DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.
EPISODE 3. Chapter 4
Dinner with the Carsons
It was a pleasant thing to be working together in their own kitchen.
"Do you know," Elsie said, glancing over her shoulder from the counter where she stood preparing vegetables, "this is the first dinner party we've had."
Her husband was a few feet away, polishing wine glasses very carefully. He made sure to hold them over the counter lest he suffer a sudden spasm. "I don't know why we're having one now."
She smiled at his almost reflexive grumbling. He'd set the table while she prepared the meal, and she'd seen him measuring the place settings. Charlie Carson was always going to do things properly.
She heard him cross the room and was already leaning back into him when he slid his arms around her and then nuzzled her neck. There was still a lot of work to be done, a lot of cooking to be done, but she didn't mind a momentary distraction.
"Aren't you a little intimidated, having Mrs. Patmore to dinner?" he asked, releasing her and then standing to one side.
"Thank you for your vote of confidence, Mr. Carson," she said tartly, giving him a look. "Why should I be?"
He knew he'd put his foot in it a bit, and tried to dissemble. "Well, it's Mrs. Patmore, isn't it? It's like me showing up at Downton and Mr. Barrow feeling just a little on edge because of it."
Elsie doubted Mr. Barrow ever gave her husband's critical eye a second thought. Thomas was the butler now and it would take more than the disapproval of his predecessor to shake him. "Mrs. Patmore knows she's the best cook in the world," Elsie said, a little acerbically, for it was her view that Downton's cook thought too highly of her own professional abilities, "so she's got realistic expectations of me. I've made a roast of lamb and vegetables, nothing too ambitious. It'll be tasty and properly done, even if it isn't veal Prince Orloff or lobster Thermidor."
"It sounds delicious," Charlie said warmly, trying to recover her favour.
"I hope you're going to be cooperative," she said, with a warning note in her voice.
"What do you mean?"
She turned then and fixed him with a meaningful look, unimpressed with his attempt at disingenuousness. "You know what I'm talking about."
"I won't be party to your schemes," he said firmly, acknowledging the point she was trying to make.
"Just so long as you don't derail them either."
He meditated on this for a moment. "I think I can just about manage that."
The guests arrived separately, Mrs. Patmore coming down from the Abbey and Mr. Mason trekking over from Yew Tree Farm, which was in the opposite direction. Mr. Mason arrived first, with a basket of produce in his arms.
"A farmer never comes empty-handed," he declared.
When Mrs. Patmore appeared at the door a few moments later, she, too, came bearing gifts. "It's an apple tart," she announced, declining to hand it to Charlie, but allowing Elsie to take it when she joined them at the door. "I know you've got your meal already planned, but it's a cook's nature to bring food. You can put it in the larder for tomorrow."
The dinner might have been, by Elsie's own admission, a good plain meal, but the wines were of a superior calibre. Charlie had his own wine cellar now, and though it wasn't as formal as the one at Downton Abbey, it served its purpose. And he'd made an arrangement with Thomas about ordering wine that ensured access to the same high quality vintages he'd known for the past several decades. Charlie might wish he could still pour them as well, but for safety's sake he'd relinquished that task to Elsie.
Mrs. Patmore relished a nice glass of wine. She did not have many opportunities to indulge that taste. As she savoured her first sip, her gaze fell on the dog quietly ensconced by the hearth.
"So you keep him inside, do you?"
The others glanced in Shep's direction.
"He's a pet," Elsie said. "There'd be no point in putting him out. He's like a member of the family."
"I wouldn't say that," Charlie said stiffly, with a slightly reproving look.
Elsie only smiled at this. For all his fastidiousness, it was Charlie who had taken to the dog and would not hear of him being put out, even in the mud room. And it was he who, despite the handicap of his unreliable hand, kept the dog's magnificent coat in top condition.
The conversation unfolded in the conventional line of pleasantries at first. It gratified Elsie to see the shy glances the two guests shot at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. Mr. Mason came across pleased at the opportunity to see the cook in more relaxed circumstances, and Mrs. Patmore was almost coy with regard to him. Still, she could not contain her naturally convivial personality for long and was soon entertaining them all with the story of the German guests at Downton. She had gotten her information second-hand through the footmen, and her audience had each heard parts of it, but she told a good story and they listened attentively.
