Chapter 27 The Calm

Tuesday September 21 to Thursday September 23

Charlie and Elsie

On Tuesday morning in their cottage on the lane, Charlie was sitting perfectly still while Elsie scraped the last of a night's growth of stubble from his face. Then he sighed in contentment as she pressed a warm towel to his face.

"Better even than Mr. Bates," he murmured, gazing affectionately at her.

"Flattery is unnecessary, Mr. Carson," she said brusquely, though the sparkle in her eyes belied the crisp tone of her words. "A simple thank you will do."

"Thank you, my love."

She stroked his cheek, now silky smooth. "You're fit to the see the Dowager at any rate."

"So long as I'm fit to kiss my wife," he said, standing up and reaching for her.

She indulged him for a minute or two. "I've got to get to work now," she said, pulling away gently, letting him know that it was a bit of a struggle.

He followed her downstairs. "How will it be, working together again after all this time?" he asked, collecting her coat and helping her into it. "Will you mind?"

He knew better and she knew it, so she gave him a look. "Mind! I'm looking forward to it. I don't reject everything about the past, you know." Her ambivalence toward his writing project may have given him that impression, but though she didn't live in the past or long for it as her husband sometimes did, she had not objection to visiting it now and again. "After all this time," she added, almost beneath her breath. "It's not even been a year."

"And I thought you've been enjoying Mr. Barrow's regime," he said, teasing.

"He's perfectly fine, as you well know, and as you're sure to find out when you look over his books. But he's no Charlie Carson."

They gazed at each other with a loving reverence, kissed, and then parted.

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy

The second post on Tuesday afternoon gave Mrs. Patmore a start.

"It's a letter from my sister, Kate," she told Daisy, even as she read it while stirring a large pot of soup. This in itself was not news for Kate Philpotts and Beryl Patmore diligently wrote to each other once a week. It was the contents of the letter that threw the cook into a stew. "And...oh! She wants to come for a visit!"

Daisy almost missed the edge of the bowl on which she was cracking an egg. "What?" Daisy knew Mrs. Patmore's family intimately, but only from the cook's descriptions and tales of them. The only one she'd ever set eyes on was Mrs. Patmore's niece, Lucy, who ran her bed-and-breakfast. Lucy had turned out to be a dull sort, but competent enough for the work she did. Mrs. Patmore's sisters, on the other hand, were the stuff of legend. The youngest had died years ago, but Kate, who had chosen the more traditional path of wife and motherhood, and then known both widowhood and the death of a son, Archie, in the war, was a vivid presence in the Downton kitchen through the colourful letters Mrs. Patmore shared with her assistant.

Mrs. Patmore read the letter through, murmuring her way through the words in a voice not quite audible enough for Daisy to distinguish them. "She wants to come in November. For the Armistice service on the 11th." She looked up then and met Daisy's gaze with eyes that shone with a pain that had become part of who she was. "She's never seen Archie's memorial. She'd like to."

"That's nice," Daisy said gently. "And she can visit with Lucy and stay at your bed-and-breakfast."

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore said, almost distractedly. "Yes, I suppose she can."

Daisy studied her for a moment. "Aren't you happy about this?" Daisy had no siblings. She didn't hold this against her parents, those faint shadows of her long-ago past, but she did sometimes muse that it might be pleasant to have close blood relatives and sisters in particular. Though sisters did not always get on - witness Lady Mary and Lady Edith - still it seemed that, as in Mrs. Patmore's case, they could be quite a blessing.

"Of course I am," Mrs. Patmore said emphatically. "I can't wait."

The Dowager and the Doctor

A carriage ride in the park!

"And in a barouche! Dr. Clarkson, wherever did you find this relic of the golden past?"

