DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
EPISODE 6.
Chapter 3. Friday September 17, 1926
The Hexhams Arrive
The Hexhams - Bertie, Edith, and Marigold - began their visit to Downton with a disappointment. At Sybbie's insistence, Tom had arranged with his sisters-in-law for George and Marigold to spend Saturday night at the old agent's cottage. Edith had wondered whether Marigold would be able to spend a night away from her parents, but Mary's exasperated response - "For goodness sake, Edith! You're gone to London several nights a months! And Tom's cottage is closer to Downton than the nursery is to the master bedroom at Brancaster!" - had secured her consent. Tom had almost regretted showing Mary the letter with Edith's hesitation.
But the visitors had hardly made themselves comfortable in the library before Tom broke the news. He tried to make light of it.
"It just isn't a good time," he said casually. "We'll do it next time you're here."
Edith seemed almost relieved. Mary came across unconvinced and her eyes strayed in Edith's direction, assuming the change in plans had come from that direction. But she chose not to press the issue, having other things on her mind, only informing Tom that George would be terribly disappointed. "He's talked of nothing else for two weeks," she said, a little reproachfully. "What about the christening?"
"Christening?" Edith looked up sharply.
Tom gave her a little smile. "We've decided on a name for our new home. Shamrock Cottage." He said this sotto voce, with a glance toward Robert who was having a word with Barrow across the room. "It was Sybbie's choice. She wanted something Irish. "
"And good for her," Mary said firmly, not glancing at her father. Why shouldn't Tom and Sybbie call the cottage what they liked?
"We won't break a bottle of champagne over it until we're all together," Tom said, responding to Mary's question. "Although I've put up the shingle with the name on it. Sybbie didn't want to wait."
"Has something else happened?" Henry murmured, as he and Tom moved to stand before the fireplace.
"Yes." Tom told him of the grouse. "Better safe than sorry," he added, but ignored the look Henry gave him. He knew his brother-in-law wanted to make the incidents public, at least within the family.
The Hexhams had happier tidings.
"All the formalities have been concluded!" Edith announced. "Marigold is now legally our daughter!"
Cora and Robert received the news with enthusiasm.
"Thank God," Violet said with feeling, more relieved than anything else.
Tom and Henry offered their warm congratulations.
Mary embraced her sister, which was a little awkward. "I'm so pleased for you, Edith," Mary declared, with a ringing sincerity of tone. "Now things are as they should be."
Over Mary's shoulder, Edith exchanged puzzled glances with Tom, but he had no explanation for this departure on Mary's part.
"My dear chap, congratulations." Robert earnestly shook Bertie's hand. "You're officially a father." In anticipation of this news, which Edith had broadly hinted at in her last letter, Robert had had Barrow put some champagne on ice. Now they drank a toast to the new parents.
"How are things at Brancaster?" Robert asked Bertie. The two of them were standing apart from the others.
The Marquis of Hexham shrugged. "The demands are endless," he said. "Just to come away for a few days took so much planning. I was the agent for three years, but I had no idea of the obligations involved. My cousin Peter shirked them all, taking refuge in Tangiers. But I've neither his determination to avoid it all nor his resilience in the face of criticism. I was not made for this," he added, with a sigh.
Robert frowned a little, uncomprehending. "You were the heir to a marquisate all your adult life," he said, "and second in line from birth. You were made precisely for this."
Bertie stared at him. "But Cousin Peter was to inherit. And to marry and have a son," he protested. "And to live," he added more soberly.
"My cousin James and, after Cora and I had given up on producing an heir, his son Patrick, were ever at Downton," Robert said. "Even before I'd married, James had been brought in to become acquainted with the estate so that, in the event of catastrophe, he might be prepared. And when catastrophe did strike - it struck James and Patrick, of course, not me directly - I invited Matthew Crawley to take up residence at Downton and immerse himself in the life that he might be properly prepared as well."
"Well, that wasn't how things were at Brancaster, I'm afraid," Bertie admitted, with a rueful smile. "I only got the job as agent because I think Cousin Peter felt sorry for me."
The subject of Peter Pelham, the Sixth Marquis of Hexham, was a delicate one and Robert chose his words carefully. "Did it never occur to you that perhaps Lord Hexham appointed you agent of Brancaster so that you might gain experience the management of the estate in the event that he ... did not marry and sire an heir?"
The credulous look on Bertie's face showed that no such thought had ever crossed his mind. Robert sipped his champagne and shook his head.
