DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.
EPISODE 2. Chapter 3.
Tom and Henry
"What happened to you?"
Henry was coming down the grand staircase and Tom was on his way up. They paused together on the landing. Tom stood with hands outstretched so as not to touch anything. There were black stains on his hands and shirt, and a few smudges on his face.
"Grease?" Henry asked, staring critically at the substance.
"Ink," Tom said grimly.
"Ink! Did your pen explode?"
Tom was not in the mood for joking. "No, it did not," he said curtly. "The ink well had spilled all over my desk in the agent's office and I didn't see it until I went to move some papers, and then it was on me."
This did not clarify matters for Henry. "How was the ink well spilled?"
"How should I know!" Tom caught himself, looked away for a moment, and then muttered, "Sorry."
"All right." Henry could see that Tom was aggravated about this and justifiably so. "Did you knock it over without noticing? Maybe you were in a rush earlier, or something."
"No. Everything was fine when I was last there." Tom hesitated. "I was wondering if the children had been there."
Henry shook his head slowly. "Only you and I take the children there. Nanny wouldn't have gone there with them. Mary never does." He thought for a moment. "There's always some children from the village, I suppose. Or the estate. The ones who did you car the other day, for example."
"I don't know."
Attempting to lighten the fraught atmosphere, Henry added, "Isn't it funny that stuff like that always ends up on our faces?"
Tom rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's very funny, Henry. Look, I've got to go get cleaned up. Make my excuses in there, will you?" He nodded in the direction of the library.
"Of course." Henry stepped away. "And I always thought you were such a dapper fellow," he mused mirthfully, and darted out of the reach of Tom's ink-soiled hand.
Tom started up the stairs, but then paused to look back over his shoulder. "It's not you, is it?"
"No," Henry said. He was still smiling, but he spoke soberly. "I'm beyond schoolboy pranks."
They went their separate ways.
In the Library
By the time Tom had gotten cleaned up, the family - including Violet - had gathered in the library. He paused by the door, observing them for a moment before he joined them. They were still the stylish aristocratic family they had been when he first came to Downton as a chauffeur before the war. Henry fitted seamlessly into this tableau but Tom, for all that he had learned to be comfortable in their midst, had remained an imperfection in the fabric.
Edith, now Lady Hexham, had claimed the centre of attention, which was an unaccustomed role for her. Mary, who stood to one side with Henrym was not pleased by this but was feigning indifference skillfully. Tom, who knew better, smiled and stepped into the room. Edith immediately rose to embrace him. They had always got on.
With Carson's departure they had finally abandoned the prohibition on drinks before dinner. Barrow had no objection to this. As Tom moved to the side table to collect one, Henry joined him. "You clean up well," he said with a smirk, giving Tom the once-over.
"My shirt is ruined," Tom murmured.
On the table between the sofas, Edith had strewn a few copies of The Sketch.
"I thought you might like to see the article on throwing a grand dinner in style," she said, addressing them all. "The photographs make Downton look stunning."
"Downton is stunning," Mary said, with a tight smile.
Edith glanced her way and said mischievously, "You may have to break your vow never to look at The Sketch, Mary. After all, Carson wrote the article."
As though Edith had issued a dare, Mary crossed the room and swept up a copy of the magazine. She would not have her sister tell what she would or would not do.
"May I see one?" asked Violet, and Robert, who was surprised by this, obligingly handed her one. "I've commissioned Carson to write the history of the Crawley family and would like to see how he writes."
"Shouldn't you have investigated that before you signed him on?" Tom inquired. The Dowager Lady Grantham - he had never called her Violet - remained the most formidable member of the family, but he had achieved a level of familiarity with her that permitted this impertinence.
"He agrees with me on everything," Violet responded, taking the question seriously. "That is the thing of first importance."
"He writes very well," Edith interjected. "In fact, he's much more accessible on paper than I've ever known him in person."
"To you, perhaps," Mary said.
