DOWNTON ABBEY
Episode 4 Chapter 5 (!)
Still Friday August 26th, 1926
Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson
"Tea?"
It wasn't really a question. Mrs. Patmore stood at the sitting room door laden with a tray, and Mrs. Carson, who hadn't expected this early afternoon diversion, waved her in with pleasure.
"Whatever you're making for dinner smells delicious," the housekeeper said, moving to the small side table where they could sit across from each other.
"It's only him and her tonight. I thought I'd make them something nice," Mrs. Patmore said with a shrug. She ignored the look on her friend's face that was plainly asking what the Crawleys had done to warrant such consideration. Instead, she poured the tea.
"How's Daisy?" Daisy had, of late, become a more interesting topic of conversation than was usually the case.
"Oh, settled down a bit, but she's still determined."
"I'll be sorry to see her go, for your sake," Mrs. Carson said sympathetically. "I think she could make something of herself if she'd only take a reasoned approach and not be flying off the handle all the time."
Mrs. Patmore fixed the housekeeper with a doubtful look. "We can look to see that about the same time we see Mr. Barrow settling down with a nice girl from the village."
Mrs. Carson had rather more faith in Daisy, but decided not to press the issue. "Have you spoken to Mr. Mason about her?"
It was a rational shift in this conversation, but Mrs. Patmore knew it was a loaded question. She took a deep breath. It was this, really, that had brought her to visit the housekeeper. "Well, yes. Of course I have."
"It's given you a reason to see each other," Mrs. Carson went on hopefully.
Mrs. Patmore summoned her not-inconsiderable reserves of courage. "I wanted to talk to you about that." She almost wavered at the eager look that came over her friend.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Yes," Mrs. Patmore said firmly. "I mean ... no, there isn't. There's nothing you can do."
It was an odd response and Mrs. Carson frowned a little. "What do you mean?"
The cook deflated a little. "I know you mean well," she said in a kindly way, as though she were letting Mrs. Carson down easily, "...but it's not on, him and me. Not like you think. Not like you want."
Mrs. Carson cocked her head to one side, still puzzled. "I don't understand."
"Yes, you do." A slightly aggressive note entered into Mrs. Patmore's voice. It was an uncomfortable enough conversation without deliberate misunderstanding. She'd rather hoped to get by with indirect allusions, rather than having to spell it out. "You want us to ... get together."
"I thought that's what you wanted, that you were going that way. And I want you to be happy."
Mrs. Patmore softened again. "I appreciate that. I do."
"It's all right, marriage." That was an understatement. Speaking openly of her relationship with Mr. Carson somewhat discomfited Mrs. Carson. But this was Mrs. Patmore, so she persisted. "I hoped you could be as happy as I am."
And there it was. Mrs. Patmore had eventually discerned the cause of her own unease in her interaction with Mr. Mason and now Mrs. Carson had put it into words. "I couldn't be as happy as you if I were married to Rudolph Valentino - God rest his soul - and living in Buckingham Palace," she said bluntly. "And settling for less isn't what I want."*
"Well, Mr. Carson isn't exactly Rudolph Valentino," Mrs. Carson said, with a tender smile for her husband, "and I'm glad enough about that!"
"You know what I mean."
Mrs. Carson sighed. She did. "There's a lot to be said for not being alone," she said.
The cook nodded. "I know. And I may end up regretting it as I sit alone in my cottage. But...," she hesitated, "...the thing is, I want what you have."
They were both a little embarrassed at that. They both knew that Mrs. Patmore understood more than most exactly what it was the Carsons had. An intimate conversation with Mr. Carson about his understanding and expectations of marriage had made that crystal clear. It had been an uncomfortable exchange, but in the long run what remained with Mrs. Patmore was the former butler's passionate love for the woman who was to become his wife.
"I've seen the way you are, you two," Mrs. Patmore explained. "And for a while, I thought - ridiculously - that that's just how it worked out for everyone. Even though I know differently. But...watching you at dinner the other night...the way you look at each other, and work together, and how you talk to each other, you're not even aware of it... Well. Mr. Mason is a very nice man. And I care about him. But not like that." She said this flatly but firmly. It was the truth.
"Oh, dear. And I wanted to bring you together."
"You can't ... make that happen."
"Well, it took time, in our case," Mrs. Carson said. "Lots of time. As you well know."
Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "It was there with you for a long time. You rattled each other right along. It was service - and your stubbornness and his thick-headedness - that kept you apart as long as it did."