Mr. Mason shook his head over the debate about the war. "Toffs," he said, with a touch of impatience. "They all bang on about it, of course, but who does the fighting and dying in these terrible wars but the ordinary lads."
"You can say that again," Mrs. Patmore agreed emphatically.
Neither Elsie nor Charlie completely agreed. The British aristocracy had been devastated by the war, heirs and spares falling like nine pins, leaving great families across the realm in danger of extinction. Elsie was less concerned than her husband about this practical effect than just the sheer fact of one in five from the aristocratic class dying for King and country.* But they did not challenge their guests. Mr. Mason had lost a son and Mrs. Patmore a nephew and they were entitled to let their personal experiences colour their opinions. The Carsons had lost no one.
"I'd know more about what happened at dinner," Mrs. Patmore went on, "but Mr. Barrow put his foot down about more talk."
"As he should have done," Charlie intoned approvingly.
Mrs. Patmore only rolled her eyes at him. "You should have seen the valet!" she went on. Here she had the evidence of her own eyes and her narrative consequently grew more animated. "He was one, I tell you! I never saw such a pretty face on a man. And you'd have seen him, too," she added, speaking specifically to Elsie, "if you'd not run off home so early to make dinner for himself here. Oh! This fellow, he made Rudolph Valentino look plain!" But then her voice dropped and she leaned over the table in a conspiratorial manner. "He was wearing make-up!"
"Make-up!" Mr. Mason snorted in shock. "On a man!"
At the end of the table, Charlie glowered. "He'd not have been wearing it long if I'd been in charge," he said grimly.
Elsie was no less startled by this revelation, but her husband's predictable reaction won an indulgent smile from her and she glanced toward him fondly.
Mrs. Patmore caught this look, but was less indulgent of her host. "Mr. Barrow didn't seem to mind," she said lightly, well aware that she was stirring the pot.
"I'll bet he didn't," Charlie said fiercely. Every time he was inclined to moderate his view of Mr. Barrow, the butler went and did something else that irritated him. He opened his mouth to pontificate further on the subject, but at a look from Elsie, he desisted, choosing to offer the wine around instead. He felt more confident after he'd had a glass or two. Alcohol made the tremors less likely.
"How's your book coming along?" Mrs. Patmore asked, not put out by the fact that her provocation hadn't led to anything.
"What's that?" Mr. Mason turned to the end of the table. "You're writing a book, are you? What about?"
Charlie drew himself up proudly. "It's a history of the Crawley family," he said formally, investing this statement with all the gravity he could muster."
"Then you best get on with it," Mr. Mason quipped, "before they're all history!" He and the two women laughed. Charlie was not amused. He took the work seriously and the farmer's comment also struck him as disrespectful of the family. This is what came of socializing with tenant farmers. He glowered in Elsie's direction, as if to make this point without words, but the sight of her fine features, animated with mirth, melted him again.
"I hope it's more accurate than that piece on a great dinner party," Mrs. Patmore said.
"What?" Charlie turned on her, affronted again.
She was not cowed by his indignation. "You wrote a whole great article on a dinner party, Mr. Carson, and never mentioned the food."
"It wasn't about food," he protested. "It was about the spectacle of a grand dinner party. It was about style."
Mrs. Patmore was unfazed. "Aye, but if there wasn't any food at the heart of it, there wouldn't be a dinner, would there!"
"Well, write your own article!" he retorted, his feathers still ruffled. It was a weak rejoinder.
"Maybe I will," the cook said airily.
"What were you doing reading it anyway?" he asked huffily.
"Your wife showed it to me."
This caught Charlie unawares. He looked immediately to Elsie. "Did you?" His exasperation with his guests was gone, replaced by surprise. She had teased him so much about it, he thought she'd found it ridiculous.
"My husband has been published in a national magazine," she said proudly. "I've shown it to everyone."
There was a quiet moment while he digested this, and then smiled, and Elsie returned his gaze with a warm smile of her own.
