DOWNTON ABBEY

EPISODE 3. Chapter 2.*

Mary and Tom

Tom and Mary met on the gallery and came down the stairs together.

"Henry is very excited to see his friend again," Mary said.

"I know. I'm excited to meet his friend." Tom was grinning.

Mary rolled her eyes at him. "You and your cars."

But Tom wasn't going to take that lying down. "It's my business, Mary. And I'm as passionate about cars as you are about Downton."

"I doubt it." They smiled at each other.

"You don't look very keen on this dinner party," he noted.

She shrugged. "It's the German part I don't like," she said, adding darkly, "Germans at Downton."

"The war is over," Tom said emphatically, evidently with little patience for her views on this. "It's been almost eight years."

"Yes, I've noticed the Irish have short memories for transgressions and are very forgiving," Mary said sarcastically.

He ignored this dig. "And Germany's paid for it, Mary."

"Not really," she countered. "Certainly not financially. Isn't that what all these plans are for? To refinance the German economy so they can pay their war debts?"

Tom snorted. "Reparations, not debt. It's a bit rich of England and France making Germany pay for a war they all had a hand in making."

"They lost, Tom. And they did start it. They invaded Belgium."

It was an argument destined to go nowhere, a fact that Tom recognized.

"I think that's a matter best forgotten."

"Spoken," Mary said acidly, "like someone who didn't fight."

There were men who were ashamed that they had not served their country during the war. But England wasn't Tom's country, and he'd been glad to stay out of it, so Mary's critical tone washed over him without effect. He chose not to mention the heart murmur that had disqualified him even from conscription, because it had thwarted his own plans to reject service anyway. "Neither did you," he said impudently.

"No," Mary said evenly. "But Matthew did. And Henry. And I don't forgive or forget."

The Guests Arrive

It was the first time that Henry Talbot had invited friends of his own to Downton. There had been guests before, but they were there at the invitation of the Talbots - Henry and Mary together. The men arriving this afternoon, however, were distinctly from his world.

Thomas wanted everything to be right, not so much for Mr. Talbot specifically, as for Downton. It must always be seen at its best. It was odd how that sensibility had come upon him. He'd felt a measure of pride in Downton before, but in a limited way. In the past it was Mr. Carson's show and he had absorbed the greater share of responsibility and glory. As the butler of Downton Abbey, Thomas felt both of these now, and the responsibility, he had to admit, was no small thing.

He and the footmen, all in their impeccable liveries, stood to the left of the door, unobtrusive and yet adding to the ceremony of the occasion. As they waited for the car to arrive from the station, Thomas appraised his staff out of the corner of his eye. He was grateful for Molesley's willingness to serve. The man had been a little uncomfortable in the servants' hall earlier, but that was no doubt because of the proximity of Miss Baxter. Well, they could sort that out later. Then there was Andy. Thomas was fond of Andy. He was a good lad.

But ... the picture wasn't perfect. Footmen served a number of purposes and did a lot of hard work, but they were meant to be ornamental, too. They ought to look good. And neither of his footmen really met that standard. They might be good workers and pleasant people, but they weren't visually compelling. Thomas had not yet had any luck in hiring a new man, but he was determined that the new footman, in addition to being capable and efficient, must also be good-looking.

The car pulled up and the footmen rushed forward to open the doors. Mr. Talbot also stepped forward. His friend was the first out of the car and Mr. Talbot seized his hand and shook it vigorously, and then embraced him. One of the attractions of the Germans, that set them apart from the French and several other continental peoples, was that even the warmest of welcomes did not involve men kissing. This was a habit the British had never embraced.

Thomas's attention pivoted between the footmen, who were unloading the cases from the car, assisted by a man Thomas took to be somebody's valet - he could see him only from behind - and the family and their guests.

Mr. Talbot's friend, Reinhard Morden, struck Thomas as a German equivalent of Robert Crawley, though much younger. His manner was that of a man who had an innate self-confidence, fueled by a deep-seated awareness of his place in the world and of his social superiority. It sat easily on him and let him to conduct himself with a quiet humility. In a man of lower status and lesser confidence this would have manifested itself in arrogance. It was an intangible nobility of spirit and it was just as well that Herr Morden had it, Thomas thought, because he wasn't much to look at. Standing next to him, handsome Mr. Talbot was a striking contrast.

