DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.

EPISODE 4. Chapter 1.

Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson

Daisy was in a grumpy mood again and for once Mrs. Patmore was not inclined to call her on it. This latest funk had begun the day after the dinner party at the Carsons' and Mrs. Patmore, who could add two and two together as well as anyone, was convinced that Daisy's surliness was a reflection of Mr. Mason's disappointment at how the evening had turned out.

It had been crystal clear to Mrs. Patmore and, she assumed, to Mr. Mason that Mrs. Carson's purpose was to draw them together. Although she'd never expected to be the target of anyone's match-making schemes, Mrs. Patmore had not resisted it. In fact, she'd welcomed it. She'd gone to the cottage in the lane in good humour, thinking this was how things were supposed to move along. But somehow it hadn't quite lived up to expectations, though she wasn't able to explain why, and she had come away from the evening somewhat deflated, and glad that Mr. Carson rather than Mr. Mason had taken her home, sparing her some awkwardness.

Mr. Carson had said nothing to her, nor she to him. It was more difficult to put off Mrs. Carson, who had arrived the morning after full of cheerful comment about how nice it had been to entertain and to spend some time with another couple. There hadn't been much opportunity in the few days since to have a real heart-to-heart, but Mrs. Patmore didn't expect that to last any longer than Daisy's bottled-up temper.

The dam broke in Mrs. Carson's corner first and so Mrs. Patmore found herself without an excuse to avoid a cup of tea in the housekeeper's sitting room during a lull on Friday morning. Accepting that a discussion of the dinner party was inevitable, Mrs. Patmore seized the conversational initiative.

"You put on a fine meal," she said heartily, not insincerely. "The lamb was well done and the mint sauce was delicious." She stopped short of saying she couldn't have done better herself, because she could have. But that was not the point here.

"Do you know, I don't mind it, really, cooking," Elsie admitted. "And the adjustment of my hours is helping there."

"Then that's working out, is it?"

Elsie shrugged. "Well, I don't know for how long, and we've not got all the wrinkles ironed out yet. But I think the additional responsibilities - and pay - appeal to Madge. She never really enjoyed being a lady's maid to Lady Hexham, when she was Lady Edith, but she wasn't happy with going back to head housemaid again either. She was always better at the household tasks than curling hair or mending dresses, though, so she's in a better spot now."

"Do you think she's got her eye on your job, then?" Mrs. Patmore asked, thinking this topic a useful diversion.

"I don't know. And I wouldn't mind it she did," Elsie said firmly. "But that's a bit of a way off at the moment."

"Mr. Carson seems happy enough these days," Mrs. Patmore said hurriedly, before Mrs. Carson could steer the conversation back to the dinner party.

"He is." And Elsie could not contain a smile. "And I've reconciled myself to the fact that he's going to be tied up with the Crawleys all his days, one way or another," she added with a sigh.

"And you really don't mind him having some young woman traipsing around after him, then?" Mrs. Patmore did wonder.

But this only evoked laughter from her friend. "No," she said emphatically. "What is it you think he's going to get up to?"

Mrs. Patmore didn't want to answer that. She didn't even want to think about it. She'd had an expected insight into Mr. Carson's intimate nature when she'd served as a reluctant go-between between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes prior to their marriage, and she never wanted to go there again. "They get up to all sorts, men," she said circumspectly.

Mrs. Carson was not troubled. "He gets on well with young women," she said. "And he can be a bit hard on young men, as any of the footmen will tell you. And he's an honourable man, my Mr. Carson," she added, not without pride. "As is Mr. Mason."

They had come to it.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Patmore agreed readily, but she was distracted. There it was again - that same sense of something not quite right that she'd experienced the other night.

"He is a very nice man, Mr. Mason," Mrs. Carson went on, in a rather obvious vein. "I've not seen much of him. It was good to get to know him better."

"Oh, he's ... yes. He's very nice," Mrs. Patmore responded vaguely. "And, do you know, he's asked Daisy to call him 'Dad,' and she is. Her moving to the farm has made a real difference for him."

"He's very fortunate that way," Mrs. Carson agreed. "And so is Daisy. But there's much to be said for a companion of your own age. It's one of the things I appreciate most about Mr. Carson."

Again, Mrs. Patmore felt that jarring note. She'd had many opportunities to observe the Carsons over the years - Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes as they were then - and companionable was not the first word that would have come to her mind about them. Theirs had not been quiet camaraderie so much as a compelling friction that had stoked a slow-burning and irresistible fire, no matter what Mrs. Carson might say about it now.

