DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
EPISODE 4. Chapter 4.
Friday August 27, 1926*
Mary and Henry
Time might march on, but some things did not change. There was still a scullery maid, the lowliest of the house servants, at Downton, although now she came up from the village before dawn to light the bedroom fires. The newspapers were still ironed to dry the ink, albeit now by the hallboy rather than the most junior of the footmen. And Anna still came to Lady Mary's bedroom to open the curtains and get her clothing ready for the day.
Since Stephen's birth, Mary had more often than not been awake and sometimes even out of bed to attend to her son when Anna came in. Henry had accommodated himself to the morning rhythms at Downton that always allowed for the servants to get the house running and have their own breakfast before the family began to impose with their needs. Always an early riser, now he stirred only when the first ray of sunshine darted past the receding curtain. Mary smiled when she remembered how Anna's presence in their bedroom had discomfited Matthew. Henry never gave it a thought.
"Good morning, Anna," Mary said cheerfully. She did not feel quite as ebullient as her tone suggested, but she had determined to try Carson's advice to think herself into more positive feelings.
"Good morning, my lady."
Anna, Mary thought enviously, did not have to feign her cheerfulness. Not anymore, anyway. Things were going smoothly for the Bateses and it was about time. Mary was still watching the other woman, meditating on how she might apply Carson's wisdom to Henry, when she saw Anna falter and then grab the window frame for support.
"Anna!"
The alarm in Mary's voice roused the still-drowsing Henry to alertness. "What is it?"
Mary was already scrambling out of the bed and Henry was right behind her.
"What is it?" Mary said, echoing her husband as she reached out to support Anna.
"I don't..." Anna had gone pale, but the long-cultivated discipline of her work overrode the sudden physical weakness. "I'm just not feeling well, my lady. I..."
"Sit." Servants did not sit in the presence of the family, but Mary was the least concerned with such regimented conventions at the best of times and not at all in an emergency. She helped Anna around to a chair and then pushed her into it. Then Henry was there and Mary was grateful to see that he had brought a damp cloth, rinsed out in the water basin on the stand by the door. He took each of Anna's hands in turn and bathed them.
"I'm fine," Anna protested, discomfited as she always was by attention.
Neither Mary nor Henry paid any heed to her until the colour began to return to her cheeks. Anna took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then was suddenly aware of the two worried faces so close to her own.
"I feel a bit of a fool," she said, with an apologetic smile.
"Nonsense," Henry said affably. But he did get up to put his dressing gown on over his pajamas and discreetly withdrew to the bedside where he affected busy-ness in order to let Mary manage things.
"Anna."
"I'm all right, my lady," Anna said, her voice firmer now. "Just a little nauseous, is all. I thought I was going to..." She closed her eyes for a moment and then, brushing off Mary's concerns, got to her feet. "I must get on."
"If you're sure," Mary said, not convinced. "Why don't you go down to the servants' hall for half an hour. Catch your breath. I'm not going anywhere today. Dressing can wait."
Anna went, perhaps glad to escape further scrutiny.
"What was that about?" Henry asked, looking at the door through which Anna had disappeared.
"I don't know." Whatever it was troubled her though. Mary took a deep breath herself and then turned toward her husband. She'd wanted to talk to him this morning, to try to talk to him anyway and this delay in the morning routine gave her an opportunity. "Are you in a hurry?"
Henry glanced over his shoulder at her. "No. And anything can wait for you."
She knew he was sincere and tried not to let his kindness grate on her. "Granny said something curious to me the other day."
Henry came and sat beside her, his manner attentive.
"She said I had no friends. What do you make of that?"
He looked as puzzled by it as she had initially felt. "I hadn't noticed," he said slowly. "You seem ... complete ... to me. That's a silly way to put it. I don't quite know how to say what I mean." He frowned a little as he tried to find the right words.
But Mary was nodding. She understood what he meant.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I hadn't noticed either," she said. "I didn't think I was lacking for people to discuss matters of importance with. But Granny meant a woman friend."
"Do you want women friends?"
"No. I never have. There's never been a ...," she hesitated, "...a Charlie Rogers in my life."
