DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

Episode 4. Chapter 2.

Violet and Isobel

Isobel had come round for tea, and though Violet was very glad to see her, she was not inclined to make things easy for her friend.

"So you've come to see if I'm still alive, have you?" she said, as Isobel swept into the room. Violet saw Spratt smiling discreetly as he withdrew. He was an odd man in some ways and one could not rely on him as one could Carson - without reservation - but he did appreciate her sense of humour. Or perhaps it was only that, like many in the servant ranks, he liked to see the middle classes set down.

Isobel was not put off by this greeting. The barbs of her dear relative, by turns amusing or withering, glanced off of her. "Oh, I knew you were still with us," she said gaily. "It would have been in the papers otherwise. How are you, Cousin Violet?"

Violet was wary of people with relentlessly cheerful dispositions, but she'd gotten used to this aspect of Isobel's character. "I'm very busy," she said. "So much to do, so little time. How is Dickie?" She almost regretted asking this when she saw the glow that enveloped Isobel.

"He is delightful!"

The effervescence of her response made Violet shudder a little. It was quite acceptable to love one's spouse passionately, but it was not at all appropriate to show it. "A damning description of any man," she murmured. "You've been very socially active, I hear."

Isobel had settled herself in the armchair across from Violet's. "And your spy network is in good order, I see. I'd not realized Dickie had such a large social circle," she admitted.

"He is Lord Merton," Violet said emphatically, and then shook her head at Isobel's obtuseness.

"We've got to reciprocate sometime," Isobel went on, seeing no need to relate Larry's prompt on this subject, though the whole problem had been weighing on her more heavily since the conversation yesterday morning. "So I suppose that means a grand dinner. It's only just occurred to me that I've never put on a grand dinner in my years at Downton. Oh, I've entertained you..."

"And that doesn't count, I suppose."

"...and Cora and the girls. And I've occasionally had a friend round, but nothing really grand. I'm a bit daunted by that."

Violet blinked at this. A world war, an influenza epidemic, and the death of a child had failed to daunt Isobel. "Fortunately, help is at hand," she said smoothly. She reached for the copy of The Sketch that Edith had insisted she take home and that she had, in fact, carefully perused, and held it out to Isobel who took it, puzzled. "Read Carson's article in Edith's magazine. He tells you everything you need to know."

Isobel glanced at the cover and then placed the magazine atop her voluminous bag. "Perhaps I should just hire Carson," she said.

"He is otherwise engaged at present," Violet said. "He's writing a history of the Crawley family."

"Ah, yes." Isobel remembered the project. "Starting with you, no doubt."

"Of course." Violet stared at her guest, oblivious to the slight sarcasm in Isobel's voice.

"Well, he always knew which side his bread was buttered on. Perhaps you could give me a few tips, Cousin Violet."

Violet made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "There's nothing to it. You sit down with your cook and plan a menu. Then you give the guest list to your butler and he arranges everything else. All you have to do is write the invitations. Your maid or butler will even mail them for you. Of course, a guest list can be a challenge in itself. You want to make sure there are no feuds among the invitees. And try to avoid the serious drunks, unless you are deeply obligated to them socially. A grand party is too much of a temptation and there's nearly always a scene. And make sure that the numbers balance. Left to their own devices, the individual sexes soon lapse into mundane matters of interest only to themselves." Violet managed this litany without pause. Then she drew breath again and reached for her tea.

"Goodness!" Isobel exclaimed. "But I haven't got a butler."

"Yes. Why is that?"

To Isobel this was self-evident. "Well, who needs one?"

"You, apparently," Violet said, with a little laugh.

"Rarely."

"Yes, but when they are necessary, they are absolutely indispensable."

There was a moment of silence.

"Could I borrow Spratt?"

Violet's brows rose in astonishment. "I am surprised at you. A butler is not a book or an item of clothing - things, I understand, that are borrowed among the more vulgar classes. A butler is a person..."

"That's a revelation, coming from you," Isobel said acidly.

"...and cannot be passed about. He may be a servant, but he is not chattel." Violet sounded almost indignant, but it was lost on Isobel. "Besides," Violet added, "even if I could spare him, which I cannot, he has a consuming past-time that fills his few hours of leisure."

"Stamp-collecting?" Isobel ventured sceptically.

Violet frowned thoughtfully. "I think he does that, too. But no, I am not at liberty to disclose his secondary preoccupation."

"Admirable restraint."

"I know how to keep a secret." It was a characteristic of which Violet was very proud.

Isobel sighed. "You seem determined to prevent me from finding the assistance you tell me that I absolutely must have."

"It's not me," Violet declared. "It's them. They have busy lives. And you're at least partially to blame for that."