"He sent a nice note about the dinner, saying how much he enjoyed it," Mrs. Carson was saying, oblivious to her friend's discomfort. "Mr. Mason, that is. Perhaps we might do it again."

Mrs. Patmore could only manage a tepid reply to this that might well have raised Mrs. Carson's suspicions, but was saved the delivery of it by Daisy who put her head in the door.

"Excuse me," she said shortly, and not at all politely. "The man from Bakewells' is here and he's brought the wrong sugar again, Mrs. Patmore. Only he doesn't believe me, because what would I know about such things. He's insisting you come before he takes it back." She didn't wait for Mrs. Patmore's response, but withdrew again as abruptly as she'd come.

This performance vexed Mrs. Patmore, although the temerity of the Bakewells' man set her teeth on edge, too. She heaved herself to her feet. "I'd better go."

Mrs. Carson was staring after Daisy. "She seems a bit out of sorts," she noted. "That can't be just about the grocery order."

Mrs. Patmore was on the spot. She did not want to offer her own explanation for Daisy's attitude. As far as Mrs. Carson was concerned, the social evening at the cottage had gone well and the cook did not want to her to think otherwise, or to realize that Mrs. Patmore herself was not so convinced.

"I wonder if she's upset with Andy."

"Andy?" Mrs. Patmore was startled.

A thoughtful look descended on Mrs. Carson. "Mr. Barrow has had less patience of late with Andy going off to Yew Tree Farm all the time. And he's kept Andy's nose to the grindstone pretty firmly around here, too. Well, as he must, with still only one footman. Perhaps Daisy is irritated about that."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Patmore said quickly. "Possibly. I mean...that's certainly an idea." Her garrulousness drew a quizzical look from the other woman. Mrs. Patmore was known for her firm opinions and her lack of reticence in communicating them. This scattered manner was betraying her inner unease. "Right," she said more firmly. "I've got to give that fool delivery man what for." And with a more characteristic pugnacity, she marched out the door, hoping she had assuaged any of Mrs. Carson's suspicions.

Tom Downstairs

Tom was the only person in the house, save perhaps for the butler in a different way, who moved fluidly between upstairs and downstairs. Alone among the family, he never rang for the staff. If he wanted to speak to the butler or the housekeeper or a footman, he went to them. And though he knew it violated protocol, sometimes he used the servants' entrance. Much had changed for him when he married Lady Sybil, but there were some things he refused to surrender.

It was, then, no surprise to Mrs. Patmore or Daisy when he came through the kitchen on Friday morning. As always he greeted them politely. Daisy, who was apparently at odds with the entire world, managed an almost civil grunt. Mrs. Patmore responded to him in kind - she'd always liked him - and then glanced disapprovingly at her assistant, although she said nothing.

"Is Barrow in?" Tom asked. He had started his life at Downton as the chauffeur and in that position had learned to address the then-butler as Mr. Carson. He had never lost that habit, even though Mr. Carson rolled his eyes at the mistake every time he did so. But Barrow was a different matter. He had been Thomas before he had been promoted to under-butler and then butler. Tom had then conformed to the convention of calling the butler by his last name. Barrow would never get a "Mr." out of him.

"He is," Mrs. Patmore said and might have wondered what Mr. Branson wanted with the butler. They rarely communicated.

Before Tom reached the butler's pantry he was intercepted by the housekeeper stepping out of her sitting room. This was another friendly face and Tom did not let his concerns prevent him from greeting her, too, with a smile. She had been a stalwart supporter of his in both his downstairs and upstairs lives. He would have continued on past her, but she clearly had something to say.

"One of the maids told me she found glass on the carpet in your room the other morning."

He froze for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "I tried to clean it up as best I could. I hope she didn't cut herself."

Mrs. Carson gave him a reassuring smile. "No. She saw the broken window pane and was careful. She did a thorough job of vacuuming and sweeping, so I'm certain it's taken care of. But I was wondering about you, Mr. Branson."

"Oh." He knew the question she was asking. How did that happen? "It was nothing," he said swiftly, hoping a casual manner would reassure her. He grinned ruefully. "I don't even want to tell you how I broke it. I was going to replace it right away, but the pane has to be specially cut."