"Well, I don't know about that," Mrs. Carson said critically, trying to ignore those unflattering words. "But I am sorry, Mrs. Patmore."
Their eyes met.
"I am, too," Mrs. Patmore said simply.
Mr. Molelsey and Miss Baxter
They were having a picnic in the shadow of the Temple of Diana on the east lawn, on the far side of the folly so they would be out of sight from the house. It would not do for the family to be gazing out a window at Her Ladyship's maid and the local schoolteacher sprawled there so informally. Miss Baxter was sensitive to this, but she doubted Mr. Molelsey had given a thought to the Crawleys' sensibilities in choosing the spot. It was more that the view looking away from the house was one of his favourites.
Miss Baxter had brought a basket from the Downton kitchen and Mr. Molesley was relishing its contents.
"Mmmmm," he murmured, with obvious delight. "I miss Mrs. Patmore's sandwiches. And cakes. And soups. And eggs and kippers and sausages!"
They both laughed.
"Do you want to come back, then?" Miss Baxter asked, teasing him.
"No. No. I'm all right." He was emphatic on that point. "But it's ... difficult ... learning to cook, at my age. You know, something more than scrambled eggs and toast. At every meal." They smiled at each other again, she sympathetically because she knew he was not being untruthful. "My dad, he's got quite handy in the kitchen. But I haven't cooked for myself most of my life." He paused. "Ever, really."
"What about Mr. Ryder? Does he cook?" It puzzled some downstairs at Downton why Mr. Molesley had taken in boarder, but Miss Baxter had not been at all surprised by the teacher's spontaneous offer of accommodation to the man he had met at the post office. Mr. Molesley had a generous heart. And though he appreciated the liberty of his own dwelling, that he was a little lonely, too. He had never lived alone before.
"No," Mr. Molesley said. "Doesn't need to, does he? He takes breakfast, lunch, and tea at the Abbey every day."
"Does he join you for dinner?"
"Not so far. And ... it's odd, that. I mean, he's only getting a pittance from Mr. Carson. From the research funds, that is. And he's paying for his room at the cottage. Not much, but...still. But he's gone down to the pub every night this week. I can't see how he can keep that up."
Miss Baxter was bemused. "That sounds peculiar." Although she was a lady's maid, which was one of the better paid positions in the house, she could hardly have managed such an extravagance. "Do you like him?"
Mr. Molesley's face lit up, as it did when he was enthusiastic about something. "I do! He's very companionable. He comes back to the cottage at the end of the afternoon, types up his notes for the day, goes off to the pub, and then comes back promptly. We've had some very interesting conversations. He's very easy to talk to."
"I've noticed that. He's very comfortable in the servants' hall." It took something special to set a sensitive soul like Miss Baxter at ease and though she was still a little shy with Daniel Ryder, she was not discomfited by his presence.
"And he gets on well with Mr. Carson. Which is not always easy," Molesley added. "Ever easy," he added. He had never found his footing where Mr. Carson was concerned. Thinking of the formidable former butler of Downton Abbey, reminded Molesley of something else. "Speaking of Mr. Carson, Mrs. Crawl... - I mean - Lady Merton - stopped in yesterday."
This did surprise Miss Baxter. "Stopped in? At your cottage, you mean? What for?"
A serious look descended on Molesley, somewhat out of keeping with his relaxed demeanor of today. "She wants to put on a grand dinner. For some of her new associates, I expect. She's never done it before. Anyhow, she asked me if I would ... act as butler, to help her plan and manage it."
"That's an honour!" Miss Baxter declared.
Molesley only shrugged.
Responding to his mood, Miss Baxter added, "But how could you do it, with school and all?"
"Well, I couldn't," he said. "It's a big undertaking. I don't even think I could do it if I wanted to."
"Oh, I'm sure you could!"
He smiled faintly, pleased at her faith in him. "No," he said. "And I'm not being modest here. This isn't like an informal luncheon. She wants a big formal dinner party, with a dozen guests or more. Only she hasn't got the staff on hand, with only a cook and a maid. That's not enough. Not nearly enough," he added vehemently. "A lot of work goes into a party like that. Mr. Carson, it would be nothing to him. Did you see his article in The Sketch?"
Miss Baxter embraced this abrupt digression. "I did. Her Ladyship gives me her copy of the magazine when she's through with it. I always bring it down to the servants' hall so everyone can enjoy it." She smiled faintly. "I've even seen Mr. Bates leafing through it."