"Me?"

"Yes. All this encouragement to every individual to live their lives to the fullest and develop their potential. Carson gets married. Spratt finds an outlet for an obscure talent. When they pursue their own interests, they become less useful, and less obliging, as servants."

"How do you keep your servants?" Isobel asked in a wondering tone, her eyes round.

Violet knew exactly what Isobel was implying and ignored it. "I value the work they do and I let them know it," she said smugly.

Isobel didn't bother to comment on this. "There's always Molesley, I suppose. I could ask him."

"You could," Violet drawled. "But he's moved on as well."

This was too much for Isobel. "Am I doomed to defeat, then?" She spoke with some exasperation.

"I don't know. But whether you are or not will reflect on how successful you've been."

"I beg your pardon?"

"At breaking out of your middle-class origins, my dear," Violet said. "Succeed and you will demonstrate that you have arrived, that the mantle of Lady Merton is legitimately yours. Fail and you prove Larry Grey right."

The spectre of her husband's son shaking his head in that patronizing way, steeled Isobel's resolve. "Then I must not fail!"

"That's the spirit!" Violet said encouragingly. She had begun to wonder if Isobel could surmount the middle-class tendency to defeatism. But she had confidence in her cousin. Isobel was, if nothing else, tenacious. She would not fail for lack of trying.

"Tell me, Cousin Violet, what have you been up to?"

Violet gestured toward her desk, upon which her writing materials were neatly arrayed. "I have been writing letters."

"Renewing old acquaintances?" Isobel asked mischievously.

"Tightening existing bonds," Violet replied, disregarding the insinuation. No doubt Isobel would be looking for a letter on its way to Paris. "There are things I have let lapse over the years. I'm trying to mend them." She sighed. "A good letter is an exhausting proposition. So much easier to have a conversation and be done with it. But letters last. And that is what I seek with my letters - a lasting impact."

A slightly concerned look came over Isobel, but she shook it off and smiled, if a little uncertainly. "That sounds very ambitious."

"Yes," Violet agreed. "It is."

Thomas, Carson, and Daniel Ryder

The butler of Downton Abbey emerged from the dining room to find a stranger standing in the middle of the Great Hall. Thomas hadn't heard the door so he thought the man must have come in with a member of the family and yet he was alone. He was certainly at his ease, looking about with a quiet curiosity. His gaze focused immediately on the butler as Thomas made his way across the hall.

"May I help you?" Thomas asked formally. Even as he spoke, he was rapidly cataloguing observable information. The stranger was perhaps a little younger than Lady Mary (and Thomas himself), well dressed, and exuding an air of quiet confidence.

The man advanced toward him. "I'm waiting for Mr. Carson. He's in with Lord Grantham." He indicated the library doors.

Thomas nodded, still looking the fellow over. "And you are?"

With a smile, the man held out a hand. "Daniel Ryder. I'm going to be working with Mr. Carson. On the history of the family."

"Hmm." Thomas shook the proffered hand.

"You're Mr. Barrow."

That startled Thomas a little, though he did not react.

"Mr. Carson has mentioned you," Ryder said, by way of explanation.

"Has he."

A few seconds ticked by. "Mostly favourably," Ryder added. And then he laughed. It was a good-spirited, friendly laugh. "I jest, Mr. Barrow. Mr. Carson has spoken of you only in good terms. He was anxious for us to meet."

"Really." Thomas was perplexed. He knew Mr. Carson was hiring an assistant, but had been expecting a woman, like the secretary Lady Hexham had employed to help him with his article for The Sketch. Nowhere in his imagination - not that he had given it much thought at all - had Thomas thought Mr. Carson would hire a man, let alone someone this old.

"Ah. You've met."

They both turned as the former butler emerged from the library. Carson came to stand beside Daniel Ryder, exerting an almost proprietorial air. "We were coming to see you, Mr. Barrow."

At Thomas's inquiring look, Carson went on. "Mr. Ryder is going to work with me on the historical project Her Ladyship the Dowager has commissioned. He'll be working in the library here, doing research and writing up notes." Carson glanced momentarily at Ryder. "His Lordship has said you may use the small library." Then he turned back to Thomas. "Mr. Ryder will also be cataloguing the art work and other valuable pieces in His Lordship's collection. That," he told his assistant, "was Mr. Barrow's idea."

Thomas had suggested that Mr. Carson, who knew so much about every aspect of the house, create some kind of annotated inventory in the event that the Crawleys ever again opened their house to the public. The family's limited awareness of the treasures with which they lived had proved embarrassing on such an occasion a year earlier.* But Thomas had not really expected anything to come of his off-hand remark.

