DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
EPISODE 5. Chapter 6. Sunday September 12, 1926
Thomas and the Cambridge Men
On Sunday morning while the family were at church, Thomas was examining the dining room table setting and pondering the dimensions of Mr. Carson's loyalty to the family. Thomas understood, of course, the professional obligation of discretion that came with the position of butler and was himself committed to it. But, as the example of Lord Sinderby's butler Mr. Stowell had shown at Brancaster Castle, the butler was privy to the deepest confidences and it was apparent that the relationship between master and servant in that instance was not even a close one, not like Mr. Carson's intimacy with the Crawleys. He must know so much, Thomas mused. Pity none of it will appear in his book. No doubt the thing would end up a paean of praise to the Granthams and be deadly dull to read.
Despite himself, Thomas was impressed by the layout in the dining room. Everything was perfectly arranged. Lewis's work, no doubt. Thomas had not had to adjust a single thing. Although this meant less aggravation, Lewis's exactness was just a little disturbing. Didn't the man have anything else on his mind other than his duties?
Finished in the dining room, Thomas headed for the stairs but was arrested in his course by the sight of Daniel Ryder crossing the Great Hall. This was irregular. The man came to Downton only on week days. More to the point, with a distinguished guest in residence, Ryder ought to have known that his presence here was inappropriate. Thomas was about to call out to him, when another's voice pre-empted him.
"Good Lord! What are you doing here?"
On the great staircase, stopped in his own tracks by the surprising sight of Daniel Ryder, stood Tim Grey. Evidently he had not felt the need to accompany the ambassador to church.
Ryder froze for a moment until his eyes found the source of the question and then his frame melted into a semblance Thomas would have described as wary. "Grey." His voice was amiable enough. "What are you doing here?"
Tim Grey resumed his descent and then crossed the floor to where the other man stood. Barrow slid into a shadow and waited.
"I'm serving as liaison to the American Ambassador, Mr. Houghton, who is visiting the Granthams. I was...unaware...that you were also a guest this weekend." There was a question in Grey's remark.
Ryder could not ignore it. "I'm not a guest. I live here. In the village, at least. I'm writing a history of the Crawley family."
Tim Grey's eyebrows climbed in astonishment, but no more so than did Barrow's. Ryder had conveniently left off the fact that he was working for the man who was writing the family history. Even the varnished version of his story left Tim Grey unimpressed.
"Bit of a come down," he said, somewhat contemptuously.
Ryder declined to be baited. "I enjoy historical research," he said pleasantly.
Grey's brow furrowed in thought. "Yes. You were reading history at Cambridge, weren't you. Before the incident," he added, in a tone thick with meaning. "Class of 1914 you would have been. With me. Pity." There was no sincerity in his sympathy.
"You finished then," Ryder said, shrugging off the other's disdain.
"Of course."
"But ... didn't serve, I believe."
Ah! thought Thomas. The barbs are not all on one side.
"No, not me, old chap," Grey said airily. "I heard that you did. Palestine, wasn't it? Well, that removed you from scrutiny."
"Four years. We had a time of it," Ryder responded, his voice just a little cooler
Tim Grey really wasn't interested in that line of conversation. "You were in the Colonial Office after. Driven from there by another ... incident, as I recall. That business with Viscount Hambly. And you've come to Yorkshire to lick those wounds, I suppose."
"That was nothing to do with me!" Ryder snapped.
Grey was unmoved by the other's indignance. "And yet you are here. Well, you know how it is in public service," he said dismissively. "The wildest stories circulate. Best of luck with your...work, Ryder. Now, I must get on." He brushed by and headed for the main door.
Thomas remained still, watching Daniel Ryder clenching and unclenching his fists until at last he turned on his heel and strode to the green baize door, disappearing into the stairwell behind it, perhaps from whence he had come. Whatever had brought him to Downton this morning it was forgotten now.
Thomas moved after him slowly. It would do no good to follow hard on Ryder's heels. And he wanted to think.