This reference to his dead friend touched Henry. A shadow flickered across his face. Mary reached for his hand. They had been so close, Henry and Charlie. And the loss was magnified for Henry by the manner of his friend's death - in the sudden fiery inferno of a car crash. Mary coudl sympathize with that.
His eyes came up to hers. "I miss him. We had a special bond. Not just cars, but ... camaraderie. He was always there for me, always ready for any new adventure, however bold or silly it might be." Henry's mouth twisted into a wistful smile. "We had a laugh together, Charlie and I." Then he straightened suddenly, as if shaking off a wave of melancholy. "I'm fortunate, very fortunate, that Tom came into my life just before Charlie's death. It's not the same. They're different men. But..."
"And a wife isn't the same? I'm not challenging your friendships, Henry," she added. "I'm trying to understand."
He nodded and squeezed her hand. "No. It's not the same, though I can't really explain it. And I'm not suggesting that friends are better than or even a rival to a wife. Not at all. They're just ... different. Perhaps that's what your grandmother was trying to get at."
"Hmm. Perhaps."
"And perhaps you're not as friendless as your grandmother thinks."
"Meaning?"
"You have people in whom you confide, but they may not meet your grandmother's definition of 'friends.'" At her bemused expression, he went on. "There's Anna," he said. "Look at how you are with her. You have history and feelings and secrets between you. I'll never know all that, nor should I. That's you and Anna. Doesn't she count as a friend?"
Mary had been wondering the same thing.
"And there is Carson."
Henry's tone was different altogether with these words. Mary looked at him. They'd never discussed Carson. Somehow Matthew had just understood about Carson. She remembered Matthew saying of the then-butler, "Since he would open a vein for you...." and that was so. "Carson is in a category all his own," she said abruptly, putting that topic away for another time. "I was thinking, when I was with him recently, that he and Papa were friends, although I doubt that either of them or indeed Granny, would ever describe them as such. Anna and I are like that."
"But that wasn't what your grandmother meant."
"No, I think she had a more conventional definition, someone like Charlie Roger and Tom for you. I think of Tom as my friend, too, by the way." She spoke somewhat proprietorially there and Henry smiled at her.
"I know that."
"So Granny is right, then. I have no ... women friends."
"And this is bothering you."
Mary shrugged. "Well, I'm thinking about it." She turned a perplexed gaze on him. "How do you make friends? I'm not sure I know."
He exhaled heavily. "Oh. Well. It's...not something one usually plans, is it? It just happens. I met Tom through you. We had common interests..."
"One common, overriding obsession," Mary corrected, smiling faintly.
"I enjoyed his sense of humour. He liked you - a lot - but wasn't a rival. He helped me to woo you..."
At this remark, Mary looked away. She was sensitive to what she perceived as a conspiracy on their part to pressure her into a relationship.
"And our friendship grew from there. Personality has a lot to do with it, too. I like Bertie Pelham. He's an affable sort. I converse easily with him. But we've little in common and there's no...spark, for want of a better word."
"Spark isn't a word I would apply to Bertie, no," Mary agreed readily. "Then you're saying that you can't make friends? That it just happens?"
The conversation had defeated Henry. He held his hands up in surrender. "I don't know. Perhaps you could review your options if you really want one."
"Ah, the book-keeping method." This made them both laugh. Mary considered. "Well, I understand that some women are actually friends with their sisters. But Sybil is dead and Edith? I can't see it."
"Nor can I." Henry might be a relative newcomer to the Downton fold but he had early on discerned the nature of the relationship between the sisters. "Though you do have a common history to work from."
"But no common interests," Mary said emphatically.
"None?"
"None."
Henry moved on. "Any friends from your pre-marriage society days?"
"Other girls weren't friends, Henry. They were rivals. And then the war threw everything out of sorts. And I have always gravitated toward men. I should have been born a boy. Things would have worked out much more smoothly." This was an old grievance for Mary.
"Well, I'm glad you weren't."
His declaration was predictable, but not unwelcome. "I'm not unhappy about it either," she said, tossing her head. "But I just don't like women. All they talk about are men and children, marriage and clothes." Henry was chuckling at this and Mary was almost exasperated with him for it. "Really! They do! It's so dull! Men talk about other things. Why can't women? No one thinks men love their families less because they enjoy their work, too."