Molesley was diverted in his turn. "Mr. Bates!" he scoffed.
"Mrs. Patmore was annoyed that Mr. Carson only talked about the organization of the dinner, not the food."
They exchanged understanding glances at this. It was very easy to imagine Mrs. Patmore's indignation.
"Well, then, you know what's involved in such a dinner."
"So you said 'no,'" Miss Baxter surmised.
"Ye-e-es," Molesley said cautiously."And I didn't mind doing so."
Miss Baxter frowned. She was highly attuned to Mr. Molesley's temper and she heard in his words a hint of resentment, which was not at all like him. "Is there something else?" It was, perhaps, an impertinent question on her part, but they were growing more closely together and she was becoming less concerned about making personal inquiries. Mr. Molesley's confidence regarding the war and her own confessions about her past had broken a lot of ice between them.
Mr. Molesley did not speak for a moment, seeming to be gathering his thoughts. "I ... worked for Mrs. ... Lady Merton - Mrs. Crawley, as she was then - when she first came to Downton," he began solemnly. "His Lordship hired me to be butler and valet at Crawley House to Mrs. Crawley and her son, Mr. Matthew Crawley. I worked for her for eight years. Then Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary got married and, not right away, but eventually, he realized that he needed a valet, so I went with him."
Miss Baxter knew this story already, but she understood that it was necessary background to the point Mr. Molesley wanted to make, so she listened attentively.
"They all wanted me to and I liked the idea of working at the big house. But then... Mr. Matthew died - killed in a car crash - and suddenly I didn't have a job." He paused and then took a deep breath. It had been a difficult time for him and Miss Baxter appreciated that it took something from him to speak about it.
"They let me stay on at the Abbey, for a while. Six months, actually. It was kind of His Lordship. And of Mr. Carson." There was sincerity in Molesley's words at this. It had been kind of them to let him linger so long. "I applied for positions but nothing came of them. I moved back in with my dad. And I did any work I could find - delivering for Bakewells', mending the roads. It was ... demeaning."
On impulse, Miss Baxter reached out and took his hand in hers. He gave her a quick smile of appreciation.
He swallowed hard. "In desperation, really, I went to Mrs. Crawley and asked if she would consider giving me my old job back. Nothing had changed in her circumstances. She needed a butler neither no more nor less than she had ever done. But..." His voice suddenly hardened in a way that was uncharacteristic of Joe Molesley in Miss Baxter's acquaintance with him, "...she said no. Even though she knew how I was living. And I...well, it was a dark time for me and I think ...," he stumbled a little over these words, bitterness mingled with indignance, "...a woman like her, who likes to help people, ... well, she did nothing for me." His eyes came up suddenly to meet Miss Baxter's. "I'm not saying that she had to. She had no formal obligation. It was her choice. But ... she chose not to help me. And now," he drew himself up rigidly, "I'm choosing, too." He stared at Miss Baxter as though daring her to challenge him.
She was not about to do so. "But...you said yes to Mr. Barrow," she said, puzzled by the apparent incongruity of his responses.
"Oh, that's different," he said immediately. "Acting as a footman for a dinner or two is not much. And Mr. Carson did give me a job. Admittedly as a footman. And ... well," he flushed nervously, "it's at Downton Abbey. There are ... other... Well, I feel I can manage that," he finished hastily.
Miss Baxter smiled at him, encouraged by his discomfort. They said so little directly to each other that they were obliged to rely on more subtle clues.
"It's just that... I feel no obligation to Lady Merton, is all," he added. He lapsed into silence, his eyes shifting toward her and away, as though awaiting her judgment on this.
But Miss Baxter was not inclined to be judgmental and she would have come down in this instance on his side in any case. She believed in loyalty, but also that loyalty was reciprocal. The Crawleys, Lady Grantham in particular, had been very kind to her and thus won her allegiance. But Mr. Molesley's account suggested that there had never been such a bond between him and Lady Merton. He owed her nothing.
"There's something I want to say to you," she said abruptly.
He looked up alertly, sensitive to the almost business-like tone of her words. "Oh?"
She smiled at him in reassurance. "It's about what you told me about the war." He blanched at this, expecting the worst, no doubt, but she pressed on. "I told you I'd help you in any way I can."
He relaxed a little, but shook his head. "I don't think there's much to be done," he said with a sigh.