Tim Grey's contempt for war service rankled him. He was contemptuous of all men who failed to serve. He hadn't an ounce of sympathy for the cowards or the shirkers. Nobody wanted to go to war, not many anyway. He certainly hadn't. The patriotic types were all fools or nuts. The rest just grimly did their duty. Those who failed to do so were, in Thomas's eyes, reprehensible, especially those who slipped through the net because of who they were. For the first time in their acquaintance, Thomas found himself on Daniel Ryder's side. Four years in Palestine. It wasn't the Western Front, to be sure, but you didn't get to pick your theatre in wartime. At least he had fought.
As he made his way down the stairs, Thomas considered what else he had learned. Ryder had left Cambridge and the Colonial Office after incidents, whatever that meant. And he had left before graduating, before the war broke out. And something about Viscount Hambly.
Well. He grinned to himself. The inscrutable Mr. Ryder was becoming less opaque. Thomas now had a name, a clue.
Robert and the Ambassador
On Sunday, Robert and his guest went for a long early morning ride. Robert had grown up in the saddle; his father rode every day of his life at Downton. As the Earl of Grantham in his own right, Robert still participated with enthusiasm in riding sports, especially the hunt, and he had ensured that all his daughters had learned to ride and was especially proud that Mary had embraced the hunt. But overall he preferred to walk the estate where his father had always ridden it. The morning's ride was, therefore, a change of pace for him. He enjoyed the invigorating exercise. But most of all he loved seeing the estate. Robert loved Downton in every season, but he loved it best in the moment and so gloried in the fact that Houghton might see it in this early autumn splendour.
The church service followed and it seemed to Robert that all went particularly well there. The service was well attended, perhaps that the locals might catch a glimpse of this celebrity in their midst. The church itself reverberated with the joyful voices of the congregation in song and even Travis stirred himself, offering an uplifting sermon that didn't go on for too long. Robert was pleased that Mary and Henry had joined them and brought George along. Mary was the sluggish one there. Henry had greater commitment and sang with gusto, too.
Henry joined the other two men on their pilgrimage to the war memorial while the women went ahead to the house. They stood in silence for two minutes before the cenotaph. Around them, at a distance, villagers passing on their way from church paused as well.
Then Robert moved forward. He touched one of the names carved into the stone. "Edwin Poskitt," he said. "The blacksmith's second son. He died at Mons in 1914." His fingers feathered over the surface. "The Blacks - Walter, Oliver. Their bones are scattered somewhere in Flanders. The remains of neither identified, as if losing them wasn't enough of a trial for their parents. Robert Kearns died of wounds suffered on the Somme. He's buried in the churchyard here. Jack Carter fell at Cambrai in October, 1918. I don't know how, but it almost seems worse when the end was so near." He lingered by the monument.
"You knew them well," Houghton murmured.
Robert shrugged. "They were the young men of Downton."
Lunch followed, and then the men headed out on their own again, with Tom joining the other three, to Robert's delight, for the afternoon shooting party. It wasn't Houghton's first attempt at grouse, but he wasn't as skilled as the Downton group. That it was an effort for him made every successful shot an occasion for celebration. They all enjoyed themselves.
At the end of the afternoon Robert arranged with the beaters for most of the birds to be distributed in the village, as was usually the case, and then the party turned for home. Tom and Henry marched ahead, boasting playfully to each other of their prowess, while the older men brought up the rear.
"What a wonderful life this is, Lord Grantham!" Houghton declared, inhaling deeply and pausing to drink in the beauty of Downton's fields and hills, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Robert agreed, though he felt obliged to offer a caveat. "Of course we don't have the St Leger or shooting every weekend," he cautioned.
"But you have a stake in things," Houghton went on. "Maintaining a balance, pushing forward in manageable increments, honouring the past while embracing the future. The English have much to contribute beyond their national borders."
Robert politely forbore to point out that the English already contributed so much to the world. But the ambassador's words were otherwise music to his ears. He forgot that he was frequently accused by his wife, his daughters, his American mother-in-law, and some of his radical peers in the House of Lords of being too committed to the status quo and too fond of the past, and readily embraced this characterization of himself as a progressive moderate.