"One of the estate workers could have taken care of that for you," she said helpfully.

"I'd rather not trouble them. I'm picking it up today. Thank you all the same."

And then he did slip away, not wanting to have to make up a lie about how the broken glass came to be inside the room.

Barrow was at his desk and Andy seated across from him when Tom knocked. Both men got to their feet at the sight of him, Andy with alacrity, Barrow with a rather deliberate slowness.

"Mr. Branson. How may I help you?"

Neither Carson nor Barrow had taken kindly to Tom's social transformation. Nor had they ever taken pains to hide their disdain, although Mr. Carson's manner had softened over the years under the influence of the housekeeper. But there were still vestiges of resentment in Barrow's demeanour.

"I'll leave you." Andy turned to go, but Tom stopped him.

"I'm glad you're here. I've a question for both of you." He paused, thinking how to phrase it. He wanted to solicit information without conveying concern. "Have either of you seen any strangers around the house in recent weeks? Perhaps a young man, or a boy?"

They stared at him blankly.

"I've noticed some ... things ... out of place," he said cautiously.

"Inside the house? On the grounds?" Barrow asked, making an effort to be helpful. "Has something been stolen?"

"Outside. Around the garages, the agent's office. And no, not stolen. Just ... out of place."

Andy shook his head. "I haven't seen anyone I don't know, Mr. Branson, here or on my way to and from Yew Tree Farm."

"I haven't seen anyone about either," Barrow added.

"Well." It had been a long shot in any case. "Thank you."

"Would you like me to ask the staff when we're assembled for dinner?" the butler asked.

"No," Tom said quickly. "It's not that important. It was just a thought." He left, hoping he hadn't ignited Barrow's famous curiosity. At this moment, he didn't want anyone else looking into the matter.

Isobel, Dickie, and an Unwelcome Visitor

"Still no butler, then."

Isobel had opened the door at Crawley House in response to a knock and found her husband's elder son standing there. Larry Grey was, she supposed, her stepson, but neither of them embraced that designation. Prior to his father's marriage, Larry, and with him his brother Tim, had addressed Isobel as 'Mrs. Crawley.' Now they called her nothing. Nor did either one of them attempt to conceal their ongoing contempt for her. Fortunately for all concerned, they saw one another rarely.

"Good morning, Larry." Isobel gave him a light, formal smile. She did not like Dickie's sons, the consequence of their abominable rudeness toward her, as well as their utter disregard for the happiness or well-being of their father. But there was something else, too. In some unacknowledged recess of her mind, Isobel resented the Grey boys. There they were, two very disagreeable men, living and hating and thriving, while her own golden boy, Matthew, lay cold and mouldering in Downton churchyard. It was unfair.

"How may I help you?" Isobel had adopted the practice, very early in life, of presenting a polite, if not always a pleasant demeanour, to those for whom she did not care.

Larry was not put off by Isobel's cool manner. He probably didn't even notice it. He always looked at her the same way, with one eyebrow arched in an expression of perpetual expectation that she was about to do something gauche.

"May I come in?"

She moved to one side and he slipped by her.

"No maid, either," he said, glancing about the entrance hall.

"Ellen has other work to attend to," Isobel said, and then was irked with herself for rising to his bait.

"Oh? Is she negotiating world peace in the drawing room?"

"No. But I think she may be dusting in there. May I help you?" she said again.

The look on Larry's face told her that he wouldn't ask her to throw him a line if he were drowning. "Is my father in?"

"Yes." Isobel went to fetch him, although not without some reservations about leaving Larry unattended. One never knew what mischief he might get up to when unsupervised.

Dickie said nothing when Isobel told him his son had looked in, only following her downstairs and into the sitting room.

The men exchanged perfunctory greetings. Theirs had always been a distant relationship, but since their falling out over Dickie's marriage and Larry's installation at Cavenham, the Merton estate, things had been decidedly cooler.

"I'll leave you to it," Isobel said, turning to go.

"I'd rather you didn't," Larry said unexpectedly.

Isobel and Dickie waited. They did not invite Larry to sit, nor did they sit themselves. They did not want to prolong his visit.

Larry's shoulders heaved as though he were about to embark on a distasteful task. "It troubles me deeply to have to bring this to your attention, Papa, but you appear to have no meaningful guidance in such matters from the usual quarters." His eyes flickered in Isobel's direction.