"But there is," she went on forcefully. "That is, you can't undo the past, no. But you can alleviate your...guilt...by making amends." He was staring at her now, hanging on her words. "I couldn't do that for my ...crime." She still stumbled over the facts of her waywardness. "I'd given away the jewels. I couldn't get them back. And if I worked for a hundred years, I couldn't even pay for them. I could only be punished." A tremor ran through her at the memory of her three years in prison. She tried to shake it off by focusing on Mr. Molesley. "But your...transgression...is different."
"Yes, it is different," he agreed grimly. "I have nothing to give."
Compassion swept her for his grief over this. "Oh, I don't think that's so," she said earnestly. "You have so much to give. It's just not...tangible. Not like jewels." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Think about it. Pray over it. It'll come to you. I know it will."
He studied her for a long moment. "You think I can find redemption," he said cautiously, but with a note of hope.
She smiled at him. "I do, Mr. Molesley."
Charlie and Elsie
For the second Friday running, Elsie was welcomed home at the end of the day by Shep and no one else. Oh, Charlie was in the cottage. As she came through the door she heard his voice and the increasingly familiar tones of Daniel Ryder ringing boisterously from within, this time from the kitchen. Elsie made a bit of a fuss over Shep for his loyalty and then, taking a moment to fortify herself for the encounter, she headed for the kitchen to announce her presence.
Charlie emerged just as she reached the door.
"I was just coming to see where you were," he declared, leaning down to kiss her hello. Then he took her hand and drew her into the kitchen. "We've been making dinner."
She'd assumed as much, but it was still somewhat disconcerting to see evidence of the two men's efforts - meat, vegetables, and dessert even, all ready to go, and some of the washing up already done, cutlery and bowls drying on the sideboard. Daniel Ryder turned to face her and Charlie went to stand beside him, the two of them grinning and clearly pleased as punch with themselves.
"Well. So, you know all about cooking, too, Mr. Ryder," she said, trying to make it sound like a compliment, although the fact of it only added to her uneasiness about him.
"Not a bit, Mrs. Carson," he said modestly and waved toward the man beside him. "Mr. Carson told me what to do, every step of the way. I just did it."
"It was like old times," Charlie said with a sigh, "supervising the staff."
As far as Elsie could see it was hardly 'old times' at all. Both men had discarded their jackets and neither wore ties, and Daniel Ryder's sleeves were rolled up. She had never seen such informality at the Abbey, even in the kitchen. Charlie, she could see, was in a very good mood and Daniel Ryder quite cheerful, too. She felt like the odd one out.
"Let's go into the sitting room," Charlie said abruptly. "Everything in here is ready to go when we want it."
There was a surprise in the sitting room as well. Three cases sat in the middle of the floor. Not recognizing them, Elsie looked up sharply at Mr. Ryder.
"Are you moving in?"
"No," Ryder said affably, slipping by her to move the cases to one side. "I'm quite comfortable at Mr. Molesley's."
"I decided to work on His Lordship's papers here," Charlie explained. "Mr. Spratt was being obstreperous and I didn't see how I would get on. Mr. Ryder helped me bring them by after tea. We used his cases." He glanced at the young man. "I'll empty them this evening and return them to you."
"There's no hurry, Mr. Carson. I'm not going anywhere."
He said that with such finality, Elsie thought.
"Would you like to join us for supper? There's certainly enough." An innate politeness obliged Elsie to make the offer. Moving the papers might be construed as part of his work, but making dinner wasn't. But she hoped he would decline.
He did. "Thank you, no," he said. "I'd like to type up my notes while I can still read them." Turning to Charlie, he added, "I'll bring round the work's week on Sunday."
"Sunday?"
The two of them looked her way.
"We're going to a cricket match in Ripon," Charlie replied, his manner a little subdued, perhaps realizing that he might have talked it over with her first. "Mr. Ryder saw a notice in the paper this morning and asked if I'd like to go along."
And of course he wanted to. Over the years the butler of Downton Abbey had dropped few clues about those things in which he took personal pleasure, but everyone knew he had strong feelings about cricket.
"You'll enjoy yourself," Elsie said generously. However odd it might be that Daniel Ryder should issue such an invitation, she would not deny her dear husband that pleasure.
"Would you like to join us, Mrs. Carson?"
She gave Mr. Ryder a smile for that. "No. Thank you. I'm not a devotee of the game."
He took his leave then, waving off Charlie's impulse to see him to the door.
"What is it?"