"I ... had no idea, really," Bertie said, sounding as shaken as he looked at Robert's words. "Often in the morning when I wake up, I wonder if I couldn't just get up and move us all to London and lead a ...well, a more conventional life."
"You are joking." It was clear that Robert was not at all amused.
"Well, of course I can't, but..."
"No, you can't." Robert was as assertive now as he ever got. This was a subject on which he had a formidable expertise. "Brancaster is your duty. And there's no good saying you weren't born to it, because you were. Now you must get on with it."
Before Bertie could respond to this unanticipated directive, Robert spoke again.
"And part of your responsibility as the Marquis of Brancaster is to produce an heir. You've been married for a good nine months. Is there...a problem?" It was an even more delicate issue, but almost one of fundamental importance in aristocratic circles where so much landed wealth and the responsibilities that went with it were concerned.
The approach at that moment of Tom and Henry was not unwelcome to either man. Bertie responded animatedly to his brothers-in-law's queries about the cars of Brancaster, grateful to bring the interrogation from Robert to an end. For his part, Robert drifted across the room to join Cora and Edith and Mary. Mary. Why was she being so attentive to Edith?
Before Barrow came in to announce dinner, Mary managed to maneuvre her father to one side.
"Papa."
"Ah," he murmured, allowing himself to be so maneuvred. "Are you about to tell me why you've so warm toward Edith this afternoon?"
"Because she's my sister," Mary said smoothly. "Is that so hard to believe?" She did not wait for an answer nor, it seemed, even expect one. "I wanted to talk to you about Barrow."
"Barrow?"
"And Henry."
Robert searched her face for clues. "You've got me now. I can't imagine a scenario that involves Barrow and Henry."
She tossed her head. "That's because you're not quite as imaginative as I am. You see, Papa, Henry is intent on pursuing the connections he made with the German automobile industry..."
"Through his rude friend, you mean."
"Reinhard Morden behaved perfectly well. It was his odious acquaintance, Mr. Ribbentrop, we disliked so much."
Robert conceded this.
"But, yes, Henry has been in contact with Herr Morden and has it in mind to go to Berlin at the beginning of October to discuss matters further."
"Better there than here."
"Precisely," Mary said pleasantly. "That's our thinking as well. And Henry is more than happy to do it that way. Only..."
"I was wondering when you'd get to that part."
"Dearest Papa."
He sighed.
Mary smiled indulgently at him. "Reinhard Morden's family may have been dispossessed by Weimar, but they are still Junker class and are part of the highest circles of German society."
Robert was bemused. "Does he want to borrow my tie and tails?"
"No," Mary said, laughing more than necessary at his feeble joke. "Just your butler."
This did take him aback. "My butler? What for?"
"He needs a valet, Papa. A proper valet. He can hardly take Bates. And Barrow is almost as good. Which would you rather do without for a few days - your butler or your valet?"
"I'd rather not do without either, thank you. In fact, I rather wish my daughter wasn't always trying to poach my butler."
It was an allusion to Mary's effort, years earlier, to take Carson with her when she married Sir Richard Carlisle. Fortunately her plans - for Carson and, indeed, with Sir Richard - had fallen through. No one regretted these developments.
"Why would Barrow want to hang up his butler's livery, so hard won on his part, to become a valet again? Even for a weekend?"
"Four days, actually," Mary said, smiling through the imposition. "I think he'll do it if I ask him. But I need your permission first."
Robert stared at her, resigned. "What are we supposed to do for those four days?"
"I'll ask Carson to look in," Mary said promptly and with a confidence both of a lifetime's reliance on the old butler and an expectation that Carson would do anything she asked of him. She had thought it all out. "Try to avoid having anyone over for dinner on those dates and I'm certain the footmen will attend you properly. Lewis could probably manage it on his own," she added, as a bit of an aside. She, too, had noted the assiduousness with which he pursued his work.
"Arrange it with Barrow, then," Robert said, yielding. "And don't do it again!"
Mary squeezed his arm. "Thank you, Papa."
"You'll have to be pleasant to Edith for the entire weekend," Robert said in a warning tone. "As recompense."
Her smile broadened. "Done."
She walked away leaving her father wondering why he felt like he'd been robbed twice.
Edith and Bertie
"Mary was very strange all evening," Edith said, slipping into bed beside her husband. She nestled her head on Bertie's shoulder and placed a hand lightly on his chest. "She was ... well, if it were anyone else I'd have said friendly. She asked if Marigold and I would like to join her and George and Sybbie for a walk and a picnic tomorrow. A sort of solace for the disappointment of the sleepover."