"Oh, good Lord, Larry! Spit it out and preferably without disparaging Isobel in the process!" Dickie was blessed with a remarkably even disposition. He'd never lost his temper toward Isobel and rarely even in her presence. But his sons had exhausted his almost inexhaustible supply of good will and he lapsed quickly into impatience with them.

His father's words had an effect. Or perhaps Larry himself preferred to get on with it.

"You've been neglecting your duties, father. Your social duties. And though it pains me to have to point it out to you, someone must."

"Meaning?" Isobel demanded, bristling a little, for she knew this was a not-so-thinly-disguised criticism of her.

"You cannot endlessly enjoy the hospitality of the county without reciprocating," he said bluntly and, as he spoke, his eyes did bore into Isobel. "There are expectations."

"Oh, what a lot of nonsense," Dickie said in exasperation.

"But it's not," Larry said simply, clearly, and icily.

"You're the master of Cavenham, now," Dickie said forcefully.

"But you are Lord Merton," Larry countered. "And shall continue to be so for a very long time, as no one could wish more earnestly than I, Papa." He gaze wandered about him to the attractive but relatively modest room in which they stood. "You're not properly equipped, of course, but the responsibilities remain nonetheless. You might," he said abruptly, turning to Isobel, "start with hiring an appropriate staff."

Dickie saw his son out and closed the door rather forcefully behind him. Then he strode to his wife's side and took one of her hands in both of his. "Isobel, I can only apologize once more for Larry's unbridled insolence. Should he have the temerity to darken our door again, just ... leave him on the doorstep."

The frown on Isobel's face dissolved before the warmth that welled up in her at her husband's solicitousness. He had never failed to take her part in the conflict with his sons, and though she had worried about coming between them, she did appreciate his unwaring support. She even laughed a little at his suggestion. The same thing had occurred to her. But then her attention returned to Larry's words.

"The thing is, Dickie, and it pains me very much to say so, but I think Larry may be right."

Mary and Violet

Mary had never been one to make common cause with her sister, but when it came to Granny she was prepared to make an exception. Ever since Edith had raised concerns about their grandmother's health, Mary had been paying close attention and noted some unsettling developments. Granny was coming to Downton less often. She seemed more frail and was certainly quieter than usual. Granny had always had a quick wit, but this required following a conversation very closely and rapidly digesting information, things that took a lot of mental energy. This had once been second nature to Granny, but her pithy quips were, of late, few and far between.

It was time to make more direct inquiries and for that purpose Mary must see her alone. She would be formidable on her own ground at the Dower House, but it was a more discreet location. Mary did not know if her parents had, as yet, noticed what Edith had described as Granny's decline, but Mary wanted to assess the situation for herself before she troubled them with it.

She had a major challenge before her in approaching her grandmother. Though determined to find out what was going on, Mary knew that she had to do this in a manner that did not betray her own emotional turmoil at the idea of her grandmother in ill health. Granny reviled pity, as did Mary herself, and neither of them admitted to weakness easily. But Mary could not just ignore the matter. Granny was one of the pillars of her emotional life and she hoped that she could be as stalwart in support of her grandmother in return.

She came for tea and Violet was glad to see her. Of course the old woman loved them all. She had delighted in Sybil's high spirits, indulged Edith in unusually overt displays of warm affection, and enjoyed Mary's combativeness. But Mary knew, too, that she was the most like her grandmother and thought this gave them a special bond. She did not know all of her grandmother's secrets and hoped that Granny did not yet know all of hers either, but they each knew that the other had secrets. It was part of what made their lives exciting.

"Good afternoon, Granny." Mary bent to kiss her grandmother.

"Mary." Violet leaned up into her granddaughter's embrace.

Spratt brought them tea and then left them alone. They chatted about inconsequential things until he did.

"You look as though you've got something on your mind." The door had hardly closed behind the butler. Granny was always shrewd.

Mary, in her turn, did not dissemble. "I'm worried about you."

"Why?" Violet appeared genuinely surprised.

Mary only looked at her.

Violet, in her turn, remained inscrutable.

"Are you well?" Mary asked bluntly.

Violet's face gave nothing away. "As well as anyone can expect to be at my age."

"Granny."

"Don't be cross with me, Mary. You've no idea what a burden age is. Growing old is not for the faint of heart."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Mary's face. "Then you are well-equipped to deal with it."

"Some days."

"Granny, I only want to know..."

