DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
Episode 4. Chapter 3.
Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, and Mr. Mason
"I have something to say," Daisy announced.
She was standing at the head of the table in the kitchen at Yew Tree Farm. Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason sat on either side of her, neither of them looking particularly comfortable. Daisy supposed her forceful summons had disturbed them. She so rarely had anything important to impart.
She could hear the note of defiance in her voice and made an effort to quell it. All her life she had been deferential to everyone and it was almost necessary for her to be rude in order to overcome this ingrained behaviour. "I know you're not going to like it, but I've made up my mind."
She took a deep breath. "I have to go away," she said. "I'm leaving Yew Tree Farm and Downton and Yorkshire even."
They were shocked, of course. Mrs. Patmore gasped. Mr. Mason made a sound, almost like a yelp. But then he quickly pulled himself together.
"I hope you're going to tell us why."
Daisy nodded. "I will. I have to go," she continued. "I'm not sure where I'm going yet, but this time I am going. I can't do otherwise."
"What do you mean by it, Daisy?" demanded Mrs. Patmore, finding her voice. "I thought everything was going well for you as assistant cook at Downton and here on the farm."
She sounded betrayed and Daisy understood that, a little at least.
"It has. It is," Daisy said soberly. "It's something else."
A sombre look descended on Mr. Mason. He leaned forward a little. "You needn't take such drastic action, lass. You should know that I'll ... we'll always stand behind you, no matter what. The farm is a better place to be if you're ... Well." He spoke earnestly, but hesitantly as well, as if unsure of her reaction. "I'll not judge you, Daisy. You know that. Andy's a good lad. I'm sure he'll..."
Both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were staring at him with fascinated horror.
"I'm not having a baby!" Daisy cried indignantly. She made a disgusted sound. "What are you thinking!" Daisy's narrow life had slowed her road to maturity, but she was just shy of her twenty-eighth birthday now and she'd caught onto things, even if she was still lacking in experience.
Mr. Mason sat back hastily at her sharp denial and he immediately attempted to minimize the damage. "I didn't mean nought by it. It's only when you said you've got to leave us and all."
Daisy didn't want to be sidetracked, so she chose not to take umbrage. Instead she pulled from her pocket the letter she had discovered the week before in the bottle at the back of the cupboard. "It's about this," she said. "I've found out something and it's changed ... everything for me. I won't turn my back on this kind of thing any more."
"What kind of thing?" Mrs. Patmore cried impatiently. "What is it?"
"It's a letter," Daisy said. "From someone I don't even know."
"You're not making any sense, Daisy."
"You'll understand when you read it. Both of you."
Mrs. Patmore took it from her hand and began to read. When she finished the first page, she passed it across the table to Mr. Mason. The handwriting was plain and though the script was blurred in places as if by a drop of moisture, the message itself was only too clear.
If you're reading this letter, then you're living at Yew Tree Farm. I lived here, too, once. I don't anymore and that's the story I want to tell. I want you to know my story and to know what kind of people the Crawleys are.
My husband's family farmed at Yew Tree since the Napoleonic Wars. We were glad to take up the tenancy and we worked hard. My husband took on extra responsibilities for the family. We thought they valued us.
But then Lady Edith - she's Lady Hexham now, all la-di-da - had a baby. Without a husband. And because my husband - Tim he's called - had proved his loyalty to the family, she asked him to take her child, to bring the little girl into our house and to raise her as our own. He agreed. She made him agree that it would be a secret between the two of them. I didn't know the truth.
I loved our little Marigold like she was my own and our three children took to her, too. She was my baby. But Lady Edith couldn't let her - or us - alone. She was ever at our farm, in our kitchen, making a nuisance of herself. She spoiled Marigold and ignored our children. Tim put up with it. He felt sorry for her. But it got so I couldn't stand the sight of her. She wouldn't leave us alone and, of course, I didn't know why. We fought about her, Tim and I did. The children were upset and dear Marigold was unsettled whenever she came. I had Tim tell her to stay away.
Then she had an upset of some kind, Lady Edith did. I don't know what and why should I care, and it all came out. She landed in on us one day and said she was taking Marigold. Right out of the blue. Understand, the child had lived with us for nearly two years. I was her mother, the only mother she had ever known. She was my child! I loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. We all did.
But Lady Edith didn't care. She flung the birth certificate at me and tore my baby from my arms. I was heartbroken. I am still heartbroken. I had lost my child and found out that my husband had lied to me.