"I only wish more men in your Foreign Office shared your outlook."
Houghton's remark brought Robert back down to earth. "I'm sorry?"
"There are some very entrenched views among those who guide your foreign affairs. There are the Germanophiles and the Francophiles, the Russophobes and the ... well, there are anti-American opinions as well. It is particularly difficult to navigate with those who fear Germany," Houghton added with a careful glance at Robert.
"We've arguments enough about that at my own dinner table," Robert said.
"But you think differently."
They had stopped and were now standing face to face. Robert paused thoughtfully.
"I think the future peace of Europe is more likely to be secured through cooperation over confrontation. We must somehow bridge the gap between the Germans on the one side and us and the French on the other. As for the Bolsheviks...well, a common front in Europe is the best safeguard there."
"Your daughter called you a peacemaker."
Robert smiled. "Within the small world of Downton, perhaps."
Houghton grew more earnest. "I've been watching you this weekend," he said unexpectedly. "On a personal level you have navigated successfully the Anglo-Irish antagonism. At every moment that a black cloud threatened to descend on the conversation you turned it deftly into calmer climes with understanding and good humour."
Robert said nothing though he was pleasantly surprised by the ambassador's praise.
"May I ... call upon you from time to time to participate in social occasions where I think your talent for calming the waters may serve all sides?"
This request set Robert back. "I'm no diplomat," he protested.
"No. But you are not undiplomatic. And I'm not asking you to serve against the interests of your country, Lord Grantham, but in its favour. For it. By doing on a larger stage what you do so well at the local level and at your own table - finding pathways to bring people together, intersections of interests. We are all of us, the world of nations, capable of expressing clearly our own positions. What we need are more means to bridge our differences. I think you have a talent there."
The idea was a stunning one. Robert's world had always been that of Downton Abbey and the county. Even in the House of Lords he had served only as a representative of local interests, never seeking a broader stage. Modesty and a realistic understanding of both his abilities and his ambitions had made it so. And yet...was this not perhaps what Shrimpy, who knew him well, had anticipated in arranging this association?
"May I give this some consideration?" he asked.
The ambassador agreed readily.
Of course, Robert thought, he would have to talk it over with Cora.
Cora. Thoughts of his wife distracted him. There was something off there this weekend that he had not yet had time to explore. Tonight.
Dinner at Cavenham
As the Crawleys were sitting down to a more intimate and less formal dinner at Downton, the Mertons were arriving at Cavenham.
Cavenham was the ancestral home of Lord Merton though the current titular lord, Dickie, now lived elsewhere. The romance that had sprung up between Lord Merton and Mrs. Reginald Crawley - Dickie and Isobel - had divided his family. The sons violently disapproved of their father marrying a member of the middle classes. It was possible that they would have objected to any woman who caught their father's favour, but they had chosen to make their stand on class difference. If there was a silver living, at least for Larry, it was that his father abdicated his rights to Cavenham, making the son lord of the manor in all but title.
Dickie and Isobel saw Larry and his wife Amelia but rarely. Tim, whose work in the diplomatic kept him in London or sent him abroad, had not been back to Yorkshire since before his father's marriage. It was thus a surprise - and not a very welcome one - for the happy couple to be invited to dinner at Cavenham. It was an awkward affair.
Isobel had a naturally effervescent personality and was, in addition, determined not to be defeated by the Grey boys, singly or in combination. But even she admitted that they put up a good fight. She tried to circumvent the obvious pitfalls by focusing on universally accepted subjects, opening with inquiries about Larry and Amelia's son Edgar. This was not quite as neutral as one might hope for Edgar had been named for his maternal grandfather and though he had four middle names, they did not include that of his father's father.
Larry and Amelia were quite prepared to extol the virtues of their remarkable son and to lay out, in exacting detail, their plans for every moment of his life from birth to marriage, and possibly beyond. Though tedious to the listeners, this litany did eat up time and keep the conversation civil.