"I'm only agreeing with you," Henry said amiably. His whole countenance seemed to brighten at her indignation. She knew he found her forceful personality attractive.
"My 'society friends,' as you might call them - Annabelle Portsmouth and Lucinda Waring and Celia Cheswick - dull as sticks. I might have been friends with Mabel Lane-Fox, but in the end there didn't seem to be much to her besides securing Tony Gillingham."
"Maybe we ought to get out more."
"I don't want to go friend-hunting. Rather pathetic, I think. I suppose I'm just wondering whether Granny is even right."
"Only you can answer that question."
Mary suppressed a sigh. When it came down to it, that was the rejoinder to every important question in life.
"I'd better check on Anna," Mary said firmly, getting up. "If she's the only friend I've got, then I' must look out for her." She leaned down to kiss him. She had confided and he had listened. It was the appropriate gesture in the moment, though she still felt it a somewhat hollow one. Patience, she told herself, though she knew that that had never been one of her virtues.
Mary and Anna
"Are you feeling better?" Mary asked solicitously, feeling the incongruity of the situation where Anna was bustling about while she waited for Anna's assistance. It was how things always were, but Anna's turn had shaken her a little. Mary did not want to overreact, but Anna was seldom ill.
Not surprisingly, Anna brushed off her concern. "I'm fine, my lady."
Mary was not convinced, but decided not to press the issue. Instead her thoughts turned to what Henry had said and as Anna slipped the dress over her head and buttoned her buttons, Mary pondered the idea of a friendship with Anna.
They were friends, differences in class and status notwithstanding. No one knew as much about her as Anna did and no one was more stalwart at keeping her secrets. And no one, save Carson, was more forgiving of her shortcomings. She and Anna had made sacrifices for each other. Anna also spoke frankly to her in a way that no one else could. This relationship in many ways mimicked that between her father and Carson, for all of Carson's heated rejections of such presumption. Mary knew that both relationships were unequal, that she and her Papa received more than they gave, but also that they had made significant contributions to their friends' lives as well.
There were limitations, of course. Papa consulted Carson on almost everything, valued his advice, trusted implicitly to his judgment and discretion, and relished his companionship. But they were not equals. Papa might walk regularly with Carson and even have lunch with him at the pub in the village, but neither could imagine sitting down to dinner together in Downton's dining room. They were as close as two men could be who came from such different social stations. Yet for all their affection, the essential barrier remained. So it was with Mary and Anna. Mary wondered why she had not mentioned Anna when her grandmother had raised the questions of friends, and then realized that she did know why. Granny had been referring to a social equal and Mary had implicitly understood that.
"I've something to tell you, my lady."
Anna's remarked shattered Mary's reverie. She turned with a slightly distracted smile as Anna slipped a bracelet on her wrist and fastened the clasp.
"Good news?" Mary asked, with no idea what it could be.
Anna gave her a quick smile in return, although there was, too, a little line of concern on her forehead. "Yes, it is. I hope you'll agree."
"Of course I will," May said firmly, a little perplexed that Anna might imagine she would think otherwise.
"Mr. Bates and I have been thinking about our future," Anna said. "We've spoken for years about setting up in a hotel - a little hotel - of our own. And now that we have a family, it seems like the right time." Anna spoke in a forthright manner. She had never been a dissembler. And she met Mary's gaze, too. In the matter of her own life she had no reason to be deferential.
Mary was practiced in the art of concealing her emotions, though she seldom had occasion to have to try very hard where Anna was concerned. Habit asserted itself in this moment when her first reaction to Anna was a clutching at her heart. "Have you made any firm arrangements yet?" she asked, managing to keeping her voice light.
Anna shook her head. "No. Well, yes. Mr. Bates visited an agent in London while he was there with His Lordship to see about selling our house. We've no idea where we'll buy yet, though. We've not gotten that far."
"So nothing changes for the present."
"No, my lady. But I wanted you to know what we're about."