"We must request your cooperation in this, Mr. Barrow."

"In what way, Mr. Carson?"

"Mr. Ryder will be able to operate fairly unobtrusively on the main floor, but when it comes time to examine the art and other items on the gallery and in the upstairs rooms, it would be well if you or one of your footmen could ensure that he does not intrude on the family's privacy."

Oh, good. Another job. Thomas nodded indifferently. "I shall do my best, Mr. Carson. I've yet to find an appropriate candidate for second footman," he added.

"Service isn't the business it used to be," Carson said to his assistant. "And Mr. Ryder will be taking meals with the staff, lunch and tea, at least, on a regular basis. Perhaps we could go downstairs and show him around there," he suggested to Thomas. If Mr. Carson noted the startled look in Thomas's eye at this additional revelation, he said nothing about it.

Shaking his head slightly, Thomas led the way to the green baize door. Mr. Carson went ahead. The two younger men descended together.

"Are you really here to work on this project?" Thomas couldn't believe that such a professional-looking man had taken the job.

"Yes," Ryder said, with evident sincerity. "I fancy being an historian. And I like Yorkshire."

Thomas couldn't fathom it.

"Where are you staying?" he asked, feigning casual interest and wondering if the servants' quarters on the top floor, with many empty rooms, had been offered along with the small library.

"I've got a room in the village," Ryder said brightly. "I was making inquiries at the post office, and the man behind me in line - he's a schoolteacher - offered me lodging in his cottage."

"Mr. Molesley?" Thomas was more than surprised.

"Yes! That's him. He's quite a nice fellow. Do you know him?"

Thomas gave the man a frozen smile. "Oh, yes." Carson's assistant and Molesley's lodger. So far as Thomas could see, Daniel Ryder had nothing to redeem him at all.

When they reached the servants' level, Mr. Carson disappeared into the housekeeper's sitting room, "Just for a moment," he said.

"He'll do that," Thomas said drily.

"I've met Mrs. Carson," Ryder said, oblivious to or simply ignoring the attitude in Thomas's tone.

They went into the kitchen, where Thomas introduced Daniel Ryder to Mrs. Patmore and Daisy.

"Goodness!" Mrs. Patmore said, staring.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Patmore?" Thomas asked peremptorily. She'd nearly had a heart attack at the sight of Erich Miller, and now she was gaping at Mr. Ryder. It was as if she'd never seen a good-looking man in Downton's kitchens.

Mrs. Patmore addressed herself to Mr. Ryder. "You're not a woman!"

He held out his hands. "As you see," he said genially, not put out by the strange remark.

The cook recovered herself. "Only I thought Mr. Carson was looking for a young woman to help him in his history writing."

"He was. Well, he was looking for some help," Ryder amended. "And he thought I fit the bill."

Mrs. Patmore may have mumbled something as she turned away, something like, "You'd fit anyone's bill," but the others affected deafness.

"Mr. Ryder will be taking meals with the staff," Thomas said, smoothing over this awkward moment. "He'll be working in the small library, for the most part, so we'll see a lot of him." Thomas spoke dispassionately. Ryder seemed an affable sort, but Mr. Carson was not so long gone from Downton Abbey and now he had planted a spy to watch over things for him. Of course, he still had Mrs. Carson as well, but Thomas was used to her and she was beginning to shorten her hours. Now there would be this extra pair of eyes to maintain the old butler's oversight.

Daisy said "Hello," and then went back to her work preparing vegetables. Thomas did wonder about that. He wasn't convinced that there was anything serious between her and Andy. If he was right about that, then her lack of curiosity was odd. Daniel Ryder, for all that he had taken such a low-level job, was a cut above. Daisy ought to have noticed.

Mr. Carson came through then, but before he could join them, Mrs. Patmore drew him aside.

"Is there much sport around Downton?"

The question caught Thomas a little off-guard. "The family hosts an annual fox hunt," he said, scrambling. "And they attend the occasional horse race."

"I meant for regular folk," Ryder said, with an easy smile. "Any cricket?"

"Oh. Yeah. There are some local teams."

Ryder's eyes sparkled at this. "That's grand!"

Then Mr. Carson returned and that was the end of that. They left, with the older man chatting animatedly about Downton and Daniel Ryder listening attentively.

So Ryder wasn't a dead loss, then, Thomas mused. He hadn't been to a cricket match this year, apart from the annual competition between the house and the village. (He'd been the star performer for Downton Abbey. Again.) The possibility of discussing sports with someone other than the hallboy was a welcome prospect.