"It's very well written," Mrs. Patmore said, breaking into this intimate moment. "Except for the food part."
His good humour restored by the welcome revelation from Elsie, Charlie turned again to the cook with a more congenial countenance. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."
"I'd never looked at that magazine before," she said. "I liked the 'agony aunt' column. It was fun to read, although I can't imagine writing to a stranger about my problems."
"Nobody would," Mr. Mason said. "They make it up."
"Miss Denker says that Mr. Spratt writes that column," Elsie said, in an almost hushed tone, not so much in awe as disbelief.
"That wound-up old sourpuss!" Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "Even if you could believe anything Miss Denker says, that would be hard to swallow."
"Mr. Spratt would not lower himself to such nonsense," Charlie said evenly. He missed the look the women exchanged. "To answer your question, Mrs. Patmore," he went on, carefully drawing the conversation away from the Dowager's staff members, for neither of whom he had much regard, "my book - or at least the work on my book - is beginning to take shape. I've had a few letters of application for an assistant, including two very promising ones I received today, and I've written them back. I shall be interviewing them on Friday."
Elsie stared at him. "You didn't tell me that."
There was a measure of contrition in his voice. "You weren't here this morning when they arrived, and you've been preoccupied with dinner. I was going to tell you tonight."
"What do you need an assistant for?" Mr. Mason asked. "Aren't you writing the thing?"
"I have a condition, Mr. Mason, that makes it difficult for me to write. And it's a big project."
"So who are these candidates?"
"Well," Charlie said, looking at his wife, "one of them is a young woman from over Swaledale way, just finished some secretarial training course. And the other...," he dragged it out, because she'd already expressed her opinion firmly on this, and he was particularly interested in her reaction, "is from London."
That did take her aback. "London! Can you imagine," she said, looking around at their guests, "someone in London coming to Yorkshire to help write a book."
But Mrs. Patmore's mind was elsewhere. "And you're all right with him gadding about attics and libraries with some young woman in tow, are you? Wouldn't it be better if it was some old lass who'd been retired before her time?"
"Someone like us, you mean?" Elsie laughed. "No, Mrs. Patmore. I'm not worried. He's not about to get up to anything."
Charlie was looking from one to the other, aghast at the implications from both of them. "What are you suggesting!"
"Now, don't be insulted, Charlie," Elsie said soothingly, but with a hint of a smile all the same. "Neither one of us is suggesting anything. I only meant that you're a very happily married man..."
"Not that I'd misbehave in any case."
"...and that you'd never do anything improper anyway. This is only someone to take dictation and type up notes," she added, explaining to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Mason.
"Well, all right." Mrs. Patmore said, almost grudgingly, but with a twinkle in her eye. Mr. Carson was so easy to tease. It really wasn't a fair sport.
They retired to the sitting room after dinner for a brandy for the men and sherry for the women.
"Your dinner was lovely," Mrs. Patmore told her friend, as they all made themselves comfortable, the Carsons in their chairs, their guests together on the sofa. Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore might not have ended up there but for some deft maneuvering on Elsie's part. Charlie, oblivious, had just gone to his usual chair.
"Aye," Mr. Mason said, adding his compliments. "All the downstairs women at Downton Abbey are dab hands in the kitchen."
Elsie was pleased by the compliments and impressed by Mr. Mason's tact. He had praised her cooking without overstating it or, perhaps more importantly, undermining his regard for Mrs. Patmore's skills.
"You've a cozy place here," Mr. Mason went on. "They've done right by you, the Crawleys have."
"We're very comfortable," Elsie agreed. "But you've quite a nice place, too, at Yew Tree Farm."
"Oh, aye. It's a grand house. Although," he added, "a bit big."
"But better now that Daisy's there," Mrs. Patmore chipped in.
"And she's doing well?" Elsie asked.
"Daisy," Mr. Mason said earnestly, "has fit right in. It's like she's always been there. But ...," he ventured cautiously, "it were built for a family. The previous tenants had three or four children. A house should have people in it." He glanced, almost involuntarily, in Mrs. Patmore's direction, but she did not seem to notice.
With their glasses empty and the fire burning low, the guests got up to go at the end of the evening.