The other man was even less prepossessing and had the mark of someone who affected the manner of a gentleman, but couldn't quite carry it off. Thomas had seen any number of these over the years and he recognized the type instantly.

Herr Morden brought his associate forward.

"Permit me to present Herr Joachim von Ribbentrop," he said, and the family duly shook hands and murmured the appropriate words of welcome.**

Von. That was a marker of German nobility. But Thomas had been in the dining room when Mr. Talbot had described the unknown visitor, apologetically, as a champagne salesman. How the mighty fall, Thomas thought. The Crawley hospitality extended in his direction was politely formal but not warm, and for good reason.

Thomas glanced once more toward the footmen and saw them already bundling the cases off toward the servants' entrance. The valet, or whatever he was, was with them and Thomas saw only his back. Then he moved to hold the door for the family and their guests. He would see them ensconced in the library and set up for tea, and then leave them to Molesley, while he withdrew to finalize preparations in the dining room with Andy, and then descended to the butler's pantry to organize the wines. He had taken particular care over the wines this evening. The champagne salesman might be expected to know more than most about such things, and Thomas was determined that he would not be disappointed.

Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Thomas, and the Valet

In the kitchen, the novelty of having Germans for dinner was a matter of some discussion.

"We might have tried something adventurous," Daisy was saying. "Something foreign."

"There's nothing wrong with good English food," Mrs. Patmore snapped back. "In fact, they'll probably welcome the change from those heavy sausages and dumplings and the like."

Daisy was puzzled. "We eat dumplings. And sausages."

Mrs. Patmore gave her a patronizing look. "It's not the same thing."

"I'm sure Alfred would have experimented a little," Daisy muttered, but not quietly enough.

"Well Alfred doesn't work here anymore, does he? He's gone to London and been all corrupted by French chefs!"

But Mrs. Patmore's scorn had fallen on deaf ears. Daisy was no longer listening to her. And the resigned look on Daisy's face prompted by the cook's culinary patriotism was gone, replaced by an expression of pure astonishment.

Irritably Mrs. Patmore glanced over her shoulder to see what had distracted Daisy and suddenly all the muscles in her own body went weak. Was this what it was like to swoon? And then she was, like Daisy, gaping in helpless wonderment at the man standing in the kitchen doorway.

He was the most beautiful man either woman had ever set eyes upon. Oh, he was golden blond, with glittering blue eyes framed by long, delicate eyelashes, and complemented by a long (but not too long) nose and artfully sculpted jaw, all against the backdrop of a perfect complexion. But these were only attractive parts of a flawless whole. He was dressed in formal black tails with an elaborate shirt that was blindingly white, his trousers creased to within an inch of their lives, his shoes a polished brilliance. He stood perfectly straight and perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the two women.

Mrs. Patmore found her voice, although it was a pale imitation of her usual strident tones. "My ...er...um,...sir," she said breathlessly, "I think you've taken a wrong turn. You ought to be upstairs, in the library."

His response was unexpected. To the further shock of both women, the gravity of his manner gave way, his face crinkling not unattractively with mirth, and he giggled.

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy exchanged apprehensive glances. Was the man unwell? Was he perhaps unhinged? They had no idea. Neither had ever encountered a German before.

He was oblivious to their trepidation. Advancing into the room, he stopped on the other side of the trestle table and lifted his chin into the air, sniffing delicately.

"Meine lieben Damen. That is the most exquisite aroma I have ever breathed."*** His voice was rich, his words clipped in a manner that Mrs. Patmore at least had expected of a German speaking English, and yet rolling off his tongue almost musically. He inhaled deeply once more and his gaze, which was uncomfortably mesmerizing, fell on Mrs. Patmore. "And you, you must be the magician who has wrought this marvel. Yes?" He sighed, as if overcome once more. "It came to me on the stair and I could not rest until I had traced it to its source."

Mrs. Patmore was ambivalent. She had never heard either herself or her cooking described in like terms. They ought to have made a positive impression on her, but such effusiveness was distinctly foreign and she had not completely lost her sense of self. "It'll be on the table before you in no time, my ..., that is, ... baron, lord, er..." She stopped floundering when he held up a hand.