Thomas headed for the butler's pantry. What was he thinking about cricket matches for? He had work to do. For reasons he could not fathom, he glanced into the housekeeper's sitting room on the way past and then stopped abruptly. Mrs. Carson was sitting at her desk, but the expression on her face gave him pause.

"Mrs. Carson?"

Her eyes came up to his and the look - was it worry? - disappeared. "Mr. Barrow."

"Is there something amiss?" He could ask such questions now, legitimately, in his position as butler, though he hardly expected her to respond.

"You've met Mr. Ryder then," she said, without inflection.

"Yes."

"And what do you think of him?"

He stared into her eyes for a moment, puzzling over what it is was she wanted him to say. "We've only had a few words. He seems nice enough."

"Oh, he's very nice," she agreed, but in a way that almost undermined her words. "He's come from London for this job," she went on. "He's been working in the Colonial Office. And he went to Cambridge, for a while, before the war." She said all this in a neutral tone, but her gaze remained fixed on Thomas.

He absorbed these facts. Mrs. Carson was rarely forthcoming with him. He usually found it almost impossible to prise any information from her. This surprising confidence was, he was certain, quite deliberate.

"Mr. Carson is very fortunate in securing Mr. Ryder's services then," he said carefully.

"Yes. Very fortunate."

Thomas withdrew to the pantry in a thoughtful reverie. So Mrs. Carson was suspicious of Mr. Ryder, despite his easy-going manner and her husband's apparent enthusiasm.

Well. He might just have to look into this Daniel Ryder fellow. If - his eyes swept the list of tasks neatly entered in his diary - he ever got his head above water around here.

Tom and Henry

On Sunday afternoon, Tom and Henry took Sybbie and George along to inspect the agent's cottage. The estate workers had been hard at it and the smell of fresh paint greeted them as they came through the door. The children darted off through the empty rooms.

"Don't touch anything," Henry called after them.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Tom said lightly. "This is going to be a house people live in, not a museum. When I was growing up, my parents were happy to get through a day when one or another of us hadn't put a hole through a wall or something."

They both laughed at that.

"Have your parents ever been here?" Henry asked.

"No." Tom glanced at the other man and rolled his eyes. "Can you see it? One of my brothers came once. Kieran. He's Sybbie's godfather and he came for her christening. That was quite enough."

"Do you think you'll have them over once..." Henry let his sentence drop but gave Tom an inquiring look.

But Tom could only shrug. "It would be quite an expensive undertaking for them, though I could pay, of course. If my dad would let me. They've not seen Sybbie."

"Ever?!" Henry was shocked at this. His parents resided in London so they did not have the opportunity to see their grandson every day, as the Crawleys did. But they'd come for his christening and Henry and Mary had taken Stephen to London to see them.

"They've not been here and I can't go there," Tom said quietly. "Old business," he added, seeing Henry's puzzled look. "I wanted my daughter to be an Irish Catholic and she's never seen her homeland. And won't until she can go there herself."

Perhaps Henry discerned the sorrow Tom felt about this fact, for he changed the topic.

"What about that other ... problem?"

Tom didn't ask him to be more specific. He'd expected Henry to bring this up and he was ready for it. "Just kids," he said dismissively. "I've stopped worrying about it."

"Has anything else happened?"

"Not recently." That was not the truth, of course, but if Tom told Henry about the rock through his window he knew Henry would pressure him to report the incident to the constable. And probably to tell Robert, at least, and possibly Mary and Cora as well. Doing so would, no doubt, delay the move to the agent's cottage, which Tom did not want to do. Sybbie would be starting school on the first of September and he wanted her settled in their own home before then.

And though the latest incident had unsettled him, he'd convinced himself it wasn't as serious as he'd thought at first. A careful review of his own history in the Downton area had suggested no likely enemies. There was Larry Grey, to be sure. They had clashed at two dinners at Downton and the toff's contempt for him was well known. But Larry Grey seemed to be contemptuous of a lot of people, including his own father's wife, Lady Merton. While Tom could see the man stooping to childish pranks - he had, after all, put some kind of drug into Tom's drink at one dinner party Tom would rather forget - he could not imagine Larry Grey soiling his patrician hands with cow dung. And if all the pranks were related, then surely Larry must be eliminated as a suspect.

The cow patty incident was the critical one. It was such a childish thing to do. On that basis, Tom had concluded that it was the work of some kid. He still wanted to find out who it was, but he had pushed from his mind more serious concerns.

"How was the service this morning?" Henry asked.

Tom didn't understand for a moment. "Oh. Mass." He shrugged. "You know priests. Clergymen. I haven't been to Mass properly in ages and it's still the same thing I heard growing up. Nothing's changed there. But I'm glad to be going with Sybbie."