"If I'm about to fall into my soup? Not quite yet." Violet spoke with equanimity.

"Is this why you're hurrying Carson on with the history of the family?"

"My dear, that isn't for me. It's for you. And for George, that he might know his family and his place in the world order." Some might have thought that Violet was stretching it a bit to assume that George Crawley would automatically operate on so broad a stage, but Violet had always been ambitious for her family.

It was a losing proposition to try to outflank Granny in a conversation, so Mary gave up. "You would tell us, wouldn't you, if there was anything we should know?" She hoped, rather than expected Violet to agree to this.

Violet gave a short laugh. "When have you known me not to speak my mind?"

Well, that was true enough, but Granny was also fiercely proud, Mary knew. And capable of keeping secrets.

"But I am an old lady, Mary. Concern for me is misplaced. I've had my life. I'm worried about you."

"Me?" Granny had hit a nerve. But then she had always been discerning where Mary, especially, was concerned.

"Yes. How are ... things? You know, with you and Henry, and the children. With your life."

"Everything is just fine, Granny," Mary said smoothly, determined to emulate her grandmother's opacity. She smiled that full but insincere smile she reserved for necessary falsehoods.

Granny stared at her and Mary stared right back, though not with much hope. She had never been able to fool her grandmother.

Mary sighed. "I love Stephen, but motherhood ... at least when it involves infants ... bores me. I miss my work. I miss knowing and seeing for myself all the details of the estate. Papa doesn't tell me everything. I think he's getting revenge for the way I treated him last year. Am I a bad mother?"

Her question brought a smile to her grandmother's face. Mary knew it was because she appreciated her granddaughter's frankness.

"No, of course not. No one loves their children more than I do, Mary, but I confess the baby stage grated on my nerves, too."

Mary's frown gave way to a genuine smile this time. There were so few people with whom one could be oneself without having to apologize for it.

"But I am worried about you, my dear."

"You're worried about me!"

"You have no friends," Violet said simply.

Mary was taken aback. She had not expected the conversation to take this turn. "I beg your pardon?" She said this a little hesitantly, not quite sure she had understood her grandmother properly.

"You have no friends." Violet enunciated quite clearly, leaving Mary with no room to doubt.

"Yes, I do."

"Female friends."

Mary hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Of course I do. Annabelle Portsmouth," she said promptly.

Her grandmother only stared at her. "I mean someone in whom you can confide, talk to about the truly important things in your life, trust implicitly. Not just someone who will cover up your misdemeanours," she said this with passion, but added that final bit rather tartly.

Mary thought about this for a moment and then surrendered to the truth. "The reality is, Granny, I've never gotten along with other girls or women. Witness Edith. Sybil was different and something might have grown there, but she was too young for most of our lives together and then she moved away. And the other side of it is that I have always gotten along so well with men. My best friends were - are - men. Carson. Matthew. Tom."

"Not Henry?" her grandmother said quickly.

Mary shrugged. "Henry is my husband."

"So was Matthew."

"Yes. But we were friends, good friends, first." Mary felt that almost visceral pang of longing that struck her, even at this late date, when she thought of Matthew. She saw her grandmother watching her. "And anyway, I came over here to talk about you," she said firmly, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"There is nothing to say. My story is nearly done."

Although Granny's frankness was both characteristic and refreshing most of the time, plain-speaking on this subject unsettled Mary. "Don't talk like that," she said.

But Violet only shrugged. "I am old. That is the way old people talk."

But Granny had never talked like that before. Mary made one last attempt. "Granny, is there anything I can do?"

Her earnestness brought a smile back to the elderly woman's face and she held out a hand. Mary grasped it warmly, comforted by the strength and vitality in that grip.

"Find your way, my dear."

Mary had come to determine the truth about her grandmother's health and Violet had dissembled. Granny had probed her about her happiness, and Mary had deflected her. They parted dissatisfied. Neither had given much away, but now both were confirmed in the belief that the other had something to hide.

Charlie, Elsie, and the New Assistant

Elsie had thought her husband might come to meet her at the end of the day, eager to impart the results of his afternoon interviews for the research assistant position. She was mildly disappointed when he did not appear, but easily brushed it off. It would give them something exciting to talk about at the dinner table. She was not as convinced as he was of the importance of a history of the Crawleys, but she enjoyed his enthusiasm and was glad he'd found a project that appealed to him. And as for a research assistant - well, it wouldn't hurt to have a fresh face around Downton either, someone lively who would keep Charlie on his toes and might perhaps befriend Daisy, who had spent too much of her life in the company of people old enough to be her parents. That young woman could use a friend her own age.