Edith glanced her way. "Yes. To me."
Mary looked up from the article where she was valiantly attempting to contain her pride in Carson while affecting to be unimpressed about Edith's publication. "I thought you'd be pregnant by now. Isn't Bertie in need of an heir?"
Robert and Cora looked at each other and shook their heads.
"There's time enough for that," Edith responded in a breezy manner. "You and Matthew waited. Besides, we're in the process of formally adopting Marigold. We'd like to settle that first."
Mary subsided for the moment. Edith had unknowing touched a nerve. Mary and Matthew had not deliberately delayed the conception of a child. They had instead been thwarted by a physiological impediment in Mary's anatomy that had required a small operation. George followed quickly thereafter, but Mary remembered the anxiety occasioned by her initial inability to conceive.
"How confusing will that be for her," Violet said into the conversational lull, referring to Marigold.
Edith, whose relationship with her grandmother waxed and waned between great affection and resignation, raised her voice a little. "We're thinking of having a party when we do, a sort of christening equivalent, without the church parts."
"Is that wise?" Violet asked, more delicately than anyone would have thought possible.
"You can't be serious," Mary said disparagingly. "Hasn't anyone been asking embarrassing questions up at Brancaster, as in, 'Why does Lady Hexham, who has not previously been married, have a child?'"
Edith shrugged, as though shaking off an irritating fly. "People don't tend to challenge the family of the Marquis of Hexham," she said, emphasizing Bertie's title.
"They never give up, do they?" Cora murmured despairingly to Robert.
He was shaking his head. "No, but Edith's giving as good as she gets. Fancy that!"
Cora favoured him with her most engaging smile. "She has a loving husband and she's got a thriving business. Love and success make you happy. I should know."
Robert basked in the warmth of his wife's compliment.
"Tell us your news, Robert," Cora said. She said this a little more loudly so as to draw the attention of the room. They all looked expectantly at Robert.
"Have you been appointed ambassador to some exotic nation?" Henry inquired, a little tongue in cheek.
"Shouldn't have accepted if I had," Robert responded promptly. "I don't really like other places." They all laughed at that.
"No, nothing so important," he said modestly, but with an enigmatic smile. He glanced mischievously at his mother. "I know Mama will be particularly pleased by my news."
"Oh, dear," shuddered Violet. She gazed at him in apprehension.
"Shrimpy arranged for me to meet with some members of the Foreign Office. They're concerned about the state of Anglo-American relations and want to do something to improve them."
Edith made a small, impatient sound. "Translated that means that the Germans are getting more favourable treatment from the Americans and that our side is worried."
"You're up on politics," Tom noted.
Edith shrugged. "You just pick those things up in the city."
"And your role?" Cora prompted her husband.
"You all know, of course, that the current American Ambassador is Alanson Houghton."
"What kind of a name is 'Alanson'?" Violet interrupted in a deeply disapproving voice.
"He likes country life," Robert went on, ignoring his mother's interjection. "He comes from a small town."
"In western New York," Cora put in.
Everyone looked her way.
"So Edith's not the only one knowledgeable about diplomacy," Henry murmured.
"And he's particularly interested in Yorkshire," Robert added.
"That's very suspicious," Violet said firmly. "No foreigners are interested in Yorkshire."
"They've asked me to give him a weekend in the country. In Yorkshire."
"Aren't there lots of country estates around here?" Tom asked. "Or is this Shrimpy's doing."
"Why would anyone want to go anywhere else, when there's Downton?" Mary demanded, frowning a little at Tom.
Robert turned his way. "Shrimpy made the recommendation, but they thought I was well-suited to the task of bridging the cultural gap."
"You are a natural mediator," Edith said.
"And pro-American," Robert added.
"Really?" Cora was only half-joking.
Robert leaned over to kiss her cheek gently. "Yes, my darling. There is a lot that I love about America."
She laughed. "That's the first I've heard of it."