The Dowager Lady Grantham was in her element. Or rather, in her element as it once had been. She and Dr. Clarkson sat across from each other in the most elegant of afternoon carriages - a barouche - specifically designed for the indulgence of circuits of an estate park, with the hood down that the Dowager might enjoy the view. Across her lap was a stylish carriage blanket of bright blue that magnified the brilliancy of her sparkling periwinkle eyes. Before them on the high seat, the driver was formally attired in a ceremonial red coat, though of a generic design for the Dowager did not notice any identifying insignia. And the coach itself was drawn by two handsome highstepping and matched white carriage horses such as Violet Crawley had not set eyes upon in years.

"It took some work," Clarkson admitted. It was an occasion and he had dressed appropriately for it, eschewing the workday suit that was the uniform of his profession for one of higher quality that he wore on those occasions when he dined with the family, attended funerals, or marked other solemn occasions such as the Armistice.

She was thrilled, there was no other word for it. But there was a tinge of sadness in her voice as she drew her attention from the autumn splendour of Downton and addressed him directly about this very special indulgence.

"I hope you're not pitying me, doctor."

He met her gaze directly and spoke in a forthright manner. "Nothing of the sort, Lady Grantham," he said with that quiet dignity that was innate to him. "My business is with the living, not the dying. It is only that I remember your once lamenting the disappearance of this tradition and thought you might enjoy seeing the estate as you knew it for so many years."

She gave him a searching look. "Thank you."

He nodded an acknowledgment and relaxed into the moment himself.

"I remember that you spoke somewhat disparagingly of the practice," Lady Violet said, after a while, fixing him with an astute look.

"Only as a habit exercised in exclusion to a real life," he countered with a smile. "As an occasional diversion it has much to recommend it."

They drove on in companionable silence for some time.

"I have had a good life," Lady Violet said at length and with conviction. The glorious vistas of the quiet country lanes that traversed the great estate that she had loved since she came to Downton as a young bride so many years ago could not but sustain her in that declaration.

"You have a good life," the doctor said, unable to resist the correction.

But the Dowager was in no mood to do battle with him today. She turned to him with a smile of serenity. "I do," she said agreeably. "And you, doctor?"

"Yes," he said, after a pause. "Yes. I have a good life."

Their eyes met and it was a good long moment before he yielded and looked away again, left with a faint uneasiness over who was pitying whom.

Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson

Mid-afternoon usually saw a brief lull in the activity downstairs at Downton, though the traffic in and out of the servants' hall and through the kitchen was steady. It was not that the staff had nothing to do, but rather that at this time of day no one had anything pressing to do.

And so Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were able to exchange a few words when the latter paused to catch her breath before plunging into dinner preparations.

"Mr. Barrow going to Berlin!" Mrs. Patmore said, her eyes bulging a little. "Well, we know what that's about!" Mr. Barrow had made the announcement at lunch earlier in the day.

"Hush!" The housekeeper admonished her, with a sharp glance at the scullery maid, Louise, who was peeling potatoes in the corner. "He's going to attend to Mr. Talbot who has business with the Germans."

"I think Mr. Barrow may have a little unfinished business of his own," the cook persisted boldly.

"Mrs. Patmore." There was a warning note to Mrs. Carson's speech, one she had not taken with her colleague in years.

"Would you like to go to Berlin?" Mrs. Patmore asked, ignoring the rebuke.

Mrs. Carson allowed herself to be deflected. "I'd like to go anywhere. Wouldn't you?"

"I think I'd like to go somewhere hot."

"Do you mean to say," Mrs. Carson said mischievously, "that if Lady Flintshire had invited you to India as a cook in the diplomatic mission in Bombay, you would have gone?"

Mrs. Patmore snorted. "I wouldn't go to heaven with Lady Flintshire. No, I was thinking of someplace with a nice beach. Like Bermuda. But I'll never get there. Did I tell you my sister Kate is coming to visit me?"

She had.

Molesley and Baxter

"Mr. Molesley!"

In the absence of the housekeeper, who now on her reduced hours schedule always took supper with her husband at their cottage, it was Madge seated in Mrs. Carson's place who first set eyes on the schoolteacher hovering in the passage. His unexpected appearance caused a mild stir among the few at the table and they turned to look at him.