"Did I tell you," Tim broke in, taking advantage of a moment when the happy parents paused simultaneously to chew, "that Branson is sending his daughter to the village school?"
Isobel and Dickie exchanged long-suffering glances at this as the predictable expressions of class disgust and horror descended on Larry and Amelia.
"Good Lord!" Larry exclaimed. "Sybil Crawley's child in the village school? Have the Crawleys no shame?!"
"That's abominable," Amelia added scornfully. "Though perhaps the chauffeur can't afford a governess. You would think that the Crawleys might have intervened."
"He's selling used cars now," Tim continued, pleased to have an abundance of shocking tales to tell about Tom Branson. "And Mary's husband..."
"Henry," Isobel supplied.
"Talbot...is in partnership with him."
"Yes," Larry mused. "I've seen their shop in York." They all laughed heartily at this.
"Tom Branson is determined to raise his daughter to live in the world of the future, not the past," Isobel declared. She would have defended anyone against the Greys, but she spoke up automatically for Tom.
"It is hardly surprising to find middle-class support for that approach," Larry said to Tim, without looking at Isobel and ignoring his father's irritated growl.
"The Downton school is even less distinguished than its peers," Tim went on. "Did I understand correctly from dinner the other night that your former butler is teaching there now?" He looked to Isobel with these words, but as usual declined to address her by name.
"Molesley is a teacher at the school," she conceded. "But he's well qualified for the position."
Tim and Larry only smirked at each other.
"What was this former butler, now schoolteacher, doing at Downton on Friday night?" Amelia inquired. "Surely he was not at table with you!"
"He was serving," Tim told her.
This caught Larry's attention and now he turned to Isobel as well. "Well, if he'll do odd jobs at Downton, perhaps he could manage a dinner party or two for you. There is nothing...," he paused while the long-standing butler at Cavenham re-filled his wine glass, "...so necessary to a successful dinner as a good butler."
Larry's remark stung Isobel more than he could imagine. She had of late been giving much thought to how she and Dickie might fulfil their societal obligations and thus far been frustrated in her efforts to secure assistance. Molesley was the obvious candidate, but he had declined. Fair enough. The man had moved on. But seeing him in a footman's livery at Downton had startled her. Why had he agreed to serve there? And Violet's remark at the table about loyalty had festered, too. Molesley had worked for her twice as long as he had served the Crawleys. Why was the bond of loyalty apparently so much stronger there? It was perhaps her sensitivity on this whole question which spurred her to a spontaneous rejoinder to Larry's barb.
"Oh, Molesley won't be serving at our dinner party," she said, her eyes going round as they did when she was making a pronouncement.
"I beg your pardon. Your dinner party?" Larry was surprised.
"Oh, haven't I mentioned it?" Isobel went on, blithely wading in ever more deeply. "On October 23rd." She pulled the date out of nowhere after a rapid calculation in her head. A Friday night - yes, the 23rd!
There was a long moment of silence in which everyone stared at her. This was a fortunate circumstance for otherwise the stunned look on Dickie's face might have been noticed by someone other than Isobel. She blinked at him and his slack jaw firmed up once more.
"I say," Larry drawled, recovering the power of speech. "Well. Won't that be something to which we can all look forward."
"Life at Downton is full of surprises," Tim put in, covering his own astonishment with a diversion. "When I came down this morning, who do you think I should see in the Great Hall but Daniel Ryder. You remember him," he prompted his brother. "We were all up at Cambridge together."
Larry turned slowly his way. Amelia looked befuddled. Dickie shot a quizzical look at Isobel. He did not know the name. She shrugged.
Tim shook his head at his brother. "Ryder. He left after our second year because of that misunderstanding..." He reminded his brother in detail. It was clear that Tim enjoyed recounting the circumstances that had befallen their acquaintance so many years ago.
Larry laughed. Amelia was amused. Isobel and Dickie remained unmoved. Neither were in the habit of enjoying the misfortunes of others.