But at least we still had the farm.
Lady Edith took up at the Abbey with her little girl - my little girl - in the nursery as her ward. Even after all that, she wouldn't acknowledge Marigold as her daughter, though they all knew. I could see she didn't love Marigold. Not like I did. They put the children away and only bring them out at tea up there. Lady Edith hardly saw her. At the fair in Thirsk, they didn't even watch her. They let her get lost in the crowd. But I saw her and brought her home safe. My baby.
Then they told us we had to leave Yew Tree Farm. Lady Edith didn't want us - me - near Marigold.
So we lost our home, too. My husband lost his family's heritage, I lost my child, and we very nearly lost our marriage, all because a nice man tried to do a good turn for a selfish lady who broke all the rules of respectability and then could think only of herself and what she wanted, and not about what was right and good for the child she had borne, but never mothered.
Watch yourself around them, the Crawleys. Lady Edith is the worst of the lot, but they all lined up behind her when she took my baby and spitefully drove us from our home. We were foolish enough to trust them, to give them our loyalty. We were betrayed. And we paid a terrible price. And so did a dear little girl. My little girl.
Mrs. Tim Drewe.
Mrs. Patmore had tears in her eyes as she finished. She lifted her gaze to meet Daisy's, as Mr. Mason finished the last page.
"Did you know this?" Daisy asked the cook.
"No. Of course not!"
"I had no idea," Mr. Mason said, more bewildered than anyone else.
"It's been a big family secret," Mrs. Patmore went on.
"You know most everything," Daisy noted.
"You've mistaken me for Mrs. Carson, Daisy. Although I'm sure she doesn't know about it either."
"Crawleys." There was such contempt in Daisy's voice.
"Now Daisy..."
But Daisy cut Mr. Mason off before he could get started. "Don't go trying to tell me otherwise. I know it's only one side of the story. But some of the facts speak for themselves. Lady Edith did go away to Switzerland for eight months. The Drewes were at Yew Tree Farm and Miss Marigold did live with them. And then she turned up at Downton and she was Lady Edith's special little girl. And then the Drewes left, just after the stock fair in Thirsk. That's all true. And then I pushed Her Ladyship - Her Ladyship - into giving you Yew Tree Farm, without thinking about why the Drewes were leaving."
She'd been brooding about it for days now and all the anger and hostility and revulsion she'd been working to keep at bay were now in danger of spilling over.
"It's nought to do with you, Daisy," Mr. Mason said, trying to placate her. "We didn't put the Drewes out."
"No. But we're profiting from their misfortune, aren't we?"
"I'll grant you that it's a bit of a shock," Mrs. Patmore admitted. "I'd not have thought Lady Edith capable of such cruelty."
Daisy scoffed at this and turned away, her arms folded tightly. "You don't know her like I do," she muttered.
"And," Mrs. Patmore went on, "I am surprised at His Lordship, treating such a loyal tenant so poorly..."
"Lady Edith is his child," Mr. Mason put in, sotto voce.
Daisy's ire rose again. "And that means he can do the Drewes like that, does it? Treat them like so much dirt? It were Lady Edith that broke the rules and got herself into trouble and now she's a Marchioness. And where are the Drewes, who saved her reputation and loved her child? Out in the cold."
"I wasn't saying it were the right thing," Mr. Mason said, trying to be patient. "But people - poor people, rich people, all people - lose perspective when it comes to their own children. Lord Grantham, and Lady Edith, too, for that matter, aren't any better or worse than the rest of us."
"That's a poor excuse."
"It may be," Mr. Mason said doubtfully, "but there it is."
"You would have thought of your child first," Daisy said fiercely, "not yourself."
He didn't answer that and she knew why. She was right.
"Don't you despise Lady Edith?" she demanded desperately, looking to Mrs. Patmore.
"Well I'm not impressed, that's for sure," Mrs. Patmore said flatly. "But Daisy, why've you got to go anywhere just because Lady Edith's proven such a disappointment?"
They didn't understand. It was her impulse to rage, but suddenly she lost the energy for it.
"I've had it with them," she said simply. "They play with our lives without any thought and reward us or reject us on a whim. It's not right."
"I don't think it's quite..."