He took her teasing in good humour. "Of course, my darling. I married an American, after all."
Violet snorted in dismay. "It will all probably end in disaster like the last time you entertained a foreign diplomat!" she scoffed.
There was a long, awkward pause, during which Henry and Tom exchanged puzzled glances while the rest of the family gazed with some consternation at Violet, who pretended she did not know why they were doing so.
"Thank you, Granny," Mary said finally, rolling her eyes just a little.
Henry noticed his wife's exasperation and sought to smooth things over with a re-direction of the conversation. "Did you ever fancy a career in the diplomatic?" he asked Robert.
"Golly, no!" Robert took a sip of his drink to fortify him at that prospect. "I preferred the military. Soldiers say what they mean. But this isn't really diplomacy. It's a social function, really."
"Have you got any dates?" Henry asked. "Because I've invited my friend from Germany for the twenty-fourth. I can always change the date, if it's inconvenient."
But Robert waved away this concern. "Not at all. We'll have the Ambassador after that."
"There is one other thing," Henry said carefully, his gaze shifting from Robert to Mary to Violet and then back again. "He's asked if he might bring a friend who's attached to a firm that does business in London. He's a ... champagne salesman."
Violet started and clasped a hand to her chest. Edith quickly went to her side, before realizing that it was a reaction primarily for effect. "What have we done to deserve that?" Violet demanded.
Robert and Mary joined her in staring Henry, seeking an explanation for this colossal imposition. Henry was not daunted.
"He's a fallen aristo. Another casualty of the Weimar Republic. Von...something. I can't remember and I left the telegram from Reinhard upstairs."
Robert looked pained, not quite recovered from the idea of entertaining a wine merchant - not that Downton hadn't seen worse at the dinner table - but shifted quickly to resignation. "The aristocracy is doing all sorts now." He might have been wondering what he would turn his hand to when the axe fell on him.
"It's good for them," Tom said impudently and smiled good-naturedly into the glare Mary levelled at him.
"I think it's a good idea to renew friendships and business ties in Germany," Edith announced. "We're all Europeans. Surely we can get past the war."
Mary regarded her icily. "I would have thought that you, of all people, would revile Germans."
Edith did not rise to the bait. "Criminals killed Michael," she said firmly, surprising her parents with the equanimity with which she spoke the name of her first lover and the father of her child. "The National Socialists, or whatever they call themselves, are hardly representative of the German nation. It's the country of Goethe and Heine. I've met several German writers and artists in London. They're lovely people. Cultural life in Berlin is exceptional these days."
"That's news to me," Mary said sardonically.
Edith cast a slightly condescending look her way. "You need to get out more, Mary."
"Imperial upstarts!" Violet said suddenly and in a scathing voice. "We were bringing civilization to the world while they were still in short pants!"
"I'm not sure that's how the world sees it," Tom murmured, at a volume only Henry could hear.
Cora was casting about for a way to draw the conversation back into calmer waters and found a momentary distraction in the arrival of Barrow.
"My lady," he said solemnly, striking a pose by the door.
Cora looked around at them all. "That's dinner, everyone."
As they made their way past the butler, Cora caught Robert's eye. Keeping peace at the dinner table was going to tax all their social skills.
Edith fell back and drew Mary aside, waiting until the room was empty before speaking.
"What's wrong with Granny?'
"There's nothing wrong with Granny!" Mary looked irritated at the very thought, or perhaps came across so because she was already aggravated with Edith.
Her sister did not respond in kind. "Mary," she said quietly, "Granny is not herself."
The gravity of Edith's remark brought a line of worry to Mary's forehead and she glanced involuntarily at the door through which their grandmother had just departed, leaning - perhaps too much - on the arm of her son. Mary's gaze returned to Edith.
"What do you mean?"
Edith shrugged. "She seems ... frailer. I'm not suggesting you or Mama or anyone else has been negligent, Mary. Sometimes when you see someone frequently, it's hard to see change. It happens so incrementally. But I've not seen her in weeks."