Elsie looked up to see her husband staring at her and realized she'd been staring after Daniel Ryder. "Nothing," she said, brushing off his concern and holding out a hand to him. He came to her, slipping his arms around her and holding her close. She rested her head on his broad chest and listened to the rhythmic beating of his great heart. And thought that Daniel Ryder's casual exit suggested that he was very comfortable in their home.
Elsie went up to change and Charlie put the supper on and soon they were enjoying quite a nice meal with one of Elsie's favourite wines. It was one of their extravagances and it allowed Charlie to keep his hand in a bit.
"So what did you talk to Mr. Ryder about today?" Elsie asked, thinking that she was going to hear all about it anyway and might as well try to be interested.
They'd talked about everything, it seemed. She heard all about Prince Alfred, the crystal goblets and the American Ambassador. "I mentioned it straightaway to Mr. Barrow. He responded indifferently." And about how much work Mr. Ryder was getting done. "He's compiling three different timelines - one for the family, one of Yorkshire history, and one on a national scale. The story I'm going to tell is going to move between these levels, depending on the involvement of the family at different times. Once I get going with the letters and diaries, he'll type up my notes, as well as his own." And there was, of course, more about Mr. Ryder himself. "He spent four years in Palestine, Elsie. In the Holy Land! He's been to the Church of the Nativity! He was with General Allenby's forces when they entered Jerusalem! He's walked the Via Dolorosa!"
"I can't imagine it," Elsie said softly, almost as impressed as Charlie was at the thought of being so near to someone who had seen such wonders. Elsie didn't have many regrets about her life, but among these was her geographical limitations. Charlie didn't care about foreign parts, but he'd at least been to France. She'd travelled only as far as London and hadn't even seen much of that. But even as she recalled the few photographic images she'd come across of Palestine, she felt once more that niggling sense of concern about Mr. Ryder. Why would a man like that come here? She decided to shift the conversation.
"Tell me about Mr. Spratt," she said.
The glow that enveloped Charlie when he spoke of Daniel Ryder dissipated immediately. "Him," he said contemptuously, and a scowl took form on his face. "I spent the first few days this week in the attics of the Dower House, opening boxes and trunks, just finding all the family papers. No one has ever looked at them," he added. "Her Ladyship the Dowager has not had need for them. I was prepared to start reading yesterday afternoon but I'm not about to do that in the attics, with the dust and the dimness and some evidence of mice."
"Well, the place is big enough," Elsie remarked. "Finding you a brightly-lit corner ought not to be such a difficult proposition."
"You would think so," Charlie agreed. "But Mr. Spratt is not happy with my presence there. So first he suggested servants' hall - with Miss Denker lurking about! And then a crevice off the kitchen. I indicated that he would have to do better, and he found another couple of nooks, but nothing suited, and I began to wonder if I wouldn't just be better off here where I don't have to answer to some self-important servant."
Elsie's mouth twisted a little as she tried to stifle a laugh at that. As the butler of Downton Abbey, her Mr. Carson had always operated with dignity and honour, but she could well imagine that there were at least a few people out there somewhere who would characterize him in the same terms as he had just done Mr. Spratt.
He knew that expression well enough and frowned at her. "I entered that closet he calls a butler's pantry this morning and he snapped at me!" he said indignantly. "Interrupting his work, he said. When all he was doing was reading letters and not, I might add, letters to do with the management of the Dower House."
"How do you know that?"
"Because one of them began Dear Aunt Agatha," he replied sarcastically. "It was for that...foolishness he spouts for the magazine."
Well! This was gossip worth knowing! "So it is him, then?"
"Yes," Charlie said grudgingly. "I overheard the Dowager mentioning it to Miss Denker." His indignation was building to new heights. "I cannot believe Mr. Spratt burdening Her Ladyship with such nonsense!"
"Perhaps he didn't," Elsie said pertly, her eyes twinkling at him. "Perhaps the Dowager overheard him telling someone. I must say I'm a little taken aback that you, of all people, are reading other people's correspondence and eavesdropping on conversations!"
She was teasing him and he did know it, but his mouth tightened into a straight line of suppressed exasperation. "The letter was in plain view and there isn't much room in his ... pantry," he said acidly. "I'm not the one who listens at keyholes," he added tightly, giving her a knowing look.
She only smiled at him. "Apparently you are."
"May we move on?"
"So you've brought all the Granthams' papers over here to clutter up our cottage, instead."