"And to stay here," she gestured around them, "is like I'm part of it. If I just go on, especially here at Yew Tree Farm, then I'm turning a blind eye. I'm no better than them. And I'm tired of being a hypocrite about important things."
And she glared hard at Mrs. Patmore as she said this, thinking of the lie she had told William and then his father. Dad. Maybe they could all make out that that one had worked out well in the end, but there was no whitewashing the sorrow of Yew Tree Farm.
This statement subdued Mrs. Patmore and she subsided into silence, but Mr. Mason was not so uninhibited.
"Do you honestly think it's better anywhere else?" he asked.
Daisy turned to him. "No. I don't. But 'honestly' is a good word. The Crawleys play at being good people. We do have it good here. I know that. But they're as ... capricious...," she had learned that word in her studies and never thought she'd have occasion to use it, "...as anyone else in their class. They can't be trusted. They give things, like they did to the Drewes, and then they take them away again as it suits them. I'd rather know that up front than be fooled by false kindness."
"Ah, Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore seemed truly distressed. "You don't think we're all of us so naive about it, do you?"
Daisy considered. "No. But you are accepting of it. I can't do it anymore." Her gaze fixed on one and then the other. "You've both been so kind to me. So loving. And I love you so much, too. But ... I don't want to live like this, here, in the shadow of someone else's tragedy."
Thomas and Friends
Thomas stood just inside the door of the Princess Amelia bedroom. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly until he could see up and down the gallery. It was empty. Silently he stepped into the passage, pausing for a moment to choose which way he might go, and then moved to the right. He wasn't especially fond of cats, but he admired their ability to move soundlessly and had, over the years, honed his own capacity for this. It had served him well in the practice of strategic eavesdropping.
As he approached the next door along, he flattened himself against the wall and his movements slowed once more. When his shoulder touched the doorframe, he paused, listening hard for sounds from within. It was so still on the gallery that he thought he might have caught the sound of a breath being hastily withdrawn. He smiled.
Carefully he edged his head past the doorframe and peered into the room. Nothing moved. He saw and heard nothing. But there was someone there, all right. He walked right into the room, then, and looked around.
"I wonder," he said, his voice crisp and clear, rattling the silence and, he exulted, eliciting a stifled giggle. "Where could someone hide in here?"
"Aha!" He pounced on a jar on the bedside table. "In the biscuit jar!" It was, of course, obvious that no one or nothing could hide there, for the jar was a glass one and its contents easily seen. But he lifted the lid and sighed heavily in failure nonetheless. Again there was a muffled gurgle of amusement from somewhere nearby.
"Behind the curtains!" he declared, and bounded across the room to ruffle through the heavy curtains that framed the windows. This was, at least, a reasonable possibility, for the bottoms of the curtains pooled on the floor so as to absorb draughts and could easily disguise feet. But he had been fairly certain that this, too, was a fruitless choice before it proved to be so.
"Where, oh where, I wonder," he said again, now letting a feigned frustration creep into his voice. There really weren't many options in the room. He came over silent again and moved to the bed.
"What ... about..." He dropped to his knees and pulled up the bedcovers, declaring at the same time, "What about under the bed!"
Success! A shriek greeted him as his eyes fell on a dark-haired girl lying there. Sybbie Branson burst into laughter as the butler's face appeared suddenly in front of her. The serious expression on Thomas's face as he had prowled in pursuit of his prey melted into a wide smile. And not just because he had found Sybbie. Even as he gave her a hand to help her out of her hiding place, he heard a smothered giggle behind him. He came over solemn again and, catching Miss Sybbie's eye, he held a finger to his lips in a wordless bid for conspiratorial silence.
Together the two of them tip-toed over to the wardrobe which Thomas knew to be empty of clothing, as the guest room was unoccupied, but knew also to be the perfect refuge for a small boy earnestly engaged in hide-and-seek. Thomas closed his hand over the wardrobe's doorknob and turned it with the utmost care so as not to give away his presence. Then, without warning, he yanked it open.
Master George Crawley tumbled forth, laughing so hard he fell over. Miss Sybbie and Thomas joined him in his mirth, though neither collapsed on the floor beside him.
"You found me, Mr. Barrow!" cried the small boy, accepting Thomas's hand up.
"Not without difficulty, Master George. Now."
The two children looked at him alertly at this final word.