Despite her shock, and an immediate if irrational sense of being cast adrift which she sought to quench, Mary's demeanour softened at Anna's words. There was no guile about Anna. She was a private person, not a secretive one. She and her husband were moving forward with their lives, making plans for their family. As soon as those decision were made, Anna was conscientious enough to make them known to those whom they might affect. Anna, Mary thought, lived a life that followed straight lines.
"I am happy for you," Mary said, and managed a smile, a real smile. She reached out to take Anna's hand. "I know you want to spend more time with Robbie. And Bates. Of course, a business can be quite demanding, but I'm certain you and Bates have thought things through."
It was the right approach to take. Anna had spoken her piece with determination, but she did not or could not stifle a little sigh of relief at Mary's reaction. "We have, my lady," she said, with a trace of exuberance in her voice. Anna was excited for her future.
"I'll miss you dreadfully," Mary said, her tone warm but reflecting a note of wistfulness. It was only the truth and she would not deny that. "But family comes first. I know about that."
"We're hoping to find a place in the neighbourhood," Anna went on. "Mr. Bates and I are very fond of Downton." And its inhabitants. The unspoken words were clearly in the air.
Mary asked a few more questions, which elicited buoyant answers demonstrating that the Bateses were in fact embarking on their future with due deliberation. Then Anna collected the discarded nightclothes and was away to the laundry while Mary made her way downstairs. She paused on the landing, suddenly overtaken with a lightheadedness herself, and clutched the railing for support more emotional than physical.
Oh, Anna!
Tom Departs
He had preparing for this day for weeks and now it was upon him. Them. Tom and his daughter were formally leaving Downton Abbey for their new accommodations.
Tom had been delighted to scour the attics for furniture with which to set up house. The agent's cottage had stood empty for a good six years and needed everything. He knew he had to stop thinking of it that way.
"We should give it a name," he'd said to Sybbie. "Think it over and then we'll choose."
She was delighted with the idea.
To his relief and pleasure, Sybbie was excited by the whole experience. They had gone up to the attics together, with George, too, and had a lot of fun, filling the room with dust as they scattered dust sheets everywhere in the search for appropriate items. They didn't need much, just the necessary pieces for the bedrooms, and a few things for the sitting room and kitchen. Some pieces would have to be purchased. Tom insisted that the room for the new housekeeper be fitted out with new furniture.
Mary objected. "You've got it wrong, Tom. The servants get the cast-offs. You get the new things."
He'd grinned at her. "And I'm enjoying the freedom to make my own decisions about things already!" he'd declared.
Mary had rolled her eyes and exchanged exasperated glances with Henry, almost but not quite behind Tom's back.
Cora had inquired how things were coming along and offered her opinion on everything from curtains to lampshades to housekeepers, but put her two pence in only when asked. Robert said nothing, ignored any conversation relating to the move, and pretended, it seemed, that it was not happening. But he couldn't stop it.
Tom decided they would make the formal move on the morning of August 27h, five days before Sybbie would begin at the local school on September 1. That would give the three of them - father, daughter, and housekeeper hired for the purpose - time to settle in before facing another momentous event. The family gathered in the Great Hall to see them off.
"We're only going down the road," Tom said, looking around at them all, but speaking more particularly to Robert. "We'll see you as often as ever."
George advanced on Sybbie and solemnly held out a hand. "Goodbye, Cousin."
As formally, she took his hand. "Goodbye, Cousin," she responded. And then she gave him a wild, exaggerated shake, dropped his hand, and dashed for the door, with George in hot pursuit.
"Sybbie!" Tom called after his daughter. "Come say goodbye to your grandparents!"
"They're gone," Mary said complacently, smiling approvingly after her son. George was a high-spirited boy and she loved that about him and encouraged him in it.
"I'll take these." Henry picked up two of the cases that Tom had brought down.
Andy, standing unobtrusively to one side, quickly moved to relieve him of them, but Henry nodded him off. Tom did let the footman take the remaining case. Andy was only doing his job, after all. It was a lesson that still grated on Tom.
"You'll not even miss us," Tom told Robert, as they all moved outside. "I'd wager you won't."
"Well." If Robert was trying to put a good face on things, he wasn't succeeding.
"Thank you," Tom said suddenly, his gaze turning to Cora, then to Robert, and back to Cora again. "For everything."