"I'll walk you back to the Abbey, if you like, Mrs. Patmore," Charlie offered. "I've got to take the dog out."
Both Elsie and Mr. Mason looked up in surprise at this statement, but Mrs. Patmore was already accepting before either could protest.
"You've got to get on," Mrs. Patmore said to Mr. Mason, with an air that was almost too hearty. "Daisy will be wondering where you've got to."
They parted at the door with warm words for the hospitality of the Carsons and, in their turn, the pleasure at hosting their guests. Mr. Mason turned left and disappeared into the darkness, Mrs. Patmore and Charlie heading the other way, up the gravel path to the Abbey, with Shep trotting effortlessly beside them. Elsie stood at the door, watching them go and wondering what had just happened.
He wouldn't be gone long, she knew that. So while she waited for him to return and explain himself, she put away the leftovers - her lamb had been good! - and tidied up the kitchen.
It wasn't much more than twenty minutes before he was back again.
"What were you thinking?" she asked as soon as he came through the door. "You ought to have let Mr. Mason take her home."
But he was unrepentant. "She's not keen, Elsie."
"That's news to me! Did she say so?"
"No," he said carefully, "but didn't you notice? We talked about Downton all night. Oh, you went off on sheep farms a bit with him. But they weren't ... really talking to each other."
She was exasperated. "Only because you and she kept crossing swords. And Downton is all you and I ever talked about."
"Mrs. Patmore was more comfortable picking at me," he said easily, coming to stand very close to her, leaning down a bit that he might inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair. "They're not like us, love. There was no ... sparkle ... between them."
Although she was discouraged by what he said, she could not but be distracted by the nearness of him. "And was there ... sparkle ... between us, Mr. Carson?" she asked playfully, lifting her chin.
"Always," he breathed, and pressed his lips to hers.
It wasn't true - about them. For much of their acquaintance there had been more sparks than sparkle. But in the moment that didn't much matter.
Thomas
"Nothing happened."
Even as he said it, Thomas resented having to say it. But Andy had been avoiding him, insofar as that was possible in their work, ever since the morning after the dinner debacle upstairs. It was a consequence of Thomas slipping out of the German valet's room at daybreak and colliding with Andy in the passage. Andy was rarely up before Thomas, but he'd woken with a headache and had been in search of a cold compress. And run into the butler in a state of semi-undress - his jacket over his arm, his shirt open halfway down his chest, his shoes in hand. Andy's eyes had gone round, he'd stammered an apology, and then he'd rushed off. And he hadn't met Thomas's eyes directly since. And that was a situation Thomas couldn't tolerate for long, not when he had to rely on Andy so much.
He'd invited Andy into the pantry after the servants' dinner was over and the others had dispersed. And gestured for him to sit as well. Thomas didn't want this to be a formal interview, one between the butler and the footmen, but rather a conversation between two friends. He wasn't sure the message had gotten across, which made it necessary for him to say even more.
"We got to talking. He was telling me about Berlin. It's ... fascinating. I fell asleep in the chair in his room. And I had a crick in my neck the next morning to prove it." Thomas waited and then added, "Andy?"
The young man looked at him then. They stared at each other for a long moment and then Andy exhaled deeply and nodded. "All right, Mr. Barrow. Thomas." He looked relieved. "I'm sorry I even... Well. I'll ... we can just forget it."
Thomas watched him go with mingled relief and irritation. He wasn't afraid that Andy would report him in any case, but he did want to keep that young man's good opinion, even if it was annoying that that meant suppressing himself yet again. His irritation, however, had much more to do with the night he had spent with Erich Miller than with anything Andy might think. This was because his confession to the footman was accurate. Nothing had happened. At least, not much.
When Erich's arms had encircled him, Thomas had been transported. It was the nature of this world that interaction was often hurried, secretive, and uneven or unequal. That inequality might take the form of differences in age or experience, and had usually, in Thomas's acquaintance, involved a discrepancy in social status as well. Finding a partner, a true companion in every sense of the word, was a dim prospect and one fraught with almost insurmountable obstacles.