"And how's she taking the idea of moving in here?" As he spoke, Henry glanced about wistfully. Tom noticed. Though Henry had not said anything about it, Tom could read his thoughts for he had shared them. It was difficult to live with one's in-laws, even in a large house.

On cue, the children raced into the front hall and up the stairs. Tom grinned after them. "I think she's all right with it," he said. "Where's Mary this afternoon?" he asked, shifting the conversation.

Henry wasn't expressive at the best of times, but now his face took on a blank look. "She's visiting Carson."

"Hmm." Tom said nothing.

"They like their butlers, the Crawleys," Henry went on.

"How do you mean?"

"Mary and Carson. Robert and Carson. George and Barrow."

Even though he could hear the note of bemusement, perhaps even of dismay, in Henry's voice, Tom could not completely suppress a smile at this. It was true. He supposed he could understand Robert's attachment to Carson, for the two men shared a unique and abiding passion for Downton Abbey. Tom could only shake his head at the focus of their obsession, even as he appreciated the fact of their communion over it. He had long ago accepted the reality of Mary's affection for Carson - it just was and it had done her good. And then there was Barrow and George. Mary encouraged their friendship, seeing in it a mirror of her own childhood association with Carson. Barrow's consideration of the young Crawley heir surprised Tom, given that Barrow seemed indifferent to everyone else. But there was no denying the mutual affection that existed between the butler and the boy.

"If she needs to talk to Carson, I must be in trouble," Henry said abruptly.

"Oh, I don't think so," Tom said reassuringly. And then added, "Are you? In trouble, that is?"

Henry shrugged. "We've had some rough spots lately." He glanced at Tom. "Has she said anything to you?"

"No." Though Henry clearly thought otherwise, Tom was relieved to hear of Mary's plans. He knew she needed to talk to someone and whatever Tom, or anyone else, thought about it, Mary relied on Carson.

"Daddy!" Sybbie stormed down the stairs. "Will George sleep in my room? Or can he have a room of his own?"

Tom leaned down and swept his laughing daughter into his arms. "George isn't moving in with us," he reminded her. "But he can sleep over any night he wants, if there isn't school the next day. And he can sleep wherever he wants."

Tom and Sybbie had a close relationship, fostered by the great gap Sybil's death had made in their lives and heightened by the several months they had spent together on their American adventure. They shared, too, a love of laughter. So now Sybbie stared at her father with her eyes round in mock astonishment.

"Even in the coal cellar?" she gasped.

"Even in the coal cellar!" Tom declared. And then he leaned in close to her. "Though we'd best not tell Aunt Mary or Donk about that!"

They both roared with laughter and even Henry, distracted, smiled at this outburst. "Where is George?" he asked.

Sybbie wriggled out of her father's arms and eagerly held out a hand to her uncle. "Come on! I'll show you!"

The two men exchanged amused glances. Henry took Sybbie's hand and they followed her to the stairs.

Mary and Carson

Carson washed up the few dishes he'd used for lunch, taking care not to trust too much to his unreliable hand. Elsie had shorter hours now, but she still worked seven days of the week, with a halfday on Tuesday. He'd gotten much better at filling the empty hours. Indeed, he had begun to welcome days uncluttered by the myriad tasks that had occupied him as the butler of Downton Abbey. More recently, he had focused on how he would go about the work of a formal history of the Crawley family. And over the past two days, his mind had been quite taken up with his new assistant. Putting away the last dish, he thought perhaps he would walk down to the village and see how Mr. Ryder was settling in with Mr. Molesley. Imagine Molesley offering him lodging! He ought perhaps to give the young man a day's rest before they began their work in earnest tomorrow, but ... Carson felt an inexplicable tug where Daniel Ryder was concerned. The young man had charmed him. Before he could act on this impulse, however, there was a knock at the door and when he opened it, any consideration of Daniel Ryder immediately disappeared.

Carson was surprised to see Lady Mary there. They had seen less of each other since his retirement because he was not at Downton every day. They still had their quiet moments together, though these, too, were less frequent. She was very busy and he had a different life, as well. But their ties remained strong. She had asked him to serve as one of Master Stephen's godfathers, an honour conventionally bestowed upon friends and acquaintances who were social equals or betters. Butlers did not usually get a look in. He had resisted and she had insisted and the christening had been one of the highlights of the treasured moments he had shared with Lady Mary over the years.**

His heart had overflowed with love for her almost from the first moment of their acquaintance, some thirty-five years ago. That being the case, her appearance at the cottage this Sunday afternoon might have been unheralded, but it was not unwelcome. He greeted her warmly and the smile that swept her countenance in response was the genuine article. He was one of the few on whom it was frequently bestowed.