Bertie put a hand over hers, enjoying the touch of her hand brushing back and forth against his skin. "Perhaps it is real friendliness," he said.
Edith laughed aloud. Bertie could be so unworldly at times. "Perhaps she wants to discuss Granny," she said, trying to rationalize Mary's behaviour.
Though she spoke of her sister, Bertie discerned in her words her ongoing concern for her grandmother. He reached out to entangle his fingers in the silky curls that framed her face. "She is looking frail, your grandmother."
"I'm going to see her on Sunday afternoon. We made the arrangements at dinner. Would you mind terribly, darling, if I went alone? Granny's never been one for small children at close quarters, so I wasn't going to take Marigold in any case. But it will be difficult enough extracting any meaningful information about her health from her even if it's only me."
"I understand perfectly, darling."
She kissed him then and felt him sigh with pleasure.
"I wish they'd put us somewhere else," she said, looking around the room, her old bedroom. "I cried too often here."
To Bertie that sounded like a problem that needed solving. "Then we should make some good memories to displace those times," he said energetically, reaching for her.
For several minutes they kissed and caressed and laughed together. But when Bertie turned over to put out the light, Edith stopped him.
"They are all a very long way down the corridor, darling." At the slightly exasperated look on her face, he obligingly desisted.
"You looked a bear in the library before dinner," she said, feathering her fingers down the side of his face, a gesture he might have found tantalizing had he not been derailed by her words. "Weren't you enjoying Papa's company?"
Bertie rarely came over vexed or disagreeable, but he frowned now. "No. I wasn't. Your papa was reading me the Riot Act - about Brancaster, about embracing my duties as the Marquis, about producing an heir!"
"Really? Papa?"
"Yes. You know, I don't think he really understands my situation in the least."
Edith was surprised at her father's forthright remarks, but ... she supposed she wasn't either. "Doesn't he?" She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down into Bertie's dismayed countenance. "I should have thought if anyone knew what you were facing as the Marquis of Hexham it would be the Earl of Grantham."
"Well he doesn't," Bertie said, almost petulantly, his eyes flashing a little. "He looked positively astonished when I told him how hard it was to arrange to get away for a few days. I only want a bit of time to spend with you and Marigold somewhere where I won't always have to be the concerned landlord or the benign aristocrat. But the work never ends. I'm always on. Your father doesn't understand that."
Edith was sympathetic, but a little perplexed as well. "Papa went away for two and a half years to the South African War. Downton didn't fall apart. Perhaps he wonders at the fuss."
Bertie now pushed himself up to a sitting position, looking more irritable than she had seen him since they had been married. "Your Papa had Carson running the Abbey and someone equally ancient and experienced as agent. He could have gone away for ten years, like King Richard. I've only just been the agent for three years. And whatever your father may say about it, I wasn't groomed from the cradle as he was. He knows it won't all fall apart if he looks away. I'm not sure."
"Ohhh." Edith bent over him, kissing his forehead, smoothing out the lines that had formed there. "You are Bertie Pelham, the Marquis of Hexham in your own right," she said, punctuating her words with soft kisses. "You may play the part any way you want and need not give way to Papa or anyone else. We'll manage Brancaster."
Brancaster was fading rapidly from his consciousness with the proximity of his wife. His fingers traced the hemline of her silken negligee, searching for passage to the silkier flesh beneath. "You are the most creative mind beneath this roof, my love," he murmured against her lips. "Imagine us away from here."
The desire in his voice was intoxicating. Edith cast aside bad memories and inhibiting sensibilities and dissolved into his arms.
Daisy
Mr. Mason - Dad, as Daisy now called him without conscious thought - had gone up to bed, leaving her alone in the kitchen at the great trestle table. He kept to a regular schedule but he never said a word when Daisy lingered over a cooling cup of tea. He understood that a body sometimes wanted - needed - a bit of solitude.
They'd been talking about Hillcroft and Dad had been as generous as usual.
"If there are any fees to be paid, we can manage them," he'd said firmly.
Daisy had given up contradicting him about the way he had extended ownership of resources and savings to her. She was his daughter, he would stubbornly insist. What was his was hers also.
"I still don't know what I'll do when I get through with school," she'd said, half holding out the chance that she might be back. She felt a twinge of conscience when she remembered that he had reached out to her after William's demise as a replacement for the children who had all left him by death. She was not abandoning him that way, but would not moving to London or elsewhere be in effect the same thing?