"You mistake me..." He raised a questioning brow.

"Mrs. Patmore," Daisy supplied, discovering to her surprise that she could still formulate words. "And I'm Daisy Mason, the assistant cook."

He promptly executed a short bow. "Ladies. I am not lord or baron anything. My name is Erich Miller and I am valet to Herr Morden. He was once a Count, but alas! the world has changed."

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore murmured, frowning thoughtfully at him. "We've noticed."

Before they could say more, Thomas strode in, talking even before they could see him, impatience in his voice.

"Tea is underway in the library, so why are you..." His gaze had fallen on the stranger and he fell silent, as dumbstruck by the man before him as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had been. The valet, an impudent smile on his face, only stared at Thomas, clearly aware of the effect his presence had on all those around him. Thomas made a more rapid recovery than the cooks had done.

"I ... I beg your pardon. I heard a man's voice and ... assumed, wrongly, that it was one of my footmen." He caught himself gawking and by an almost physical effort resumed a more conventional dispassionate manner. He glanced at the women.

"I looked in at the library on the way down. The tea is very nicely done, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy."

On its own, Thomas's remark might have shocked the cooks, for he rarely issued compliments, but they were still transfixed by their visitor.

"And you are...?" Thomas asked of the stranger.

The blond man grinned mischievously at Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and then stepped gracefully in Thomas's direction. "Erich Miller," he said again, and repeated his short formal bow.

"He's the German gentleman's valet," Daisy said helpfully.

"Herr Morden is my employer," the man clarified.

And still Thomas remained unmoving, as though in shock. Later Daisy would liken it to the way Mr. Carson looked upon seeing Black band leader, Jack Ross, in the Downton servants' hall.

"Oh." Thomas could not think of anything else to say. And then he did. "I am Mr. Barrow, the butler at Downton Abbey. May I help you with something, Mr. Miller? Is there anything amiss in Herr Morden's room?"

For one long, uncomfortable moment for all the Downton staff members, Erich Miller did not reply. Instead he studied Thomas closely, in a manner that might have unnerved most people and did not sit well with Thomas either.

"Well," Miller said at last, "I thought perhaps I might be of assistance to you, Mr. Barrow."

This made the situation only more curious. "In what way?" Thomas asked cautiously.

Miller cast a sidelong glance at the women and then leaned toward Thomas in a conspiratorial way, though he did not lower his voice when he spoke.

"It's about your footmen, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas was bewildered. "What about them?"

"They're not very pretty, are they?"

Daisy gasped. Mrs. Patmore made a sound that encompassed both astonishment and outrage. Thomas stared in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?"

The valet straightened once more. "I've come to offer my services, Mr. Barrow. As a footman. I assure you," he added, with a charming smile, "I'm very experienced." And then he winked.

Upstairs Dinner

Over tea, Henry and Reinhard Morden had regaled the family with tales of their pre-war friendship and adventures at Oxford.

As they dispersed to dress for dinner, Cora caught up with Mary. "Herr Morden is quite charming," she said.

Perhaps a little grudgingly, Mary was obliged to agree. Certainly she could not deny the impact that his friend's presence had had on Henry. She had not seen him so animated in conversation with another man, even Tom, since before Charlie Rogers' tragic death. It was a pleasant thing to see Henry in such good form.

It was an intimate dinner party, with only the Crawleys and their guests present. The two Germans sat on either side of Cora, Henry and Mary at the ends, and Tom between Henry and Robert. This put the three car men together and it was clear to the others that they were eager to "talk shop."

"Goodness!" Cora said vivaciously, addressing Herr von Ribbentrop, who sat between her and Mary. "We're not accustomed to a table dominated by men!"

"I have ... had ... three daughters," Robert added, by way of explanation. He stumbled over the verb tense, still not sure, even years later, how to acknowledge Sybil's life and death. Cora smiled gently at him and he recovered, finding a distraction in the flurry of liveried servants about them. "We appear to have more footmen than family tonight," he observed, glancing at the stunning stranger who stood between Molesley and Andrew. "Is this our new man, Barrow?"

"No, my lord," Thomas said swiftly. "Mr. Miller ... Erich ... is Herr Morden's valet. He ... offered his services." It was an offer impossible to resist, for a number of reasons.