"Lady Mary! Come in!"

She had been to the Carsons' cottage before. Indeed, she had made the arrangements for them to get this specific dwelling and had personally overseen its refurbishment to ensure that it met the standards she demanded for Carson and his wife. And she'd been by a few times since he'd retired, once with Master George. Carson liked to see the boy. Master George was Lady Mary's son and as such held a special place in Carson's heart. But no child would ever rival Lady Mary in his affections and the time they spent together alone was special to him.

She had stepped into the passage but, sensing a reluctance on her part to come any further, he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" she said cheerfully. "I know how much you enjoy your walks with His Lordship."

Carson was certainly amenable to this suggestion, but... "I didn't know that you were much of a walker, my lady."

"I'm not," she said. "Perhaps I ought to do more of it."

Carson did not have to summon the dog. Shep had barked to announce that someone was at the door and had been standing to one side, his great feathery tail swishing the air, waiting to see what was going to happen next. The collie happily followed Lady Mary out the door again and trotted up the lane in anticipation of them. Lady Mary noticed.

"He knows the way."

"He does."

They let Shep guide them. It was a lovely, sunny day in mid-August, with a bit of a breeze.

"How are you getting on?" Mary asked

"I am well, my lady." He smiled to himself at her query. For so long he had asked the questions and she had regaled him with the details of her life. She had known much less about him. Well, what child sees beyond the reach of his or her own experience? But in more recent years, their relationship had become more even. Not completely even, but certainly less uneven. As an adult, she took an interest in his welfare.

"You seem in a better place of late," she observed, glancing at him.

He had been depressed when he first retired. He'd worked at Downton Abbey since he was a boy and to be cut adrift from it was a shock. "I've adjusted," he said. "I was used to being very busy. It's more difficult than it appears to do less."

Lady Mary tossed her head. "I know about that. I rail against the enforced quietude of motherhood."

He smiled indulgently at her. She had always had so much energy. "I've had to change direction," he went on. "Learn to lead a different kind of life."

"Becoming a writer, you mean," she said. "I've read your piece in The Sketch. It was very good."

He beamed at the praise, not least because he suspected it was the first time she'd looked at Lady Hexham's magazine. The rivalry between the two sisters was an old one. "I enjoyed the work."

"And now my grandmother has you working on the family history. How is that coming on?"

It was a subject about which he could hardly contain his excitement. "I've only just hired an assistant, on Her Ladyship the Dowager's direction." He told her about Daniel Ryder. "We're to begin in earnest tomorrow. Mr. Ryder will work on the larger historical story while I read and organize the family papers." He didn't burden her with too many details. Lady Mary had encouraged him to take up the project and would likely be pleased with the finished product, but she'd never been one to dwell on the past.

"And how is married life?" She asked this with mischief in her eye, but he took her query in stride.

"I am very happy, my lady."

"I'm glad for you."

The smile on her face suddenly became a fixed, artificial one and he noticed. They had never gotten on well, Elsie and Lady Mary, though for his sake they'd both made concessions where the other was concerned. When the silence between them lengthened, he wondered if there was some residual resentment on Lady Mary's part. This would have troubled him.

"I hope you don't mind, Carson," Lady Mary said at last, "but I've come to ask your advice about something."

This was unexpected but, like her appearance at the cottage, not unwelcome. He had often served her in this capacity over the years. "If I can help, my lady, I will. You know that." And she did.

"It may be presumptuous of me to impose on you..."

"Not at all," he said firmly. Indeed, he felt on solid ground with such a request and he stood taller for her reliance upon him.

She glanced at him with the shadow of a smile. "I've always been able to talk to you."

He nodded encouragingly.

"You won't like it," she said in warning, sobering again. She paused once more and then took a deep breath. "It's about Mr. Talbot."

They had been strolling at a leisurely pace on one of the gravelled paths that criss-crossed the estate. Carson and Shep were familiar with them all from their long walks with His Lordship and his dog, Tiaa. Now Carson stopped abruptly. The light atmosphere that had prevailed between them to this point suddenly evaporated.

"Go on," he said gravely, a worried look taking form on his craggy features.

Lady Mary's shoulders rose and fell heavily. Clearly this was not an easy admission for her. Carson understood this. She was distressed in some way and it involved her husband. Naturally, she was reticent. But it was his role in her life to listen attentively, to provide support, to comfort, and to advise. He stood ready to play his part.

"I don't quite know how to put it," she said, and there was an almost desperate note in her voice.

He waited and grew increasingly concerned, even more so when he saw her eyes glistening. Lady Mary was not given to tears. "My lady," he said gently, and took her hand. Her fingers tightened over his.