Cora hugged him then and Robert managed a smile as the two men shook hands. Henry's handshake was more enthusiastic, although hardly necessary. Work ensured that their relationship would be affected the least by this change.
Mary accompanied Tom to the car, both of them dodging their children who were running circles around them.
"It really is just down the road," Tom said again.
"Papa likes to have everyone about him," Mary said. "And the place will be emptier without you and Sybbie. We'll all miss you. But we'll survive." They embraced. "George wants to go with you to the house," Mary added, her gaze straying to her son who had scrambled into the backseat and was now madly waving goodbye to his grandparents. Cora was playing along. Robert continued to hold back.
"He's welcome," Tom said. "And I'll make sure he's back, safe and sound, for lunch." And then he slipped into the driver's seat and set the car in motion.
As he directed the car down the drive, Tom glanced in the rearview mirror. He had to shift a bit to see around the tousled heads bobbing in the back seat. But when he got a clear view, he saw Cora and Robert comfortably arm-in-arm and Mary reach out, almost tentatively for Henry's hand, and then hold it awkwardly.
Thomas, Mr. Carson and Daniel Ryder
Thomas emerged from the dining room, where he had been checking to make sure that all was in readiness for lunch, to see Mr. Carson crossing the Great Hall and disappearing into the small library.
It was a little jarring to see Mr. Carson here. While he was a not-infrequent visitor to the housekeeper's sitting room, he rarely came upstairs anymore. His Lordship still sought out his old butler's company, but their consultations now took place on their weekly long walks about the estate rather than in the dining room or the library. And it still looked wrong to see Mr. Carson attired in his grey suit rather than in the livery he had worn with dignity for decades.
Thomas shook off these unsettling currents. He was the butler of Downton Abbey now. Mr. Carson was a visitor. Come to see his assistant, no doubt.
His assistant. Thomas's thoughts turned to the newcomer even as he drifted over to hover by the library door. Thomas was still making up his mind about Daniel Ryder. The man had joined the staff at breakfast and lunch and tea every day that week and cast his charms over almost all of them. It was no surprise that the women, young and old, were twittering about him. There were so few distractions for them. Even Daisy had been prevailed upon to full-sentence responses to Ryder's polite queries. But Ryder had also engaged the men, winning over Andy and the hallboy with sports talk and drawing the ever-reticent Mr. Bates into conversation about local matters.
Only Thomas and Mrs. Carson remained immune. Although she, too, lived away from the Abbey, the housekeeper had made it a point to eat breakfast with the staff several days a week and lunch every day. Thomas appreciated her presence. Like Mr. Carson before him, he had no jurisdiction over the maids and little patience with them. Madge had, thus far, been slow in taking up the slack there.
That Mrs. Carson also reserved judgment encouraged Thomas in his scepticism. He was no less suspicious of apparent perfection than he was of deviousness. Perfection, he had long ago surmised, was only a more effective disguise for someone with something to hide.
And as it was his business, as the butler of Downton Abbey, to identify and manage any threats to the tranquillity of the house, Thomas was not at all reluctant to take advantage of the opportunity now offered to eavesdrop on the conversation in the library. He smiled to himself. It was nice to have a legitimate rationalization for what he was going to do anyway. Information, he knew, never went to waste.
He paused by the door and then eased himself forward by almost imperceptible increments until he could just see into the room. Daniel Ryder sat with his back to the door. Mr. Carson was seated to his left. If he looked up, Mr. Carson might catch sight of Thomas, but the butler wasn't worried. He could tell that the older man was wholly engrossed in his exchange with Ryder. They were both hunched over a little bit, their body language a reflection of enthusiasm for their engagement.
"...a round-the-world tour in 1867," Ryder was saying.
Mr. Carson nodded vigorously and Thomas could see his eyes sparkling. "It was one of the highlights of His Lordship's life. He mentioned it often. His Lordship," Carson added, "was a member of the household of Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh."
Thomas shook his head at Mr. Carson's tone. Only the Dowager could have spoken of her husband's exploits with more pride.
"Prince Alfred was the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, too, I think," Daniel Ryder mused.