"But what was he doing at Downton?" Larry demanded. "Is he a friend of Mary's? Or Henry's?"
"Not at all," Tim replied. "Apparently he's writing the family history."
"Oh!" Isobel understood now. "That's the fellow who's working with Carson," she said promptly.
The three younger people stared at her.
"Carson?" Larry arched an eyebrow and glanced at his brother. "Isn't he the old butler? We seem to have a lot of conversation about butlers tonight. What does he have to do with this?"
"He's..." Isobel hesitated, realizing that she had said more than she ought to have done. She did not know this Daniel Ryder, but if the Greys were united against him then she was, by default, on his side. She would do him no service by clarifying the situation, but she had already betrayed him. "The Dowager Lady Grantham has commissioned Carson to write the history of the Crawleys. Mr. Ryder is ... an associate ... in that enterprise," she finished lamely.
The brothers were grinning.
"He's working for the butler?" Tim gasped gleefully.
"My goodness," Larry said, with mock horror.
Dickie gave his wife a sympathetic look. He could see how she had fallen inadvertently into that mess and thus exposed a man they did not even know. Dickie leaned back and sighed. Associating with his sons was such a distasteful experience.
Isobel and Dickie
Ever since their marriage, Dickie had ceased to apologize to Isobel for his sons. The fault line lay between the generations, not the bloodlines, and Dickie was firmly in Isobel's camp. A transgression by either Larry or Tim or, indeed, the equally obnoxious Amelia, was understood to be an insult to them both. They had escaped this evening relatively unscathed only because Larry and Tim had identified other prey. But it had been an exhausting proposition nevertheless that sent them immediately to bed on their return to Grantham House.
Isobel and Dickie enjoyed a very relaxed and satisfying intimate life, the foundation of which was a deeply passionate love that was completely mutual. Isobel was the love of Dickie's life, his first marriage having been a rather cold affair. A very great part of the endless delight he took in Isobel's company was the direct result of the fact that he simply adored her.
Isobel had come to the marriage having loved before. Her union with Reginald Crawley had been a loving one, deeply rooted in admiration and affection, augmented by the great gift of their son, Matthew. Isobel had mourned Reginald, but she would not let his memory define the rest of her life. She was in this as relentless as in other aspects of her life. She would never deny the past, but she would not be bound by it. Isobel was also blessed with an independence of spirit that widowhood only enhanced. It was this characteristic that had led her to reject potential suitors over the years. She was attractive. Men were drawn to her. She turned them away. Dickie Merton changed her mind.
There was so much about the external structure of his life - the peerage, the estate, the social responsibilities, and the deadening weight of history - that ought to have made "his kind" anathema to her. But Dickie had dismissed these burdens with an effortless shrug of his slender shoulders. He showed himself willing and able to flout the conventions of his world on his own account, not to impress her. And he knew how to woo a woman, for all that he'd not had much romance in his life. Isobel was charmed.
They fell into married life together easily, the day-to-day intimacy of sharing the same living space giving way naturally to the physical intimacy that came to them as bed partners. Dickie had never spent a night complete in the bed of his first wife. He and Isobel had never spent a night apart.
They had no attendants - no valet or lady's maid - to impose a formality on their bedtime rituals. Isobel had never had one. Dickie's man had taken the opportunity of his master's marriage to retire. Instead husband and wife helped each other with buttons and cufflinks and collars and clasps, caressing and kissing as they did so, which sometimes made them late for their engagements. At the other end of the day, when they were free to indulge themselves, this often led to very pleasant diversions.
"Were you serious about dinner, then?" Dickie asked, holding his arms very still that Isobel might unpin his cufflinks. "Our dinner, I mean. On the 23rd of next month? Goodness, but you took me by surprise with that one."
Isobel gave a half-shrug, somewhat resigned. "I let Larry rattle me," she admitted. But then she straightened and looked Dickie in the eye. "But ... yes, I am serious."
"Have we solved the servant problem, then?" He wondered if he had somehow missed this important information, though he could not imagine having done so for he listened carefully to everything Isobel said. "The butler problem, I should say," he amended himself. As Isobel had reported her conversation with Violet, the butler had seemed the critical element.