There were few things that could bring Mary and Edith together, but their grandmother was one of them. Mary nodded. "I'll pay closer attention."
For the moment, it's all they could do.
Carson and Thomas
"You were late again, getting back." Thomas's stern words reverberated through the half-open pantry door into the passage. "And you were a mess when you did show up. There was a special dinner on tonight," Thomas went on coolly, "on account of Lady Hexham's visit. I had to have Miss Baxter bring things up to the servery. That's not her job."
"I know, Mr. Barrow. I'm sorry." Andy did sound remorseful. "I wasn't even handling the pigs today, but I slipped in some muck in the yard on my way out. I knew I had to get back early."
"I don't know why you were there at all, on a day like this." Thomas's tone was unforgiving. "I've only got one footman, Andy. You're it. You can't let me down like that."
There was a murmured exchange and then Andy emerged from the pantry, red-faced and looking sheepish. His shoulders were slumped in a downcast manner. That was one thing about Andrew, Carson mused, as he watched the young man make his way to the kitchen. He erred, but he accepted a rebuke without whinging about it.
Carson had been on his way to the housekeeper's sitting room when the conversation between the butler and the footman fell on his ears. He ought to have gone on, but he had a professional curiosity about Barrow's management style and about the problems he faced as butler of Downton Abbey in this era of retrenchment. He thought about what he had heard for a few seconds and then rapped on the closed over pantry door. When Thomas spoke, he put his head in.
"Trouble in paradise?" he asked delicately.
The classic Barrow scowl disappeared beneath an impassive mask. "Good evening, Mr. Carson. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The formal words were devoid of warmth.
Carson moved farther into the room. He nodded back toward the departed footman. "An administrative challenge, perhaps?" He tried not to look about the room, to catalogue the changes Barrow had made - few though they were - in the past months, or to indulge in a sense of melancholic nostalgia for what had been. Containing such impulses had gotten easier of late. He was moving on.
"Nothing I can't handle," Thomas said smoothly. He'd always been very good at suppressing his thoughts and feelings. It was part of what had made him an excellent footman.
But there was something there. Carson waited. A butler had few, if any, confidants. The only person who could really understand the responsibilities and the pressures was another butler and a house never had two, so occasions for confidences were rare to non-existent. Downton was, with the residence of a former butler on the estate, an exception.
Barrow was clearly meditating on it. They'd come to a bit of a truce, Carson and Barrow. They'd worked together well, but not warmly over the years. There was both mutual respect and dislike between them. But part of the adjustment Carson had had to make in retirement was accepting Mr. Barrow as his successor. When, finally, he let go - the emotional surrender following months after his physical departure - he'd been able to see Barrow more clearly as an able heir to the downstairs kingdom. And to appreciate that the best way he could ensure the high standards he had set at Downton Abbey was to support the new butler in his work. Though it still did not come easily to him.
So he waited patiently now. It was for Barrow to decide where they would go from here.
"There's to be a party of Germans, next week," Thomas said abruptly, not looking in Carson's direction. "And a diplomatic party shortly after that. The American ambassador." He glanced sharply at Carson as he imparted this, interested in his reaction. Had he conveyed this information to anyone else, it might have been deemed indiscreet. But they both knew that professional confidences exchanged between them were sacrosanct.
Thomas's shoulders heaved, though his voice remained neutral. "It's all a bit much with just one footman."
"And that one gallivanting off to Yew Tree Farm," Carson intoned.
Thomas made a dismissive gesture. "I don't mind that so much. Or," he corrected himself, "I wouldn't, if there wasn't so much to do."
He wasn't complaining. Carson understood that because he apprehended the extent of Barrow's responsibilities. "What about Mr. Molesley?"
But Thomas shook his head. "He might come, if I asked. But he's got a different life now. It's not...fair."