"I think if we move quickly enough, we might just make it," Thomas said, and strode toward the door. They followed him. All three came to an abrupt halt at the door as Thomas cautiously appraised the situation, looking up and down the corridor. Then he signalled to them and all three dash down the gallery to the nursery door. It was still empty. Nanny had not yet returned with Master Stephen.
"Quickly!" Thomas barked.
He dropped into a comfortable, overstuffed chair and picked up a book, while the children fell onto stools across from him. Then they all breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Made it!"
"Mr. Barrow, will you come to visit me at my new house?"
Thomas looked up alertly at Miss Sybbie's unexpected question. "You've not gone anywhere yet!"
The look she fixed on him took him aback. Miss Sybbie was so closely associated with her father, Tom Branson, that sometimes Thomas forgot that she was Lady Sybil's daughter, too. Lady Sybil had died only hours after her daughter's birth. But every once in a while, as in this moment, there were in her daughter's face and bearing flashes of that impetuous and independently-minded young woman, the only member of the Crawley family whom Thomas could say he had really known and genuinely admired. To see the ghost of Lady Sybil in the expectant expression of her daughter was unsettling.
"I'll look in," he said, his resistance melting. "If I can."
"But you'll still play with me!" Master George said firmly, determined to claim his share of attention.
"Of course."
They heard the shuffling in the hall and Nanny Gordon came in, with a fresh and tousled baby boy in her arms. Her gaze fell on a charming scene of Downton Abbey's formal butler apparently in the midst of a dramatic reading of Winnie the Pooh.
"Thank you so much for reading to them, Mr. Barrow," gushed Nanny. " I'd have been at my wit's end this morning if you hadn't stopped in for a moment." She glanced at the two older children, posed angelically before the butler. "They're so quiet for you."
Thomas smiled graciously. "It was my pleasure." He closed the book and put it down, and then headed for the door. Before he disappeared, he looked over his shoulder and winked at the two children, who were waiting for just such a signal. They burst into laughter. He was on his way before Nanny could make anything of it.
Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson
Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were having tea again. The cook might not have sought out the other woman for a chat quite so soon in ordinary circumstances, but the conversation with Daisy the previous afternoon required an early consultation. The substance of that exchange had also pushed the problem of Mr. Mason into the background.
"Did you know about Lady Edith?" Mrs. Patmore asked the housekeeper, glancing uneasily toward the sitting room door and speaking in a hushed tone for any number of reasons. She didn't want to re-ignite Daisy's ire. And she certainly didn't want any member of the family who might be in the vicinity, though they rarely came unannounced to the kitchen, to overhear her And she emphatically did not want the day maids or the hallboy or even Andy listening to this tale.
Mrs. Carson shrugged. "You've filled in a lot of the gaps," she said, "but I had an inkling or two."
Mrs. Patmore suspected that Mrs. Carson was exercising a degree of circumspection, but let it go. She wanted to address other matters while she had the opportunity.
"Daisy's wanting to leave us over it," Mrs. Patmore went on. "Says she feels compromised because she was involved in getting Mr. Mason into Yew Tree Farm, even though she didn't know why the Drewes were leaving and that they'd been evicted, more or less. We had a time of it getting her to make proper plans instead of throwing everything up and dashing off into the night."
"She ought not to throw her life away because of anything the family does," Mrs. Carson agreed. "How did you persuade her differently?"
"I suggested she talk to someone outside, someone beyond the walls of Downton Abbey or the estate and the village. I said why didn't she write to that schoolteacher, Miss Bunting, and ask her for advice. She accepted that."
Mrs. Carson gave her friend an admiring glance. "That was a good idea. What about Gwen, too?'
For a moment the cook was puzzled. "Oh, Gwen! What's her name now?"
"Mrs. Harding," Mrs. Carson supplied. "Miss Bunting was a valuable mentor for Daisy, but Gwen has actually climbed the ladder, so to speak, from housemaid to middle class respectability."
"By marrying into it," Mrs. Patmore said bluntly. "I doubt that'll happen with our Daisy. I doubt she'll marry anyone." She related Mr. Mason's initial misunderstanding of Daisy's agitation, and the two women had a bit of a laugh over it.
"Oh, my," Mrs. Carson gasped. "I wish I'd seen the look on her face!"
"I'll tell her about Gwen," Mrs. Patmore said. "Do you have an address?"
Mrs. Carson obligingly reached for her address book.
"By the way, I thought Mr. Carson was going to hire a young woman to help him with his book?"