"In a manner of speaking," Isobel replied. She clutched his hands in hers and stared into his very loving gaze. "We have Carson's article, after all. And who knows better than Carson? I've read it and it doesn't seem insurmountable. We are, after all, two very intelligent and capable people."
"Are you suggesting...?" Dickie began cautiously.
"That we do it ourselves!" Isobel finished triumphantly. She spoke with enthusiasm. She'd gotten them in it now, so she must make the best of it. "Of course, we will have to hire servants to do the actual work on the day. But there's no reason we can't manage the organizational aspects. Mrs. Cullen will cook. We don't ask much of her on a daily basis, but she's capable of grander things. Ellen will pitch in. And despite what Cousin Violet said, I am going to ask Carson's advice. We'll keep it small and build our confidence. What do you think?"
Isobel asked that as though she truly expected a considered response.
But Dickie was well beyond that with her. His eyes grew owlish in eager anticipation, his own energy and enthusiasm building to meet hers.
"I'm in!" he declared. And then he tightened his own grip on her hands. "You are remarkable," he said, his voice half-awe, half-exultation. He shook his head as though finding it difficult to believe that the vision before his eyes was indeed a flesh and blood woman and his wife.
Isobel laughed with delight. "You are deluded!" she countered, and that had them both giggling.
Dickie was almost always ready for bed before Isobel, but he waited for her, standing patiently beside the bed and only climbing in when she was ready to do so. She thought this a gesture of archaic chivalry, but loved that he did it. Sitting at her dressing table, brushing out her hair, she caught his eye in the mirror.
"That was an unkind story Tim told about the young man at Cambridge," she said.
Dickie cast his mind back. "Ryder. Yes, indeed."
"Imagine his turning up here to work on the Crawley history with Carson."
"Mmm." Dickie thought about it for a moment. "Do you think Carson knows his story?"
Isobel dropped her brush in her lap and gave her husband a wide-eyed look of incredulity. "Of course not!"
"Ought we to tell him?" Dickie ventured.
"I don't see why we should," she said firmly. "It's none of our business." She paused. "Or Carson's."
These distracting thoughts quickly fled Isobel's mind. She slipped out of her dressing gown and then beneath the sheet held aloft by her dear husband. In another moment she was wrapped blissfully in his warm embrace.
Cora and Robert
Cora had not enjoyed the weekend. Getting into bed on Sunday night, as Baxter slipped unobtrusively from the room with the discarded evening dress on her arm, Cora felt only relief that Mr. Houghton and, with him, the odious Tim Grey would be leaving on the early morning train. She thought she might not join them for breakfast. It had been nothing like that weekend that Henry's friend from Germany had visited with the reprehensible Herr von Ribbentrop in tow, but for Cora it was only a matter of degree.
In contrast Robert, she knew, had had a wonderful three days. Despite a wariness of Americans in general - with notable exceptions - he had taken warmly to the ambassador. It didn't hurt that Robert's carefully-laid plans had all gone off like clockwork. Cora was glad for him. Much more than she, he missed the 'old days.' And while these quiet few days had not been quite the grand event Robert might conjure from his youth, it had been a pleasant affair for him all around. She saw satisfaction written on his countenance as he emerged from his dressing room. There was a buoyancy about the way he was carrying himself. Cora had to smile. Robert was an even-tempered man almost all of the time and thus a pleasure to be around. But when he was especially happy, he was an absolute delight for company.
She watched as he tossed his dressing gown over a nearby chair with a casual air and then pounced on the bed, scrambling over to kiss her. She laughed as the tip of his tongue tickled her lips. Then he sat back and gazed at her. He was radiant.
"I do love you," he said suddenly, with such solemnity that Cora raised her eyebrows at him.
"I wasn't in any doubt. You're in good humour."
He flung himself prostrate on the bed beside her, leaning on one elbow. "Why not!"