It surprised Carson a little to hear Barrow put it that way. He was showing more consideration than ever he had. Although perhaps it was pride, too, and a reluctance to show Molesley that he needed him. It was self-defeating, but Carson thought he could understand that, too. He would not have wanted to go cap in hand to Molesley.
"I regret that I cannot be of service," he said formally.
This elicited a nod of acknowledgment from Barrow. "I'm still ... working out ... how to get on with the show," he said at last, but he looked slightly less tense for having spoken his frustrations aloud. "Would you care to sit, Mr. Carson?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to a chair before him.
"No. Thank you. I've only come to..." Carson inclined his head toward the door, indicating the housekeeper's sitting room. He had arranged to meet Elsie this evening, to walk home with her.
"Where the dog?" Thomas asked, arching his neck to look around Carson. The collie accompanied Mr. Carson everywhere.
"Lured to the kitchen by Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Barrow."
Thomas looked up so that they were facing each other directly.
"You must have a second footman. Put it to His Lordship. You're adept at sleight of hand and can, most of the time, create the illusion of managing it all on a shoestring, but even you cannot magically reduce the work of many to that which can be managed by a few."
There might have been a compliment buried in there somewhere. Carson himself wasn't sure.
"The budget won't stretch to it, Mr. Carson," Thomas said tonelessly.
But the former butler was unimpressed. "The budget must stretch to it," he said firmly, "or they'll have to lower their expectations. Put it to His Lordship, Mr. Barrow."
But Thomas was shaking his head. "Even if I did, I couldn't have one trained up properly for the occasion next week and the one after that."
"Borrow someone for them. But get started with more permanent arrangements. You have a right and a responsibility to do the job properly. And you need make no apologies for doing so."
Carson withdrew, leaving Barrow to ponder that. It frustrated him that he could offer no tangible aid, but there were other kinds of assistance. He had the wisdom of the ages - about service, anyway - and that was still valuable. The butler was operating in unreasonable conditions and His Lordship would have to face up to that.
Charlie and Elsie
Some time later, Charlie and Elsie were having their after-dinner sherry in the sitting room of the cottage. When they had been butler and housekeeper at Downton Abbey this had been their evening ritual - a sherry in the housekeeper's sitting room - and it was the means, formal and yet benignly intimate, that had facilitated the gentle development of love between them. In those 'old days,' they were always talking, reviewing the events of the day, finalizing plans for the next. It was the only time they could have a conversation when they were not likely to be interrupted.
They still talked, of course, but now they also enjoyed companionable silence. This evening, he was reading a book while she tried to figure out a knitting pattern. It had been a long time since she'd knit anything. She was confident that she could work it out eventually, but it was frustrating. This was one of those moments when she wished her mother were alive and nearby, so that she could be turned to for an explanation. Her mother had been a skilled knitter. But she wasn't there and Elsie Carson didn't waste time dwelling on what wasn't. Looking up, she saw her husband's brows furrowed with disapproval over his book and she could not contain a smile.
"What are you reading?"
He didn't look up. "Agatha Christie's latest novel. It came in the post today. The Big Four."
"You don't look as though you're enjoying it."
Now his eyes did shift to hers. "I'm not. It's all international intrigue. Thoroughly implausible. And Hastings is an even bigger fool than usual." He sighed and put the book down on the side table, picking up another that lay there. He held it up so she could see it. The cover illustration featured a handsome merle collie. Elsie took this in and met her husband's gaze for a moment, and then the two of them glanced automatically at the big collie who lay sprawled by the grate.
"Gray Dawn," Charlie said, reading the title. "It's the latest volume by Albert Payson Terhune, that American who writes dog stories about his collies," he explained, responding to her inquiring look. "Lady Hexham sent it down to me today, along with a copy of The Sketch in which my article is prominently featured."
He did look pleased with himself and Elsie laughed. "I suppose I'll have to read it now," she said, teasing him. "To learn how to put on a fancy society dinner."