"Elsie."
"I don't mind," she said, easing off on him. He was the most meticulously tidy person she knew. "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable here than with Mr. Spratt looking over your shoulder all the time. Or you looking over his." Before he could react, she reached for his plate and began to clear the table. "Why don't we take the rest of this bottle into the sitting room and forget about Mr. Spratt and the Crawleys for a little while?"
There was a time when he would have been unable wholly to purge the family from his mind, but happily those days were gone. He got up to help her and, what with pausing to exchange small kisses between trips to the table, it took twice as long to get everything sorted.
"How are you feeling this evening?" he murmured, sliding his arms around her as she filled the sink to soak the pots.
She knew exactly what he meant. "Quite well, thank you," she said brightly, tilting her head to allow him to nuzzle her neck. "Dividing the work has made a difference."
"Mmmm. Madge is working out then." His arms tightened about her. "She seems rather young to take on that job," he added in a distracted voice, not paying complete attention even to himself.
Elsie glanced at him. "No more than we were."
He sighed a little. "That seems a hundred years ago."
Now she turned around within his embrace that she might bask in the warmth of his loving gaze. "Maybe I should be asking how you're feeling this evening."
He answered her with a long probing kiss. They left the wine on the table and skipped the sitting room altogether.
For once he didn't fall asleep right after and so they lay quietly together, her fingertips tracing the fine line of his collarbone and he running his hand through her hair. They took great pleasure in such innocent but intimate gestures. The formality of their long life together at Downton made all liberties dear. Elsie was thinking they ought, perhaps, to retire earlier more often if it led such a satisfying denouement. This was how it should always be.
"Do you believe in love at first sight?"
She stirred at the sound of his voice. "What?"
He repeated the question.
It took a moment to focus her thoughts. "I suppose I believe that there is sometimes an immediate attraction to another person. And that the realization of that can be quite exciting, exhilarating even." As she spoke she flattened her hand against his chest and rubbed it over the tantalizing curve of his shoulder and wondered why it had taken her quite so long to realize just how attractive he was. "But I don't think love, real love, is something that happens in a flash," she added, her prosaic nature asserting itself. "Real love has a more substantial foundation and takes time to grow." As they had ample evidence.
He squirmed a little. "So it's never happened to you, then."
She tilted her face up to his, although she could not discern his features in the darkness. "You know it hasn't." Why he was thinking of this, and now, she could not say.
"Me either," he said flatly and then lapsed into silence once more. His arms tightened about her and she tucked her head beneath his chin and smiled against him as the warmth of his body radiated through her. After a while his even breathing told her that he had drifted off into the slumber of the contented. She wished she could fall asleep with such ease.
Love at first sight. He said he had never experienced it. But he had. Those were the very words he always used to describe how his relationship with Lady Mary had begun. And they went a long way to explaining his steadfast devotion to that young woman who, in so many ways, stood at odds with his personality and his principles.
And as she turned it over in her mind, it occurred to her that his question might not have come so out of the blue as it seemed. And that it might, too, make sense out of the oddly buoyant air that had enveloped him all week.
Thomas in the Night
It had been a while since he'd felt the need for a late-night walk, but this night Thomas was impatient to put the Abbey behind him and to immerse himself in his own thoughts. The letter had been burning a hole in his breast pocket since he'd first seen it in the afternoon post. One of the advantages of being butler, one of many, was the responsibility for distributing the mail. For someone as inquisitive about the doings of all those around him as Thomas was, this was a great boon, for it gave him knowledge of who was corresponding with whom. At the same time, it ensured that his own communications remained private.
As he had been sorting the mail earlier, the sight of the German stamp on an envelope addressed to him made his heart skip a beat. He turned it over quickly and yes, there it was, Erich Miller and a return address. Berlin. And then he had to put it away because there was no time to look at it then. He'd tucked it into an inner pocket and then struggled for the rest of the afternoon and all evening to contain his excitement. He said he'd write. But Thomas had known other men to make promises and then let them fall by the wayside.
Finally, when dinner was over and he could withdraw to the butler's pantry with some expectation of solitude, he'd opened the letter.
Lieber Thomas ...
He could hear Erich's voice as his eyes moved over the script, with his distinct pronunciation of Thomas's name.