"It's only that I think ... I don't feel ..." She was struggling to put it into words, and then they came bubbling to the surface. "I don't know that I love him, Carson." And then there were tears in her eyes and he did what he always did when his Lady Mary faced a crisis - he put his arms around her. She leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest, her tears dampening his shirtfront.

He held her for a long moment. The confession had taken an emotional toll. Once she had reconciled herself to this revelation of vulnerability, she would be able to talk about it. In the meantime, he held her closely and rubbed her shoulder reassuringly and absorbed her tears.

With a great gulping breath she drew back a little, giving him access to his handkerchief, which he extracted from his front pocket and put into her hand. She gave him a grateful smile and dabbed at her eyes. With another deep breath she gently disengaged from him. She did not apologize for this lapse in her formal demeanour. They had had too many occasions like this one for her to be self-conscious with him.

"Can you tell me about it?" he asked tenderly.

She nodded and then told him about her indecision in the face of Mr. Talbot's passionate declarations of love, about how she had felt pressured by Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot both, about how she'd felt out of control as though swept along on an unstoppable current that had brought her to the altar. "It seemed all right for a while," she said, "but all my doubts have returned. And it's not to be blamed on the emotional upheavals or chemical imbalances or whatever it is of motherhood, Carson," she said peremptorily, glaring at him almost crossly as though he had suggested it were. "This ... malaise ... is only a return of something I've felt all along. I just ... don't love him." And her voice almost broke again with this declaration. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"I know there's nothing to be done," she went on. "We're married now. And I don't want to divorce. But I'm not happy. And Mr. Talbot can't be either. It's not fair to him."

"Have you not spoken to him of this, my lady?" Carson asked softly.

"How can I?" she demanded, gazing at him fiercely. "How can I tell him that I ... don't love him?"

Advice of this sort was not Carson's forté. He had little experience with the vagaries of love. But he could not fail Lady Mary. He looked around. There were benches at the most scenic spots along the paths and his recent re-acquaintance with the estate grounds had given him a knowledge of their location. There was one, he knew, not far away. Taking her hand, he led her to it. Shep, knowing that this meant a pause in their walk, stretched out in the sun nearby.

For some minutes they sat together in silence, his thumb gently tracing the fine bones along the back of her hand.

"You've asked for my advice," he said finally.

"Yes." Her eyes were firmly fixed on his and he saw in them a plea for help more acute than her words could convey.

"Well. First, I have confidence in you, my lady." He felt the pressure of her hand in his as he said this. "I cannot speak about your feelings for Mr. Talbot. Only you can know the truth there. But you were not lacking in options. There was the Viscount Gillingham and Mr. Blake, perfectly nice gentlemen I am sure. But they did not measure up. Mr. Talbot did."

"But what if I made a mistake? There was so much pressure..."

"I have never known you to do anything you did not yourself want to do," Carson said.

"Well, perhaps I've changed," she said wretchedly.

He frowned a little. She was in a bad way.

"May I ask how it was you came to this conclusion, my lady? I mean, about the inadequacy of your affections for Mr. Talbot?" He tried to put it delicately. This was an intimate matter, after all.

She sighed. "I've been married before, Carson. I know what it is to love with all my heart."

This passionate declaration caught at his heart. He knew how fiercely she loved.

"And ... I don't feel it. I care for Mr. Talbot. He is a ... a lovely man. I could list his virtues all day. I admire him. I like him. I would want him in my corner in a fight. But I don't ... love him."

She seemed so fragile in this moment that he almost put his arms around her again. But he resisted the impulse. Lady Mary was strong, even if she had flashes of vulnerability, and he must summon her back to that core of her being, not indulge her doubts.

"You are thinking of your life with Mr. Crawley, then, and finding Mr. Talbot wanting in comparison."

"Not him, Carson. It's my love for him that's lacking. I can't help it."

"But you must help it, my lady."

The firmness in his voice brought her up short. He had always been honest with her and had, once or twice been almost brutal with the truth. Such occasions had been hard on both of them. She stiffened now, perhaps alert to the possibility of yet another such ordeal. But he continued to hold her hand.

"Mr. Talbot is not Mr. Crawley, my lady, and that is a good thing, for you have changed much over the past few years, too. You are no longer the woman you were when you were married to Mr. Crawley."

"Go on."

"If I may be so bold, my lady, you had your ups and downs with Mr. Crawley, too. Only they were before you were married. You turned him down, brushed him off, refused to swallow your pride over him, and almost married another man before you 'saw the light,' as it were. And all of this, all this...turmoil and doubt occurred amidst the crucible of war, which could only heighten the feelings you had for him. Mr. Talbot is a man in ordinary times. He is not an ordinary man, my lady. You would never have been drawn to an unremarkable man. But he does live in ordinary times. You do yourself no disservice by accepting that."