Mr. Barrow rolled his eyes, but no one noticed, least of all Mr. Molesley or Miss Baxter who saw only each other.

"Come in, Mr. Molesley," Barrow said with as much geniality as he could muster. The slow-to-the-point-of-petrification dance between the former footman and the lady's maid drove him to distraction. But he was still in a state of semi-euphoria over his own good news and so could afford to be expansive. "Would you care to join us?"

"Oh ... no. No, thank you, Mr. Barrow. I only... If I might, could I have a word with Miss Baxter?"

Though she coloured faintly at this attention, Miss Baxter excused herself and withdrew with Mr. Molesley into the passage. To distract the company from descending into a truly unbearable level of gossip over this development, Mr. Barrow took the initiative.

"About this race next month, then. I hope I can count on you all to bet on me?"

Beyond the servants' hall, Mr. Molesley smiled a greeting to Miss Baxter and then led her out into the courtyard which was lit at this time of night only by the dim electric bulbs by the door and the lanterns at the gate.

"What is it?" Miss Baxter asked, curious. She leaned naturally to apprehension when confronted with sudden developments, but Mr. Molesley's buoyancy dispelled that. He could only have good news.

"I've talked to my class and I wanted you to know right away ... Well, as soon as I could tell you. Yesterday I had to...wanted to... I went to see my dad. But today... I could've waited 'til the weekend, but I thought, no, so..."

Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley were familiar with each other's manner of speaking, he sometimes convoluted, she hesitant to the point of painfulness, so his garbled delivery did not deter his listener, who only waited patiently for him to get to the point.

"I told them about my idea, telling the stories of Downton's ... of the men from the estate and the village who died in the war, and the children were... they were..." Even in the dim light Miss Baxter could see the jubilant look on his face. "... they wanted to get started right away, so we all went to the memorial after school was let out to take down the names." He caught himself. "Well, to make sure we got all the names, because everyone knew someone..."

She knew what he meant. "That's wonderful!"

"I think it really will come together and we'll have something ... grand ... to offer for the Armistice day commemorations," he bubbled on. "And I...I wanted to thank you for helping me..."

"It was your idea."

"You made it possible for me to think of it."

Their unassuming and modest personalities inhibited either from wholly taking credit where credit was due.

"And." He wasn't quite done yet. "I wanted to tell you..." He came over more serious now, less exuberant, but no less intense. "That...my dad really likes you."

It was precisely the kind of understatement that would have sent Mr. Barrow into a paroxysm of exasperation, but to Miss Baxter, who cherished every small morsel of acceptance, it was a very welcome revelation indeed.

Robert and Cora

"Can you feel it, my darling?" Robert asked Cora on Wednesday morning, bending over her shoulder to plant gentle kiss on her soft cheek. "All is peaceful at Downton. It's almost like a day before the war."

"I wouldn't go that far," Cora said cautiously. "And after the weekend we've had?" But his high spirits were infectious and she closed the ledger before her on the desk and turned toward him.

He had straightened up but did not move from her side. "Edith and Marigold returned safely to Brancaster, Edith and Bertie are talking again, they love each other, they'll make it up." He spoke with a confidence borne of the experience of his own marriage. He and Cora had weathered all their difficulties and he loved her more than ever, something he did not tell her often enough.

Cora was amused. "Carson is only going to be here for a few days, you know. And it won't be the same."

He shrugged easily. "Close enough. And there are other things to be pleased about. Mary was civil to Edith for almost three days. Mary and Henry appear to be in a better place. I saw George on his pony yesterday afternoon in the paddock and I think he may soon be able to ride with the hunt." That last might have been a slight exaggeration, but Robert was optimistic. "And I've checked your day book and see that your regular meeting was cancelled. Would you care to join me for lunch in York?"

Cora reached out for him, drew her hand over his, tracing contours there that she knew so well. "I'd love to."