In ordinary circumstances, Mr. Carson might have brushed off a foreign honour as insignificant compared to a British title, but his face brightened at this evidence of Ryder's knowledge. "He was!" he declared. "His Lordship and His Royal Highness were very close. The Prince gave His Lordship - the current one - and Her Ladyship a pair of very fine crystal goblets as a wedding gift, as a mark of his regard for the senior Granthams."
Ryder's murmured response was too indistinct for Thomas's ears, but he could tell the man was impressed by Carson's remarks.
"They only use the goblets on their quinquennial anniversaries," Carson added, "to emphasize the noteworthiness of such occasions."**
Thomas was irked that Daniel Ryder either already knew what quinquennial meant, or was sharp enough not to ask. Thomas had asked and been treated to one of Mr. Carson's condescending explanations.
"The American Ambassador might enjoy seeing them when he's here." Ryder's voice once more came clearly to Thomas. That august visitor was expected at Downton in mid-September and the downstairs staff were already making preparations.
"Why?" Carson looked almost suspicious for a moment and Thomas knew the reason. Mr. Carson had guarded those goblets as carefully as he did Lady Mary's honour.
"Prince Alfred's collection of glass and ceramic ware is one of the most illustrious in the world..."
"Now resident in some castle in Germany," Carson muttered disapprovingly.
"...and Mr. Houghton's family fortunes were made in glass and ceramics - Corning Glass Works," Ryder finished.
Even a faint allusion to the nouveau riche and manufacturing in the same sentence as royalty had once been enough to provoke a scornful reprimand from Mr. Carson. But again he seemed more pleased by the fact of Ryder's knowledge and less concerned about the impropriety of mixing social classes in so many words.
"A very fine idea, Mr. Ryder! I'll mention it to Mr. Barrow. And to His Lordship on Monday."
They chattered on, but Thomas was distracted. Had he ever seen Mr. Carson act like this? Thomas searched his memory. He recalled once walking in on Mr. Carson instructing a young footman - the irritatingly earnest Alfred Nugent - on the identification of various pieces of silverware. Spoons it had been. Thomas had felt slighted, in a way. Mr. Carson had taken to Alfred and encouraged him in his work at Downton Abbey and his pursuit of a career as a chef. Alfred's subsequent success remained a point of pride to the former butler.
Daniel Ryder's voice broke in on him again.
"Mr. Molesley mentioned a cricket match in Ripon on Sunday. Would you like to go, Mr. Carson?"
Thomas heard the delight in Mr. Carson's voice. "I would!" he declared. "I haven't gone to a local match in years!"
Even Thomas knew how much Mr. Carson enjoyed cricket. The annual match between the house and the village had been one of the few points where their interests intersected and where Thomas, as the star player, won the older man's unqualified approval. Life in service did, indeed, make anything but reading about local matches almost impossible. And yet, as before, it struck Thomas that Mr. Carson was as pleased by the invitation itself as by the prospect of an afternoon of cricket.
Thomas retreated across the Great Hall, moving almost without thinking about it toward the servants' stairs. Information was valuable and Thomas had learned a few things in these several minutes, but he could not spend all day lurking outside the door and he wanted to think about what he'd heard. The image of Mr. Carson and Alfred in the dining room returned to his mind, but ... it didn't seem like quite the right fit. There was some other scene to which he'd been privy, something more recent, that better reflected the dynamic between the two men, but he couldn't quite call it to mind.
Well, it would come to him.
As he descended the stairs, Thomas came to a resolution. He did not know what possessed Mr. Carson or why. But he would know Mr. Ryder's secrets.
* A/N1: A guest reviewer inquired about the passage of time thus far in the series, and it seemed like a good idea to indicate this overtly. This chapter and the subsequent one take place on Friday August 27, 1926. It is the longest day of a very long episode, but there were many things that needed to be accomplished before Episode 5.
**A/N2. This information about the goblets and Prince Alfred is something that comes up in Enough of That, Chapter 5 The Butler of Downton Abbey. The details about Prince Alfred, apart from his association with Robert's father and the wedding gift to Robert and Cora, are true. And Alanson Houghton's family fortune is the famous Corning Glass Works.