He only smiled indulgently at her. She teased him a lot. "She's trying to encourage me to write that story about Shep."
The collie rolled over in response to his name.
"I'm not convinced," Charlie went on, "but this book can't be worse than The Big Four. And I've got a bigger project underway." His attention focused on the heap of wool in the basket at her feet. "What are you trying to knit, anyway?"
"A sweater. For little Robbie Bates. And trying is the word for it. By the time I get the pattern sorted, he'll be going to school."
Her self-deprecating tone only broadened his smile. "I doubt that." He did like just to look at her sitting here, in their home. "Do you think you'll like this, going half-time?"
She stared into the distance for a moment. "Well, it's not a matter of liking or not, really. The question is, will it work." Her eyes met his. "We're going to give it a serious go, though, Her Ladyship and I. We'll see," she added lightly.
Her eyes settled on the pattern book again and then, with a small sound of vexation, put it aside. "I was thinking we might have Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason over for dinner one night. When the family are out so Mrs. Patmore would be free."
"Why?"
She was a little taken aback at his abrupt response and scrambled for a rationalization to cover her ulterior motive. "As a diversion for you."
He stared steadily at her and saw a gleam of mischief in her eye. She didn't fool him and, what's more, she knew it. "I'm not in need of diverting," he said evenly.
"Well, for a change, then," she suggested lightly, maintaining the charade.
"I'm not sitting down to dinner with one of the tenant farmers," he said, somewhat more emphatically.
An exasperated sound escaped her. "You're such a snob, Charlie Carson. It's Mr. Mason." She regarded him for a moment, chewing a little on her bottom lip, and then added, "You're not the butler of Downton Abbey any more."
It was a mark of how far he had come in the acceptance of that painful fact that she could say this and that he could blithely ignore it. "Why are you trying to make a match between them?" he asked bluntly.
She gave up on subtlety, too. "I think they're interested."
"I don't. And you shouldn't interfere. If there is something there, you should let it evolve in its own time. They'll be better for it. As we were," he said, and the expression on his face softened. The fact that they were husband and wife never failed to thrill him.
She thought of their relationship as almost magical herself, but that did not deter her with regard to the cook and the farmer. "They've not got thirty years!" she said, laughing. And then went on, more solemnly, "Is it wrong for me to want Mrs. Patmore to be as happy as I am?"
He tossed the book aside and went to her, reaching out for her and drawing her to her feet and into his arms. "No," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Bu she couldn't be, not until... unless... she feels the same ... passion...," They kissed lightly. "...as we do. Marriage should be a communion of heart and mind and soul, as it is with us." He kissed her again. "And as it was with Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley."
That deflated the moment. She knew he didn't mean to put her off, but she had to shake her head at the pervasive presence of Lady Mary in his mind. And heart. "I notice you didn't say Mr. Talbot," she observed coolly.
"He's a fine man," Charlie said firmly. "And she loves him. But there's nothing quite like your first love is there?" There was an almost dreamy quality to his voice and his eyes had a faraway cast.
Elsie feigned hurt. "Am I to take from that that in your heart I'm second best?" She was teasing him again.
His arms immediately tightened around her and the misty haze of his countenance disappeared under a smouldering gaze. "You know better than that," he said firmly and then kissed her again. They neither of them could get enough of that. They often couched their relationship in terms of their thirty-year acquaintance, even knowing it was a false framework, that their feelings for each other were much more recent than that. But it did sometimes seem that they were playing catch-up in the small intimacies.
He wasn't wrong about the passion between them. If Mrs. Patmore could only know the half of it... "It's only dinner," Elsie said, drawing them back to the subject. "I'm not planning to invite the vicar."
Her dry manner made him laugh. He could not resist her. "Dinner," he said, giving in.
END OF EPISODE 2.
Author's Note: Things begin to get complicated with the next chapter and postings will be frequent, but not every day.