She was frowning at him, taking in what he said, thinking about it.

"There is something else you must accept and it, too, is simply a fact rather than some kind of failing to be lamented. Mr. Crawley was your first love," he said gently, "and there is nothing like your first love."

"He wasn't..."

"Yes," Carson interrupted her. "He was." He was not about to give the ill-fated Turk a look in on this. "Love is one of those experiences in life - you must always remember the first time as something special, because it was the first time. That doesn't diminish subsequent experiences. It just means they must be different."

The searching gaze she focused on him had an almost physical impact. "Was Mrs. Hughes your first love, Carson?"

It was an intimate question, but, he supposed, they were already knee deep in it anyway.

"No." He was gratified by her muted reaction. She gave a little nod of acknowledgment and then raised a questioning brow.

Elsie was the only person who knew his story. Well, Elsie and Charlie Grigg, too, but he didn't like to think about Grigg.

"It was a long time ago," he said. "Long before you were born, even. I fell in love, but she married someone else." There was nothing more to it.

"Then it was more than thirty-five years before you loved again."

She was trying to make connections with her own experience. Did she think, perhaps, that she had moved too quickly in marrying Mr. Talbot?

"My lady, everyone's lives are different. I entered service. I had no thoughts of love or marriage." That wasn't completely accurate, but it was the practical reality of much of his adult life.

"Then what changed?"

"My lady?"

"You knew Mrs. Carson for decades, worked with her for ...what? twenty-five, thirty years? How did you come to love her? Because I know it is love, Carson. I have seen it in your eyes and the way you are together."

He was sure he felt the colour rising in his face, but he tried to ignore it. "We grew together," he said simply. "As you and Mr. Crawley did."

"But ... why ... after thirty years...?"

"We might have gone on just the same," he said, although he wondered if that would have been the case because he could not now imagine his life without Elsie as his wife. "But then there was a crisis and the feelings that were there, somewhere, came to the surface."

She did not ask, and he was glad, because he did not want to tell her, what the crisis was. It was a private matter for Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Hughes as she had then been. And it had been a traumatic episode in his own life. But he could pinpoint his epiphany with mathematical precision - it was that moment when Dr. Clarkson had confirmed an uncertainty - that Elsie had had tests and that the results, which would indicate whether or not she had cancer, had yet to arrive. In the instant that he realized he might lose her, he had suddenly become aware that he could not bear the thought of it.

He did not want to dwell on this and pushed these memories from the forefront of his mind. The problem here was what to say to Lady Mary about her own predicament.

"My point, my lady, is that you cannot compare Mr. Crawley and Mr. Talbot. That they are not the same man, that your experience of love with them is not the same, does not mean that you cannot love Mr. Talbot with all your heart."

"But ... how?"

He took a deep breath. "Have confidence in yourself. You believed yourself in love with him, else you would not have married him," he said this firmly. "And take charge of the situation, my lady. Do not passively accept this ... malaise, you called it. Instead, try to love him. Act as though you love him. Do things to foster your love for him. Think actively about what it is you liked about him to begin with."

"I cannot pretend to have feelings where they do not exist, Carson."

"You may find that you do not have to manufacture the feelings, that they are still there, where you left them."

She was frowning at him. "You're telling me this is all in my head." It was not a suggestion that pleased her.

"Not quite. Only I think you have gotten into a bit of a rut. You may need a little elbow grease to get yourself out of it."

She almost smiled. "I don't know much about elbow grease, Carson."

"That's not so, my lady."

"I hope I don't have to deal with a crisis to find out that you're right."

"I don't think a crisis is a requirement," he said, trying for a lighter tone.

They sat quietly then, only staring at each other. This intense contemplation discomfited neither of them.

She was a marvel, he thought, absorbing the beauty of her great dark eyes, the artistry of her fine cheek bones, the slightly defiant tilt of her exquisitely formed chin. Could he ever have loved another child as he loved her?

"'You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din,'" Lady Mary said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Had he ever heard her quote Rudyard Kipling?

"I don't know that, having known love, I could have gone thirty or more years before dipping my toe in those waters again," she said, her voice a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

Now he understood. "Well," he said warmly, his heart brimming with adoration, "there are different kinds of love, my lady."

*A/N1. Thomas's suggestion regarding an inventory of Downton's treasures was made in Chapter 5 of Enough of That.

**A/N2. Lady Mary's request that Carson accept the role of godfather to her son, Stephen Henry Charles Talbot, is made in What You Mean To Me.