I never come across it? Well, there's no answer to that, is there? I wonder if I might... go there." She looked inquiringly at Mrs. Carson, as if that woman would know.

And she did know. "You can, my lady." Mrs. Carson seemed to be considering something. "I visited someone there once. He was an acquaintance of, ...well, of someone I know."

The housekeeper's circumspection almost brought a smile to Cora's face. Mrs. Carson was very discreet. It only one among many characteristics that had made her such a valuable employee. "Thank you, Mrs. Carson. That is a useful bit of information."

*Author's Note: I'm going to re-number the chapters with every episode, going back to Chapter 1 for the beginning of Episode 2, and the beginning of subsequent episodes. I don't know if it's less confusing to do it this way, than to number them consecutively throughout the story, but it just seems like the right way to go.