Thomas wasn't much of a correspondent. There were a few people with whom he exchanged news every once in a while, but his notes rarely filled a page. Erich had written two. He revealed his purpose at the very beginning, extending to Thomas the promised invitation to visit Berlin - Think of October - offering accommodations and friendship. Friendship. Thomas smiled at that. The bulk of the letter detailed the hospitality that Thomas might expect to find in the open city, much of it only what Erich had already said about Berlin. He read it through three times, his eyes shifting distractedly to the specific words of invitation. And then he folded it up carefully, returned it to its envelope, tucked it into his pocket, and left the Abbey. It was a warm night, but the heat Thomas felt under his collar had little to do with the weather. He needed to walk it off.
And to corral his disappointment. Because it was a fantasy, as it had been when Erich first mentioned it. Thomas Barrow was the butler of Downton Abbey and the butler didn't pack his bags and leave the family to fend for themselves for a week or two. Had Mr. Carson ever even taken a holiday? Well, there was the honeymoon. But that was the point, wasn't it? If there was some dire family emergency - the Crawleys wouldn't begrudge a butler a deathbed vigil - or some extraordinary domestic (and socially sanctioned) event such as a marriage, it would be possible. A foray to the continent for a good time hardly fit that category. Thomas felt the bile of bitterness in his throat. His need for the adventure Erich was offering was no less imperative, to his mind, than honeymoon solitude was for the Carsons, but no one else would see it as legitimate. As was always the case, Thomas's life fell outside the "norm" and nothing in it either acknowledged or accommodated by society.
He put a hand in his pocket and came out with his cigarettes. His hands were almost shaking with frustration as he lit it. Incidentally he noticed that his feet had taken him, not to the cottages in the lane where the blissfully wed slumbered in peace, but to the village, with its darkened streets. They did not have street lamps in Downton Village. There was no crime of note here and few self-respecting residents were given to nocturnal strolls. One could enjoy the peace of silence at this hour. Or be overcome with a profound sense of loneliness.
Even alone on the narrow village streets, Thomas walked softly, the cobblestones abetting his cat-like tread. As always he remained alert, even in his distraction, because it was in his nature always to be vigilant. And so he heard the telltale indications of another's presence as soon as there was something to be heard. Heavy breathing, a shuffling step. Thomas's eyes, by this time well-accustomed to the darkness of the night, darted about him, seeking out the source. His own body tensed as he searched, not out of concern for himself, but because the sounds signified distress. And then he saw the figure, halted by the corner of the milliner's shop, one hand clutching at the stone wall for support.
"Bloody hell!" Thomas swore, rushing forward.
Dr. Clarkson, swaying where he stood, fell against the younger man. Thomas recoiled from the stench of alcohol that enveloped him. It struck him physically, with his nose wrinkling as he inhaled a whisky-scented fire. The man's disheveled state, visible in the muted light of a shadowed moon, struck Thomas almost as viscerally as the fumes, for the doctor was always a model of sartorial perfection. Though taken by surprise, the butler did not hesitate to act. Glancing about vigilantly, hoping that no one else was feeling restless, Thomas slipped an arm around the doctor to hold him steady.
"Let's just get you home, shall we?" he said, his voice quiet and cajoling. He was grateful when the doctor relaxed against him.
As they walked - stumbled - down the deserted street together, Thomas's mind stirred with a myriad of thoughts. How fortunate it was that he'd felt the need for a brisk walk tonight! The doctor's stellar reputation in the village would be tarnished, possibly beyond repair, if the wrong person had found him. If anyone else had found him. Was this the first time Clarkson had gotten into such a state? Thomas was shocked. Dissipation was an occupational hazard of butlers, with their ready access to wine cellars and the enforced social solitude of their lives. But a doctor? The doctor had always struck Thomas as such a steady fellow.
No. Wait. Frankly, the doctor had never struck him in any way at all. He was just there. He was always there. Married to his work, devoted to his patients. And nothing else.
This revelation of his indifference to Clarkson prompted a momentary introspection. Thomas knew well enough from his own experience that work was not the be-all-and-end-all, that everyone needed and sought meaning in their lives in terms of emotional satisfaction. Even Mr. Carson, to Thomas's ongoing irritation. And where was Dr. Clarkson to find his solace?
"At least you're a quiet drunk," Thomas murmured, as he unlatched the doctor's door and dragged him into the passage.**
END OF EPISODE 4
*A/N1. Rudolph Valentino had just died, on August 15, 1926. He was thirty-one.
**AN2. Blasphemy, perhaps. But Dr. Clarkson was in need of a story and there is a point to this. More to come...