But he swept her hesitant reassurance aside, focusing instead on what she might learn. "The future will come clearer to you as you go along. You don't want to be making promises at this stage of the game."
She thought he was looking a little older as he got up to go to bed. It wasn't the work. He was as spry about that as ever. She thought perhaps it was more to do with Mrs. Patmore, though she knew without his saying it in so many words that he'd given up there. Mrs. Patmore had said nothing about it either, and Daisy didn't know how to broach the topic with her or whether she even should. Once Daisy had selfishly opposed any association between the two, but having come to accept the possibility she was a little sad that it had not come to pass.
Her mind shifted to other things.
After the upstairs dinner that evening, the staff had gathered as they always did for their own dinner and naturally there was talk about the visitors from Brancaster.
"She's done all right for herself, Lady Edith," Andy said over the mutton stew.
"Better than you can imagine," Mr. Barrow said. "I've been to Brancaster Castle."
"Is it that grand?" Daisy had asked, pausing with a platter of sliced bread.
"It's like a fairy tale castle," Miss Baxter said. "It's so much bigger even than Downton Abbey."
"Is Strathmere Hall a grand estate?" Mr. Barrow addressed this question to the footman, Lewis, who, Daisy had noticed, was usually quiet at mealtimes. And every other time besides. She had heard him say nothing that was not related to his work.
At the question, Lewis had put down his cutlery, folded his hands, and turned solemn eyes upon the butler. "Strathmere Hall was my former place of employment. Now I work at Downton Abbey. I would prefer not to make comparisons, Mr. Barrow."
That made for a bit of an uncomfortable pause until Andy, determined not to be quenched by his colleague's acute fastidiousness, spoke up again. "It was nice to see Miss Marigold with His Lordship and Her Ladyship. She's a sweet little girl."
There was air in the room again.
"And they've adopted her now," Andy went on. "A fairy tale ending for a little girl living in a fairy tale castle." He grinned, clearly pleased by that outcome.
Daisy was glad to withdraw to the kitchen at that point, ostensibly to retrieve another platter of food, but relieved to have just a moment to herself. Andy's offhand mention of Miss Marigold had taken her breath away, as though she'd been hit hard in the stomach. It was one thing to reflect upon the tragedy of the Drewes in the abstract, and quite another to have Lady Edith - Lady Hexham, rather - flaunting her inconsideration so openly. Daisy's ire had risen at Andy's innocent allusion and though she'd managed to suppress a reaction that might have drawn Mrs. Patmore's scrutiny or, later, Dad's concern, her anger had not dissipated.
And now she was finally alone and could address it directly.
She went to her room and retrieved the letter she had found in the bottle. Returning to the kitchen, she flattened it on the table and read it through again. Although she was quite familiar with it now, the seams showing the strain of frequent folding and unfolding, the contents still made her blood boil.
Lady Edith! She spat the name. The woman was so despicable and thus far had escaped retribution for her loathsome actions. The Drewes could do nothing about it. But Daisy had decided that she was not so helpless to act. Mrs. Drewe had given her the material. She had only to devise the means and the Hexhams' visit had created an opportunity. Now she went to the desk in the corner of the room and withdrew from it two sheets of writing paper and a pencil. Sitting at the table again, she paused to gather her thoughts.
In Daisy's heated mind, Lady Edith's life - at least insofar as the child Marigold was concerned - was a web of lies and deception. Her family - parents, sister and brother-in-law, too, probably - knew the truth. But Daisy doubted that anyone else did. And there was certainly one person whom Daisy believed had the right to know.
Taking a deep breath, she began to write.
As the words multiplied on the page, Daisy felt a twinge of conscience. Dad would frown on this. He did not believe that one bad turn deserved another. Apparently Sunday school lessons had made a lasting impression on him. He would urge Daisy to find the strength to rise above it. And he would tell her, as a last resort, that it was none of her business, as Mrs. Patmore had done. But the letter had come to her almost as though it had been directed by a higher hand and she felt an obligation to do something.
She took her time and crafted her words well. Miss Bunting had helped her that much. And Mr. Molesley, too. When it was done, she held it up in the weak light and read it over. It said what she wanted to say. Satisfied, she picked up the pen to add her name and then put it down again. In silence she folded the paper and put it in her apron pocket alongside Mrs. Drewe's agonized missive. Then she turned off the light and went up to bed.