As she turned into the lane, Elsie's mind also flitted briefly to Mr. Branson. He might like to make out that he'd broken the window in his room, but if he had done so from the inside, the glass would have been outside. And surely he hadn't accidentally thrown something at his own window from the lawn below. When Charlie had exhausted his tales of the aide he had hired, she would tell him about the strange conversation with Mr. Branson.

Even before she'd lifted the latch, she heard Shep's welcoming bark. He'd adapted quickly to her new schedule, coming to lie in wait for her on the other side of the door minutes before her arrival every evening - or so Charlie said. Dogs had an intuitive sense of time. Shep only ever barked once. She smiled at this familiar ritual. Charlie, alerted by this, because he was no longer watching the clock for her, usually came then and met her at the door.

But he wasn't there today, although he was in the house. She could heard his voice. And laughter. Male laughter, and not just Charlie's either. It came from the sitting room. She followed the sounds to their source and found her husband ensconced in his chair by the grate, engaged in earnest conversation with a man she had never before seen.

He was a nice-looking fellow, about thirty or so, with dark brown hair and eyes to match, and a clean-shaven face. He was nattily attired in a good quality, well-fitting suit, and his shoes were highly polished. Elsie noted these things absently, her skills of observation honed over a lifetime's practice. Elsie had no idea who he was or why Charlie, who was usually so restrained with strangers, was so unbuttoned. Was this a long lost cousin? She couldn't countenance that.

The man saw Elsie first and leaped to his feet from the chair - her chair - where he had been sitting. At this movement, Charlie looked up, too, and then got up to greet her. Ordinarily they were both discreet before others, especially before people they did not know. But Charlie greeted her warmly with a "Hello, love," and a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and swept his hand out toward the stranger in the room.

"This," he said, with the gravity of a profound announcement, "is Daniel Ryder. Mr. Ryder, this is my wife, Mrs. Carson."

Mr. Ryder came forward to shake her hand. Elsie submitted to this ritual unthinkingly, her mind engaged elsewhere.

"Mr. Ryder is my new assistant," Charlie went on.

Elsie was even more confused. "What happened to the woman from Swaledale?" she asked, not thinking how that would sound. "Or the other girl from London?"

The two men smiled. "Swaledale didn't work out," Charlie said. "Sweet girl, she was. But a bit silly. I couldn't have managed that. And Mr. Ryder is the applicant from London."

Elsie frowned. "You never said it was a man."

He looked pleased with himself for surprising her. "I didn't think it mattered."

And it didn't. Did it?

Well. Elsie recovered herself and turned toward Mr. Ryder more congenially. "I'm very pleased to meet you, then, Mr. Ryder."

He nodded and smiled, too. "It is my pleasure, Mrs. Carson."

It was all very pleasant, but Elsie was still bemused. Charlie saw this.

"Mr. Ryder and I have hit it off famously," he said eagerly. "We've been talking about history and politics and cricket and Yorkshire..."

"Are you from here then?" Elsie asked politely, even as she tried to study the man surreptitiously.

"No," he said. "Wheatley. In Oxfordshire. But I've heard a lot about the northern counties and wanted to see them."

"And you came from London. To work on this book." She tried, but she couldn't quite conceal her astonishment at this.

Mr. Ryder took no offense, although she wasn't sure Charlie was so indifferent to her manner. "I'm interested in historical research," the visitor said. "I've done it before."

"He worked at the Colonial Office," Charlie put in.

"I was at the bottom of the heap there," Mr. Ryder said modestly.

This was something to take in. Elsie remembered what time it was. "Have you had your tea?" she asked her husband.

"We have."

"Right, then I'll get dinner on." She turned to go.

"Ah." There was a note of remorse in Charlie's voice. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't do a thing. I was all caught up with Mr. Ryder here."

"I can see that. But it's no nevermind. Will you join us, Mr. Ryder?" She half-hoped he wouldn't. She needed time to digest this strange development.

"No. Thank you, Mrs. Carson. I've taken up enough of Mr. Carson's time today. I've taken a room at the Grantham Arms and I noticed that they have meals. I'll look for lodgings tomorrow."