The housekeeper almost dropped the slim volume in her hand. "Yes. He was," she said shortly. She took a slip of paper and began to write out Gwen's address.
Mrs. Patmore was distracted. "Is there a problem with Mr. Ryder?"
"No," Mrs. Carson said coolly. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with Mr. Ryder."
"Then...why do you sound like there is?"
Mrs. Carson sighed. "He only appeared last Friday and I know more about him than ... almost than about Lady Mary!"
"Oh." Mrs. Carson's tone said a lot, but this allusion to Lady Mary left no room for doubt. "Mr. Carson goes on a bit about him, then."
"You'd think it was the Second Coming!" Even as the words slipped from her, Mrs. Carson reined herself in a little. "Mr. Carson is very enthusiastic about the young man," she said, more dispassionately.
"It'll pass," Mrs. Patmore said reassuringly. "Mr. Carson finds fault with everyone. Eventually."
The cook's blunt assessment of her husband brought a faint smile to Mrs. Carson's lips. "True. Oh! I'm sorry that it never occurred to me to suggest he stay at your bed-and-breakfast. He mentioned that he needed accommodation and I sent him to the post-office to look up notices instead. I should have thought."
But Mrs. Patmore was unperturbed. "A young man like that? In residence for a few months with our Lucy? I've had enough scandal, thank you." Then she sighed. "Why is it that our scandals threaten to ruin us, and their scandals...don't seem to have any effect at all? Except on the people like us, like the Drewes, who get caught up in them?"
"You say that as though you expect there to be some fairness in life," Mrs. Carson observed.
They drank their tea.
Bates and Robert
"I'm to meet Mr. Houghton, the American Ambassador, in London on Thursday morning, Bates."
It was Tuesday night and Bates was attending Robert in his dressing room.
"We'll go up on tomorrow afternoon and stay at my club, rather than bothering with the house, and come back on Thursday evening." Robert paused while Bates helped him out of his dinner jacket. "I hope that causes no inconvenience?"
Robert's consideration was sincere, but also perfunctory. Lady Mary had adjusted her habits to accommodate Anna, but no one, Bates included, expected the Earl of Grantham to reduce his valet's duties because that valet had become a father.
"Not at all, my lord," Bates replied smoothly.
"I'm going to invite him to Downton for the second weekend in September. I understand Mr. Houghton enjoys horse-racing. We'll attend the St. Leger Stakes at Doncaster."
"A racing weekend," Bates murmured. "Very English, my lord."
Robert grinned at him. "That's what we're aiming for, Bates."
"I understand Mr. Houghton is a strong advocate of European peace." Bates read the papers regularly.
"We should all be advocates of that, I think," Robert said, exchanging knowing glances with his valet.
"Amen to that."
Neither of them had served in the Great War, but they had vivid memories of their own war fought on the veldts of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State at the turn of the century. And while they were both proud of their service, neither admired war.
As he hung up His Lordship's shirt, Bates made a decision. It had been on his mind for some time, but the moment seemed propitious.
"Your timing is impeccable, my lord. I have some business matters of my own to attend to in London." He spoke casually, conversationally, but His Lordship's eyes flickered in his direction
"Is this about your house?" Robert asked lightly.
"Yes, my lord."
"You're going to sell in then?"
Bates nodded, meeting His Lordship's gaze directly. "We are. We have no firm plans yet, my lord, but Anna and I are beginning to think in more concrete terms about our future, and about a different kind of life for ourselves in the years ahead." He spoke easily though his heart constricted as he formed the words. "Downton has been good to us, my lord," he added solemnly. "You have been very good to us."
"Bates." His Lordship spoke quietly, but earnestly in his turn. "There's no need to explain. We have had many good years together. But the birth of your son has altered your life, your aspirations. That is how it should be."
The valet was not given to sentimentality, though Anna and Robbie and Robert Crawley, too, were exceptions to that. His eyes glistened at His Lordship's understanding. "It will be difficult to leave Downton, my lord. And you."
"And difficult for us - for me - to see you go," Robert admitted. "But it's still the right thing, for you and your family. I wish you well."
They exchanged meaningful looks, gratitude emanating from both sides.
Bates clear his throat. "We thought to sell the house first and then take our time looking for the right situation. We won't leave you in a lurch, my lord. Anna and I will ensure smooth transitions for our successors."
Robert managed a smile. "I'm not worried."