"Erich is very helpful," Reinhard Morden interjected mildly.

If Robert found this odd, he let it go.

Mary was less inclined to play the perfect hostess.

"I understand you're a champagne salesman, Mr. Von Ribbentrop." She might be favourably impressed with Henry's friend, but the additional guest was a different matter. She had never liked people who used their friends to secure invitations to posh places. Henry had been such an interloper at Brancaster Castle, but Mary had found it possible to forgive him. He had charms enough to smooth over any imposition. She doubted this unappealing man would have similar success. Mary ignored her mother's critical look and kept her eyes firmly on the man beside her.

He did not appear to take offense. "Ah!" he said with a little laugh and then a glance down the table to Henry's friend. "Reinhard has misled you, I think. I was once a ... marketing representative ... for a wine firm, but that was long ago. I have since made a most advantageous marriage and now occupy a more congenial sphere, one in keeping with my family's illustrious past."

"Really." Mary continued to ignore the pointed looks she was getting from Cora who understood, even if Joachim von Ribbentrop did not, that Mary was not in the least impressed.

But perhaps he sensed something of this. 'My family," he said boldly, "may be traced to the household of Friedrich der Grosse. Frederick the Great," he added sanctimoniously.

Mary shrugged. "I was never one for history," she said, in a bored tone.

Robert had been serving himself from the platter proffered to him by the handsome valet. It was difficult not to be distracted by the man. He was ridiculously good-looking. As he moved on to Tom, Robert found himself questioning the evidence of his own eyes. He waited until the valet had reached Herr Morden on the other side of the table and then leaned almost imperceptibly toward Tom.

"Is he wearing make-up?" he breathed, so only Tom could hear.

Tom hadn't paid much attention to the server, caught up as he was in the conversation between Henry and Reinhard about Britain's rubber monopoly and the damaging impact this had on the German automobile industry. But Robert's words riveted his attention and he glanced surreptitiously across the room at the elegant man now serving Cora.

"He is."

They were both taken aback. It was something neither had encountered before. Tom grinned a little and absorbed himself once more in Henry's disquisition on Britain's rubber plantations in southeast Asia.

"Have you visited England before, Herr von Ribbentrop?" Cora asked, determined to chart a more polite course than Mary had inaugurated. Unlike her daughter, Cora used the German form of address.

"Many times," the man said eagerly. "I love England. This country and my own are natural friends, natural allies. United, British naval power and German industrial and military might could rule the world."

Mary smiled one of those smiles that had no warmth in it. "Britain already rules the world, Mr. von Ribbentrop."

"You are a powerful nation, yes, but a small one," he said bluntly. "You may one day need help to offset the rising challenge from America, or the Communist colossus in the east."

The shift to politics intruded on the conversation at the end of the table and drew Reinhard Morden's attention.

"We have been gratified by the feelings we've encountered in this country against the Treaty of Versailles. Our nation has suffered grievously under it."

Robert murmured supportively and Henry nodded vigorously.

"The war was terrible," Henry said gravely. "Naturally, emotions ran high at the peace."

"Especially French emotions," Reinhard quipped, and all the men laughed.

"We have borne a great burden under that treaty," von Ribbentrop added soberly.

Robert was sympathetic. "Many people agree. Hence the Dawes Plan. And other initiatives to alleviate the hardships."

"As an American, I think everyone should just pay their debts," Cora said softly.

"I agree with you, Lady Grantham," Reinhard Morden said forcefully. "Legitimate debts, yes. Britain contracted for war loans in good faith with the United States, and such debts ought to be honoured. But German debts emanate from the criminal war guilt clause and the reparations imposed on our nation."

"War guilt," Tom said, scoffing. "It was a war of imperialist powers for control of more of the world's resources. All are to blame."

"I wouldn't go that far," Robert said reasonably, "although I admit the terms of the Treaty were harsh."

Mary was looking from one to another impatiently. "What was unfair? The allies won. Germany lost. Bad things happen to losers."

"We didn't lose," von Ribbentrop announced and an uneasy silence fell on the table, with even the footmen and butler freezing in position. "We were betrayed," he added. "We should never have signed the armistice. It was the work of the November criminals."

"The... what?" Cora was not the only one who was bewildered.