This seemed curious to Elsie. "Don't you have to fetch your things from home?"

Mr. Ryder's genial manner seemed unshakable. He shook his head, still smiling. "I brought everything with me. I wasn't being presumptuous," he added hastily. "I had a good feeling about this position." He exchanged warm glances with Mr. Carson. "And ... if it hadn't worked out, I thought I'd look for other work in the area."

"What, exactly, do you do?"

"I've been a glorified clerk, really," Mr. Ryder said, in an unassuming way. "I did office work, answering letters, filing, making copies of important correspondence..."

"He's got a fine hand," Charlie said. "Very clear handwriting. That will be important in this job."

"Hmm. Well, I don't know what else you'd find around here like that," Elsie mused.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Was there a note of irritation in Charlie's voice. "He's found this."

She didn't know why, but she persisted, speaking to the newcomer and avoiding meeting her husband's gaze.

"I hope Mr. Carson told you that there's only a modest remuneration for this work."

"He did. Modest remuneration plus meals."

"Really?" Now she did look at her husband.

"At Downton. I spoke with His Lordship about it last Monday."

She relented. "Well. Then you're all fixed up." She was, it seemed, the only one who was concerned about any of this.

"Right. I'll be off then."

"You might try the post office," Elsie said, as Mr. Ryder turned away. He paused and glanced back at her. "For lodgings," she explained. "They often post cards in the window for such things.'

"I will. Thank you. Tomorrow, Mr. Carson."

"Tomorrow?" Again Elsie looked to her husband.

"I'm going to take Mr. Ryder to the Abbey and around the estate. Familiarize him with the area, show him where he's going to be working."

As Charlie saw the man out, Elsie went upstairs to change. Changing before dinner, just like the posh people. She never used to bother, but now, with longer evenings at home, she wanted to wear a nicer dress. It was a step into her other identity, as mistress of her own house and as a wife.

They met up again in the kitchen and before she could even think about what to do next, Charlie had taken her in his arms and they properly kissed. She couldn't help smiling against his lips. She'd gone all her life without and not missed it, not that she'd known anyway. And now she couldn't imagine how she'd managed.

As she set about peeling vegetables and he stirred the fire under the burners, Charlie returned to the subject of his new assistant.

"He did two years at Cambridge before the war. He volunteered right at the start of it and served for the duration, most of it in Palestine. He knew Lord Rosebery's son, the one who got killed there. Anyway Daniel ... ah, Mr. Ryder, got into the Colonial Office after the war."

"And he quit that to come here?"

Charlie came over to her. "Why're you being so difficult about him?"

"I'm not," she said, brushing him off. "I'm interested. Go on."

He did not appear wholly convinced. "Well, he's a ... Liberal, after all. We've agreed not to talk politics. And while the Labour government tolerated outsiders, the Conservatives have been making a clean sweep of the departments since they got back in. So he's been at loose ends."

"Hmm."

"Elsie." His hand came down on hers, stilling the chopping she was doing. "What is it?" When she said nothing, he went on. "He's perfect."

She looked up at him. "He's too perfect, really. I can't seem him staying through the winter up here, not on a small project like this one."

He drew himself up rigidly and she hastened to placate him.

"I'm not putting down your book. I'm glad you have it. I know how important it is to you. And to the family. But Charlie, why is a man in the prime of his working life and with his background content to hole up in some remote corner of Yorkshire to assist in the writing of a book? No doubt he could write one himself, with his background."

Charlie's great brows came together in a concerned look. "What are you saying?"

She didn't know, really. "Only that family histories aren't all triumphs and achievements. There are skeletons in closets. And some of them are Turkish diplomats."

"Elsie!"

It was a fraught subject between them and she brought it up only rarely, and now wished she hadn't for it distracted him from the point.

"There are matters that require discretion," she went on hastily. "You want to look carefully into why a man like him has applied for such a job. That's all. There has to be some reason that he's left London to come to Yorkshire. And it'll be more than that he wants to look at the scenery."

Charlie was silent for a long moment. "I'm no dilettante when it comes to assessing people for hiring, Elsie. His circumstances may be ... odd..., but ... I like him, Elsie. I like him a lot."

Well, she had known that from the first instant she'd seen them together. So she yielded and patted his arm in a soothing way. "Then I hope he's all you're expecting from him," she said, with a disarming smile. "Now, I must get dinner on."