She studied him for a moment. "You have news," she said, sure of it now. "What is it?" His excitement was catching, but she moved cautiously. It could only have to do with their visitor.
He grinned in that boyish way he had when he had an announcement to make but tried to look nonchalant. Cora listened as he related the conversation with Alanson Houghton and the request that the ambassador had made of him. And as Robert spoke in animated tones, a little furrow of concern took shape on her brow. For a moment she didn't realize that Robert had stopped speaking.
Cora felt an obligation to say something into this void. "Well, I've always said you were a diplomat!" she declared, trying to be happy for him.
But he knew her too well. "Is anything the matter?"
Her face crinkled a little in dismay. "Isn't it peculiar - soliciting the assistance of someone from another country to assist you in relations with that country?"
"No." Now Robert frowned a little. "I'm not engaged as a spy, Cora. I would not do anything against the interests of my own country, nor would the ambassador ask me to do so."
Because they're all gentlemen, I suppose, Cora thought. She was annoyed with herself. This was not what bothered her about Robert's news. "He's only interested in his own country."
"It used to be your country," he reminded her. "And I don't think you're right. Mr. Houghton has asked me to facilitate conversation across sometimes acrimonious issues between Britain and America, and perhaps otherwise, at occasional social engagements. How is that underhanded? To my mind, any small part I might play in fostering peace is a good thing." He sat up as he spoke and adopted a rather formal posture, far removed from the playful demeanour of a few moments ago. "Is there something else?"
There was. Cora looked away. She had hoped that the weekend would end, the ambassador leave, and she could put it all behind her without having to raise the matter with Robert. But now that he was to be drawn into a perhaps ongoing relationship with the American official, she could not really avoid it. So she took a deep breath and met his gaze.
"Robert, he's anti-semitic."
He stared at her for a moment in disbelief and then laughed. "Oh, Cora. You've got the wrong end of the stick there."
"Really." It irked her that he denied her view without hearing why she thought so.
"Mr. Houghton is committed to amity across all lines, Cora. He would hardly espouse so divisive an ideology."
"On the contrary, it's quite a unifying point," Cora said drily. "He's part of a business and social and governing clique in my part of the world that spurned men like my father. You didn't hear our conversation at dinner the other night, Robert. And didn't you see how he reacted to the Sinberbys?"
"Everyone reacts that way to Lord Sinderby," Robert said quickly. "He's disagreeable. I saw no evidence of this sentiment you speak of and I won't damn a man for the company he keeps in business circles or the diplomatic. Sometimes one simply doesn't have a choice."*
"You do," she said doggedly. "A weekend's entertainment is one thing, Robert. But now you're going to embroil yourself..."
"Embroil? I may go to a few dinners." His manner was cooling rapidly. "I had hoped you would be pleased about this, supportive. I may be able to play a role here, Cora, however small, and it could be important. And if there is an unpleasant current," he added as an afterthought, "then perhaps a tempering influence isn't a bad thing."
She almost laughed. "So you're going to secure world peace and defeat anti-semitism? I didn't realize you were so ambitious."
There was a chill in the air now. Although Robert continued to meet her gaze, he had become rather remote. "No more so than you and your workhouse reform campaign," he said acidly. He pushed himself off the bed and gathered up his dressing gown. "I think I may sleep in my dressing room," he said evenly.
"I think that might be a good idea."
Robert withdrew without a backward glance.
END OF EPISODE FIVE
*A/N. Cora and Robert here present different impressions of Ambassador Alanson Houghton. There is no historical evidence to support the contention that Houghton was anti-Semitic, though the diplomatic corps in the United States, Britain, Canada, and possibly elsewhere in Europe or the Western world are known to have been riven with the sentiment in this period. Houghton, according to accounts of his career, was perhaps more diplomatic than discerning in dealing with the Nazis when he was in Germany in the 1930s, but was also troubled by the early excesses against Jews that began to grow with the accession to power of Hitler in 1933. As far as this story goes, Robert may be right and Cora may be reading too much into her conversations with Houghton. This isn't the end.