"Anna would like to tell Lady Mary herself, if possible."
"Of course. I shall say nothing except to Her Ladyship."
Bates nodded and then, finished with his ministrations, he silently withdrew. Closing the door behind him, he exhaled deeply. He had expected no less from His Lordship. The man was graciousness personified. But now the iron was in the fire. It was the first page of the next chapter in his life with Anna.
As he made his way down the gallery to the servants' staircase, he reflected that His Lordship's London trip was fortuitous in more ways than one. Enlisting an agent to take on the house sale would take but little time. His main concern in London was the mission he had undertaken for the Dowager. He had written letters of inquiry, but his information was as yet incomplete. Now he must undertake some more specific research.
London beckoned.
Robert and Cora
"I told you," Robert announced, as he came through from his dressing room.
Cora, already attended to by the ever-efficient Baxter, was sitting in bed with the report of the Royal Commission on the Poor Laws in her lap. It was, lamentably, quite a substantial volume.
"Told me what?" she asked almost absently, although she did look up.
"Bates," he said with a dramatic flourish. "And Anna. They're getting ready to move on. When we're in London this week, he's going to see an agent about selling his mother's house." He wriggled free of his robe and folded it over the foot of the bed before climbing in beside Cora.
He had her full attention now. Cora reached out to pat his arm sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Robert."
He smiled at her concern, even as he shrugged it off. "It's been a long time coming and I don't begrudge them one bit," he said firmly and sincerely. "And they won't be gone by Tuesday, so I've time to absorb the blow. Oh. Don't mention this to Mary. Anna wants to tell her herself."
"Of course." Cora understood that. "Mary," she said simply, and Robert nodded in agreement. The relationship between their daughter and her maid was close and long-standing. "Will you hire a new valet?"
Robert gave it a moment's consideration, although he already knew the answer. "Yes. As far as I am concerned, the valet is a necessary member of staff. It'll be different, like Barrow when Carson retired. The new man can never be what Bates has been, but I daresay we'll rub along well enough anyway."
"Your mother would be proud of you, Robert," Cora said, not concealing her own admiration for him. "Getting on with it, I mean."
He looked a little puzzled. "What else is there to do?" Despite his exterior calm, he was somewhat shaken by Bates's announcement, but Cora's words distracted him. "Mama," he said. "Have you noticed anything ... different about her recently?"
"Yes," Cora said, and she came over a little perplexed. "She's ... not so combative."
That this appeared to Cora a point for concern might have bemused someone else, but Robert knew exactly what she meant. "Ought we to look into that?" he asked, genuinely asking for her advice.
"Perhaps you should visit," Cora suggested. "If I start looking worried, that'll put the wind up her, and we'll never know if there's anything to it."
"Hmm." He nodded.
Absently he reached for the book on his bedside table and Cora, sensing that the conversation was over, picked up her own book. And then, her concentration disrupted, she glanced at him again.
"What're you reading?" she asked.
"The Economic Consequences of the Peace, by John Maynard Keynes," he said, holding it up so she could read the spine.
"Why?"
"Homework," he said. "I'm to see Mr. Houghton this week in London and, although I don't expect he'll want to discuss the affairs of state with me, I still thought I ought to read up on those issues that most concern him. And us. And," he added, tapping his open page, "it's actually quite interesting."
Cora coughed in disbelief. "Robert! That sounds like the most boring book ever."
Robert emitted a sound of exasperation and half-turned toward her. "Cora, you're reading a Royal Commission Report. On the Poor Laws."
She did not take his point. "Mine's a lot more interesting than yours," she said confidently.
He reached for her book and handed her his own and for a few minutes they perused the pages before them.
"Good heavens!" he said at last, clapping her book closed and handing it over in a manner that suggested he could not get rid of it soon enough.
Cora only rolled her eyes as she passed his book back to him.
For a moment they simply stared at each other, at first not quite believing the other's absorption in their respective books. Then thoughts of the Treaty of Versailles and Britain's Poor Laws slipped rapidly from their conscious minds.
"Have I told you recently how very much I love you?" Robert said, his eyes softening with emotion.
Cora did not reply in words, only leaning into him. Robert slipped one arm about her as their lips met and reached out clumsily with the other, trying to find the light switch. As the darkness engulfed them, their books thudded to the floor on either side of the bed, unheeded by their readers who were now absorbed in more alluring pursuits.