John and Anna

The Bates' sitting room was sparely furnished. Lady Mary had encouraged them to take what they might like from the Downton attic, but they hadn't even looked there. Without saying so to each other, they had agreed that everything except the cottage itself would be theirs through purchase or inheritance, not that they had much leeway with either. They'd brought a few things from the London house John's mother had lived in for years and which came to him on her death. Everything else they'd picked up locally. So there was John's chair by the fire and a small sofa, where Anna usually sat, and a small desk that had come from London. It would have been years before they'd bought a desk, a piece of furniture to be used only to write the occasional cheque, and they could have done that at the kitchen table.

This night John was writing more than a cheque or two. He was scribbling away at a letter when Anna went up to put the baby to bed and was still at it when she came down. She glanced over at him as she took her place on the sofa and then began to fold the laundry that sat in the basket beside her.

"You're very busy tonight," she said, looking over at him again, at his head bent over the paper before him. Another kind of woman might have gone over and tried to get a glimpse of his work while stroking his neck or rubbing his shoulder. But Anna was not like that. They respected each other's privacy. She might ask, but she would not pry.

He knew she was curious, as well she might be. He wrote few letters. Finding himself at a natural pause, he straightened up in his chair, stretched a bit, and then twisted to look at her. He could not help but smile when his eyes lit on her. This was how it should be, he thought, how it should have been all along. Not all those trials - literally, and those dead bodies flung across their path. A quiet family life was all that he desired and all that Anna deserved, and it was theirs. Finally. Perhaps there were still some adjustments to make in the shape that life would take, but at last they were going in the right direction.

"What do we know about Mr. Spratt?" he asked suddenly.

He had taken her by surprise. "Mr. Spratt! Where did that come from?"

"Oh, I saw him in passing the other day," he replied, not untruthfully. "He's so ... abrupt. Rude, almost."

Anna thought for a moment. She was ever willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. "Well, he's been with the Dowager since the end of the war. I think he comes from Liverpool area. Lady Mary said something about that once. And Miss Denker says he writes the 'agony aunt' column for Lady Hexham's magazine. But that sounds farfetched, even for Miss Denker." They both laughed at that.

"I've heard that rumour. Much easier to see Molesley a schoolteacher or Mr. Barrow as the butler of Downton Abbey, than Spratt dispensing advice to the lovelorn," John mused, agreeing. "Do women really enjoy reading that kind of thing?" He seemed sincerely bemused.

"Yes," Anna said promptly. "It's fun to read. And you learn things. Sometimes you can ask a stranger something you wouldn't ask your mother or a friend."

"I think Mr. Spratt writes them himself," John said drily.

Anna frowned thoughtfully. "He wouldn't do that!"

"Wouldn't he." John. He signed the letter he'd written and then carefully folded it, inserted it in a blank envelope, and tucked it into his pocket. Ordinary business letters or notes to the few of his army buddies with whom he remained in contact he usually left on the desk itself until he was going to the post office. But he could not afford to leave a communication of the sensitivity of this one lying out so casually. He kept a locked box in the bedroom for such things.

Anna noticed. "What are you up to, John?" Her voice was casual, but he discerned a note of concern in it as well. She did not like it when they kept secrets from each other.

He knew what she meant, but his mind was on other things. He pushed himself out of the chair and, forgoing his cane for the desk edge, made his way over to the sofa where he half-sat, half fell onto the arm beside her.

"You are the loveliest woman I have ever set eyes upon," he crooned, running a hand through her hair.

"Don't think I don't recognize a dodge when I see one, John Bates," Anna said knowingly, even as she leaned into his hand. "Can you tell me that whatever it is you're writing won't disrupt our lives?"

He smiled reassuringly. "It won't disrupt our lives," he said in a deadpan tone, although he felt he ought to have placed emphasis on our. "Now may I compliment my wife?"

She dropped the towel she'd been folding and turned so that she could slide an arm about his waist. "Just because I think it's a cover for an answer you don't want to give doesn't mean the compliment is unwelcome." He leaned down to her.

Their lips had but met when a wail went up from the room above them.

John sighed and relaxed his hold on her. Anna smiled and reluctantly stood up.

"I think Robbie is doomed to be an only child," John grumbled good-naturedly. "So much for my dream of 'children all around us.'"

Anna bent to give him a quick kiss. "I wouldn't give up on that dream quite yet, John Bates," she murmured, as her lips brushed his cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."