"The German Army was unbeaten in the field," von Ribbentrop went on recklessly, oblivious to the shocked faces around him. Only Reinhard Morden was unmoved by this startling declaration. Instead, he nodded in quiet agreement. "The collapse in 1918 came about because of betrayal on the home front. We were stabbed in the back by Communists and financiers, Bolsheviks who overthrew the Kaiser and sold out the patriotic men who were at the front, fighting for the honour of Germany. The men who signed the armistice terms, and then the Treaty of Versailles, were nothing more than political criminals. And that is the government of Weimar." His condemnation of the German government was imbued with contempt.

The conversation had veered alarmingly in a disagreeable direction. For all their sympathy with the tumultuous situation in post-war Germany that had wrought havoc with economies and societies across Europe, and sharing the sentiment against the punitive terms of the Treaty of Versailles, neither Robert nor Henry were prepared to admit this interpretation of the war on the western front. Even Tom looked askance at this. Mary wore a fierce expression of "I told you so," and Cora, the consummate manager of social interaction, was stumped. Von Ribbentrop blundered on.

"You are spared here. We are face to face with the Communist hordes of Soviet Russia. Every day there is fighting in the streets of Berlin, and other German cities, while the nonentities of Weimar do nothing. Fortunately there are nationalist forces who keep them at bay."****

"Do you mean people like the National Socialists?" Robert's voice was suddenly brittle.

"Yes. Thank God for the National Socialists!" Ribbentrop said passionately.

It was as though an arctic blast had permeated the dining room. The Crawleys and their servants were rigid with suppressed anger. Even Reinhard Morden and his valet had sensed it and, over the heads of the family, their eyes met in acknowledgment of this, though neither moved to arrest their countryman's outburst.

"The National Socialists murdered my sister's fiancé," Mary said coldly. "It was during the Beer Hall Putsch, three years ago."

Von Ribbentrop looked at her, hearing her words but failing to grasp anything of the emotional intensity behind her carefully controlled words.

"Was he Jewish?" he asked.

*Author's Note 1: The Downton characters write themselves. But original characters and characters based on historical figures are a bit of an agony, hence the delay in posting this chapter. And those multi-character scenes are also a challenge. I have a much greater appreciation for the art of those dinner scenes on Downton Abbey.

** Author's Note 2: Joachim von Ribbentrop is an historical figure. He was a champagne salesman, among many other things, and travelled and worked before the First World War in Canada, the United States, and Britain. He fought for Germany on both the Eastern and Western Fronts during the War, and afterwards did make an advantageous marriage that took him to a more comfortable social level. He became enamoured with the National Socialists (Nazis) in the late 1920s and was closely associated with Hitler from the early 1930s. He served as Germany's Ambassador to Britain and, from 1938, as the Foreign Minister of Nazi Germany. Even a lot of Nazis didn't like him. He flattered Hitler constantly and impressed everyone else as a dim bulb. He was the first of those accused of war crimes at the major trials in Nuremburg to be executed.

*** Author's Note 3: It's been a long time since I studied German. Thanks to a guest reviewer for the correction here.

**** Author's Note 4: von Ribbentrop is exaggerating somewhat about the street violence in German cities, at this point at least. It was very turbulent in the early 1920s, when inflation was off the charts and there was a lot of political upheaval. It was in this context that Hitler's "Beer Hall Putsch" of 1923 too place. It cools off in the mid-1920s, so it would be quieter in 1926, and then erupts again with the collapse of the Western economies and the onset of the Great Depression at the end of the 1920s and into the 1930s, thus setting the stage for Hitler's rise to power.

The "Dolchstoss Legend" (there may be an "e" on the first word) or "stab in the back" is an historical reality, encompassing a reaction, particularly with the German military and around the person of General Erich von Ludendorff who was in a position to know better, than Germany's military forces were not properly beaten in the field but collapsed because of betrayal on the home front. There was a real threat from the Communists in Germany in the immediate post-war era, but there is another undercurrent here, suggested by von Ribbentrop when he refers also to the "financiers," a euphemism for Jewish bankers.

The connection of the von Ribbentrop family to the household of Frederick the Great is my putting words into von Ribbentrop's mouth. But it wouldn't be out of place for him.