But as he lost himself in the kisses and caresses of this beautiful man, and responded with fervour, Thomas felt that he'd made a proper match here. He couldn't be certain, but he thought they were roughly the same age. For all the urbanity of Erich's manner, Thomas sensed they were on equal footing in terms of experience - his touch as welcome to the other as Erich's were to him. And they were men of comparable rank as well. There was no social barrier here, no superior standing that might be wielded in a power play. Thomas had known that in his life, notably in his relations with the less than noble Duke of Crowborough, and learned to be wary of it.
This, this was different. Thomas was overcome with a joyfulness - not merely pleasure, which was so fleeting and superficial, but a joyfulness - he had not known in a long time.
And then Erich abruptly stepped back. When Thomas moved with him, thinking it was an invitation to the next stage of the game, Erich withdrew again. Thomas was shaken.
"What?" He couldn't even voice the confusion he felt, but Erich could not have mistaken the shock and disappointment in his voice and demeanour.
There was a semblance of contrition in Erich's countenance, but also a resolve. "Never in a room without a lock on the door," Erich said calmly, by way of explanation. "Certainly not in England." He turned away then and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the night table, coolly lighting one and then extending it to Thomas in a gesture of reconciliation.
Thomas ignored this. "What?" he said again.
Erich waved the cigarette about. "Your country, Thomas," he pronounced it Tō - măs,"is barbaric. It's not safe here."
Thomas struggled to understand. He fixed on the specific problem Erich had raised. "I'm the butler," he said earnestly, impatiently. "I've got the keys to everything. We can find..."
But Erich was shaking his head. "It is not something with which I take chances. I have no desire to ruin my life at hard labour like Oscar Wilde."
This drew a deep groan from Thomas. "That was thirty years ago! And what are you afraid of? There's no one here!" He flung his arms out, encompassing with them the servants' quarters.
Erich was unmoved. "There is the footman."
"He sleeps very soundly." But Thomas could see it was a losing battle. The exuberance he'd felt only moments ago evaporated. "Bloody hell." He stalked over to the bed and sat down heavily upon it. "What were you going on about rescue then?"
The other man did not immediately answer. He put his cigarette into the ashtray and turned to pour water from the jug on the night table into the large washbowl that stood there. They'd had proper bathrooms in the servants' quarters at Downton since before the war, but this convention of individual wash-up facilities had not disappeared. Thomas watched disconsolately as Erich indulged this ritual, scrubbing his face with his own facecloth and then towelling himself dry before turning to Thomas once more.
With the make-up gone, Erich was still handsome, but not quite as stunning as he had been. Or perhaps he had lost some of his lustre with his disenchanting behaviour. He tossed the towel aside and then reached out to the hard-back chair that he'd been sitting in earlier and dragged it over that he might sit beside Thomas.
"I meant what I said, Thomas. About you, I mean. I could see from the moment I arrived here what a painful thing it is for you to live here, in this ..." Erich struggled to find the words, whether because he did not have the English vocabulary for it or that they simply did not exist, was not clear. "... this frontier. You might as well be an American cowboy on the range, as a butler in Yorkshire. It is all barbarism."
Thomas could only stare, not at all understanding what the other was talking about.
Erich sighed. "You have no idea, Thomas, you can have no idea, what life is like in Berlin these days." A glow came over him, re-infusing his face with some of the glamour soap and water had washed off. "To indulge in ... furtive fumbling in a dank little room in Yorkshire, it is so ...tawdry."
Abruptly he took Thomas's hand and just this contact, which was by no means especially warm or flirtatious, ignited Thomas's desire once more. But Erich's mind was elsewhere.
"You must come to Berlin. I want you to see and know and ... feel ... the difference of a life in a world where you can be who you are and partake in all the aspects of it. Thomas, promise me, you will come to Berlin."
For a moment there was almost a magical quality to the atmosphere around them as Thomas stared into the magnetic eyes that drew him even in his disappointment. And then reality intruded.
"That's likely," he said sarcastically, coldly, and pulled his hand away.
Erich was not put off. "It will only be a matter of your getting there. I can provide you with accommodations and meals."
"I am the butler of Downton Abbey," Thomas said peremptorily. "I can't just walk away for a week."
"And you cannot make ... arrangements?"
Thomas's mind strayed automatically to possibilities. Mr. Carson? Molesley? "N-no. I don't think so."
Erich was unimpressed. "Well, look into it." He thought for a moment. "You are the butler. You must make a trip to investigate continental wines. Germany is the new centre for wine."
Despite himself, Thomas laughed, though it was not a laugh of amusement. "After the display this evening? I doubt they'll let a German wine be served here ever again!"
Erich shrugged dismissively. "That idiot. I told Reinhard he was trouble. Do you know that Ribbentrop paid one of his relatives to adopt him so that he could add von to his name?"
"Reinhard?" Thomas had called one or another of the Crawleys by their first names over the years, behind their backs, but had never done so in such a familiar tone as Erich used about his employer.
"We have known each other for a long time," Erich explained dispassionately. "He tolerates my interests, and I look the other way at his ... indiscretions. I cannot be more explicit. I have my honour, too, Thomas."
"Oh." Thomas wasn't sure what else to say.
"Let us leave it for now, Thomas. The details will work themselves out. Let me tell you instead what awaits you in Berlin."
And although he thought it all a pipe dream, Thomas listened as Erich wove a portrait of an open society where men could meet and socialize and fall in love with other men within the most vibrant cultural outpouring "since the Renaissance!" Erich declared. "All is permitted in Berlin!" There were clubs just for men like themselves. "And also for women!" It was possible to go to restaurants and theatres and city parks and express affection for each other "just like everyone else."
"But ... how?" Thomas couldn't imagine it, though he couldn't see how Erich could make it up.
"Berlin is the freest city in the world!"
They talked into the night, in a haze of cigarette smoke, and though Thomas was sorely disappointed by this unexpected re-direction of their interaction, he was nevertheless intrigued. And a different sort of longing was awakened within him. He was attracted to men, not to women, and that fact had made a pariah of him in his own home - in his family, in the community in which he lived, and even in his country. The fundamental elements of this longing were not so very different from men who were "normal." All healthy men shared a vigorous carnal appetite. But only those who were drawn to women also had the opportunity to establish more complex relationships, sanctified by church and society, wherein they might enjoy a deeper communion still of heart, and mind, and soul, as well as of body. Thomas was as interested in physical gratification as the next man, but he longed, too, for the whole package, the relationship that was almost impossible to attain in a world where such relations proscribed by law and social convention. This tale of Berlin wooed him. It was intoxicating. He had not known it existed and once he had been admitted to the mystery, he realized he wanted to see it, if only to know that it was not such an impossible dream.
He had fallen asleep, eventually, though it was well into the small hours of the morning that he did so. When he awoke, just before dawn, his mouth was dry with stale smoke and he felt already the penalties of not getting a proper rest. He'd collapsed on Erich's bed and the valet was sprawled on the floor with his own fine tailcoat rolled up under his head.
Erich did not stir as Thomas stood up. For a moment, Thomas just looked at the valet. His was still a pretty face, even in sleep. There was no denying that Thomas felt a deep vein of regret. No, disappointment. But that did not diminish the attraction or even the affection that had developed in their brief encounter. He crouched beside the slumbering man and kissed him tenderly so as not to disturb him. He did not have to worry with Erich, as he once had with footman Jimmy Kent, that his attentions would be unwelcome, but he did not wish to wake him either. Their moment had passed.
As he straightened up again, Thomas could think of nothing but Berlin. Erich had given him something more meaningful, more consequential, if not as immediately gratifying, than a fleeting coupling: hope.
He wanted to go to Berlin.
Daisy
Daisy had left Yew Tree Farm that morning in high spirits.
"'Bye, Dad!" she had called, going out the door. The address became easier all the time. She liked it. It sounded right. And though it was a small thing in itself, it reiterated for her the wisdom of her decision to embrace her life as Daisy Mason and to put the regrets of the past behind her. "Enjoy your dinner with the Carsons. And Mrs. Patmore!" There was a mischievous smile on her face as she added this last. For a while, she had balked at the idea of Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore being anything other than mere acquaintances, but that had been her own insecurity talking. Who knew what would come of their friendship? But wherever it went, Daisy no longer had any objections.
Mr. Mason was already gone when Daisy returned at the end of the day, although it was a fairly early evening for her. She'd managed dinner at the Abbey in Mrs. Patmore's absence, which had only involved sending supper up to the nursery and putting on dinner for the servants, as the family were out. Mrs. Patmore had left all the decisions up to Daisy and she had taken the liberty of making an Eccles cake for the children. Nannies, Daisy believed, were dark creatures who seemed determined to deprive upstairs children - who ought to be indulged, or what else was their superior social status for? - of small pleasures like delicious food. Wasn't that why Master George and Miss Sybbie were in the kitchen at every opportunity? Mrs. Patmore was forever giving them a biscuit on the side or letting them lick a bowl of cake dough. They might not get to eat the cake Daisy had made, but the nannies were going to have an uncomfortable evening if they didn't.
The servants usually ate later, but that was only because the family sat down to dinner at eight. Mr. Barrow had agreed that an earlier hour was more appropriate tonight and as a result Daisy had the table cleared and the dishes all done by early evening. And that meant she could go home.
Home.
She'd never had a home, not a proper one. Not that she remembered anyway. But that had changed when she moved into Yew Tree Farm and it was still a bit of a thrill for to take charge of some of the chores there. There was a lot of work to be done, but she didn't mind that, not when it was for her home and family.
Mr. Mason had already been in residence a few months when Daisy moved in, but Yew Tree Farm had not as yet yielded all of its secrets. There were cupboards and closets yet to be examined, and boxes out in the shed with who-knew-what in them. This evening Daisy wanted to get after the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen. Because of the way the doors were fixed, it was a useless space, the corner angle too far to reach without almost crawling into the cupboard itself. But Daisy could see that there were jars on the shelf there, probably preserving jars that she could use, if only she could retrieve them.
She had to clear the closer part of the shelf in order to wedge herself, uncomfortably, into the opening, but she managed it and discovered that she was right. There were a half dozen of the squat jars that she used in canning. She stretched her hand into the corner, her fingers feathering the back wall, just to make sure there was nothing else, and came across another bottle, different from the others. She drew it out, extracted herself from the cupboard, and examined her find.
It was an empty milk bottle, the sort of which they seldom saw at Downton, for milk came to them from the farms in milk cans, not in store-bought bottles. Even more intriguing than the vessel itself, however, was that inside of it were some rolled up pages.
"A message in a bottle!"
Daisy didn't even move from the floor, although she did turn around so that she might sit more comfortably with her back against the cupboard. The mystery of it appealed to her. She'd read a story once about someone finding a message in a bottle - a plea for help! - although it had been a corked bottle that had been tossed in the sea and found years later on a foreign shore. It was unlikely that this was a distress call from the distant past, but it was intriguing all the same.
She unrolled the pages - there were two - and attempted to flatten them out against her knees. They resisted somewhat, but eventually she had them where she wanted them. The papers were filled with a close text written in a fairly legible hand, marred in spots by what appeared to be water stains, blurring some of the words.
Excited by her find, Daisy began to read.
Tom
Tom was getting ready for bed. He was the last one to retire for the night, save Barrow, who had appeared when the family returned and then gone off on his rounds to secure the house for the night.
Tom had a number of things on his mind, paramount among them his plans to move with Sybbie to the agent's cottage. He'd told her a few days earlier and elicited a mixed reaction. She was an adventurer, Sybbie was, like her mother, so the prospect of setting out on their own again had some appeal, especially as this time they would not be crossing an ocean without hope of seeing Granny and Donk again. But she'd not been happy about leaving George. When she asked whether Nanny would be coming, too, and who would cook for them, however, he was glad of his decision. He and Sybil had lived simply in Dublin, in the few months they'd had together, doing their own chores, making their own meals. This would not be the case when Tom and Sybbie moved down the road. They couldn't escape the Crawley orbit that easily. But it was step in the right direction.
Neither Cora nor Robert were enthusiastic, although Tom believed his mother-in-law understood and approved, whatever she might feel in her heart. Robert's feelings were not so mixed and he hadn't tried to mask his unhappiness. But Tom expected nothing less. With Robert, time was always a factor. He'd come around ... eventually.
More worrying for Tom was the situation with Mary and Henry. Mary wasn't happy and Tom stirred uneasily over this. He knew that his unbridled enthusiasm for his sister-in-law's marriage to his new best friend had not been entirely welcomed by her. Mary did not like to be told what to do. He wondered if he ought not to have left them to their own devices.
Whatever was going on between them had not been helped by the visit of the Germans. Reinhard Morden was affable enough, and Tom and Henry had found in him, as they expected, a kindred spirit when it came to cars. But the dinner itself had been a bad business. For Tom it was more than the insulting behaviour of Joachim von Ribbentrop and his not-so-veiled antipathy to Jews, although he could hardly have known how close that struck at the family. Those remarks were enough to prompt Tom to a firm and unforgiving rebuke. But when the Englishmen and the Germans both tried to claim the moral high ground over the war, Tom had to shake his head. They'd all been complicit. It was the nature of imperialism to stoke conflict and defy reasoned appeals to calm.
As he folded his clothes and made ready to get into bed, Tom's mind drifted to the other thing. The incidents. There'd been three of them now - the cow patty in the car, the ink spill on his desk, and then, a few days ago, his tweed jacket tossed into a muddy puddle. He'd left the coat draped over the seat, and the car in the alley behind the shop where he and Henry parked, and then come back to find the coat on the ground, just a couple of feet away. The first incident might have been a prank, the second an accident. But what bothered him most about the third, apart from the fact that it confirmed the existence of a petty vendetta, was that it suggested someone was watching him, following him. Or at the very least that someone knew enough of his habits to know where he parked his car. He wasn't nervous. The incidents were minor, still reflecting a schoolboy mentality. But he was unsettled. His awareness was heightened. He looked around more. He studied the faces, especially those of young men or youths. It was this, more than the episodes themselves, that bothered him. He didn't like to be suspicious.
He turned out the light and settled under the covers, closing his eyes. And then it occurred to him that he ought to say his prayers. It had been a nightly ritual of his childhood, he and his brothers kneeling on the hard, cold wood floors beside their beds. They used to rush through the litany of "God bless Dad, Mum,...," running the names of family members together, and then vying with each other to see who could say the rote prayers the fastest. It hadn't spoken much of their devotion, but they were just boys, after all. Repetition and ritual had made an impression nonetheless. He'd never given up on God and he hadn't abandoned praying, even after Sybil's death. No, he'd clung to his faith then. It was when he'd begun to emerge from the shadow of that dark chapter, that moment when he'd largely surrendered his personal autonomy within the larger embrace of his wife's family, that he'd lapsed. It wasn't only his politics that had gotten lost in the shuffle. But if he were serious about raising his daughter as a Catholic, then perhaps he ought to practice what he preached. He had no idea where his rosary was. For the moment, though, he could always count off Hail Marys on his fingers.
He'd not made it through the first decade and was already drowsy when a loud crash and the splintering of glass not ten feet from his bed jolted him to consciousness. He sat bolt upright and then leaped to his feet. It was his impulse to dash to the window, now jagged with broken glass, but he had the wherewithal to give a wide berth to the floor in front of the near window which was littered with shards of glass. He went instead to the far window and peered out into the darkness. It was a moonless night and he could see almost nothing beyond the immediate perimeter of the Abbey. Nothing stirred. So he crossed the room again and turned on the light.
A good-sized rock, a little larger than the size of a man's fist, lay in the middle of the floor. It would have taken a strong arm to propel it to this height unless the culprit was standing quite close to the house. Tom extinguished the light again and, balancing the rock in his hand, returned to the window, staring into the darkened grounds where there was no movement at all.
His room was near the end of the passage, separated from the next occupied chamber by two unoccupied rooms. No one else had heard the commotion. He was relieved. This was something the needed to think about himself.
This was no prank. He had an enemy. But who?
END OF EPISODE 3
*Author's Note: The statistic of one in five men from aristocratic families dying in the war comes from David Cannadine, The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), page 82.