John and Anna

They walked hand in hand down the gravel path to the village, reveling in this rare opportunity to be alone, away from Downton and its distractions and even, briefly, from their son. Their life together had been a collection of such small moments, snatched from the busy-ness of their work and the complications of their private lives, and they knew to appreciate them when they appeared.

"I could have gotten the post for you," Anna told her husband. "I don't open your mail."

"I know that," John said. "You'd rather weasel secrets out of me directly."

"If only!" Anna responded with a laugh, swinging high the hand that was unencumbered with the cane. "When have I ever been successful at trying to worm a secret from you?"

He smiled inscrutably. "Why do you think I'm the best secret keeper at Downton?"

Laughing together they strolled into the post office.

"Your ears must have been ringing," Mrs. Wigan called out to them.

Bates looked quite deliberately around the shop that was empty but for Mrs. Wigan, wondering with whom the post mistress had been discussing them. Anna dug an elbow into his side. "It's just an expression," she chided him good-naturedly.

"You have some post for us," John surmised, adopting a solemn look for Anna's benefit.

"For you, Mr. Bates, and for the two of you." She bustled behind her wicket for a moment and then looked up, holding several envelopes in her hand. "Did you want to take all the mail for the Abbey?"

"Yes, please." Others might have engaged in a bit of a debate about that, or noted that it would relieve someone from the Abbey coming down later, but John Bates had always been a man of few words. He stared so hard at Mrs. Wigan as she put the packet together than her eyes didn't stray to the return addresses, at least not obviously.

Stepping out into the High Street once more, Anna shook her head at her husband. "You're not very nice to her."

"I don't like people who pry into other people's business," John said bluntly.

"I think it comes with the territory of postmistress," Anna said genially. "How can one not notice things in such a job?"

"There is such a thing as discretion. We exercise it in our work. I think she could manage just a bit more of it in hers." He stopped to flip through the letters on top, the ones that belonged to them. He lingered over one.

"Is that a reply for your ... project?" Anna asked delicately, studying his face.

"Yes. Yes, I think it is." He tucked that one into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Look. This one is from Mr. Sykes, the agent in York. The one who said he'd keep an eye out for properties for us." Inhibited by his cane and the rest of the post, John handed the envelope to her.

Anna pried up the corner and then neatly slit it open with a fingernail. They stood there in the shade of Bakewells' and together pored over the contents.

"An inn," John said aloud. "In Grassington." He grinned. "We'd be in the Dales proper there. Lovely country." There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice.

"We could go for walks," Anna said brightly, looping her arm through his. "But ... it is rather far from Downton."

He heard the temporization in her voice. "Looking isn't buying," he reminded her. "Perhaps we could take a day and bring Robbie with us. Wherever we go it will be his home, too. We ought to give him a look in."

Anna rolled her eyes a bit. "A look, perhaps. But not a vote, Mr. Bates."

"So you're not a democrat, then," he said with a grin. "It wouldn't hurt to look, Anna. We ought to try to stretch our minds just a little."

She tightened her grip on him. "Let's see what we can arrange with His Lordship and Lady Mary."

Mary and Henry

Mary and Henry were enjoying a nightcap in the library on their own, Robert and Cora having already retired. It was the habit of the older couple to keep regular habits, in some small part out of consideration for the servants - the valet and lady's maid - who attended to them. Mary had once subscribed to this, as well, but with Anna now released from this late evening duty, Mary was free of this small sensitivity.

It occurred to Mary that she might point out to her husband that it was possible for them to be alone together - outside of their bedroom - at Downton, that there was no need for them to have a house of their own for that purpose. But the words died on her lips. It was an issue between them and issues caused friction. Better to avoid the avoidable ones. Henry's voice startled her.

"Would you like to come to Berlin with me?" His tone was casual, his pose - on the sofa across from her - languid, but the eyes focused on her were alert.

"With you and Barrow?" Mary might forgo a point of conflict, but not an opportunity to tease.

Henry laughed. "Would you?" he persisted.

"I'm not very fond of the Germans these days," Mary admitted.

Henry acknowledged this, but then shifted his position swiftly and fluidly, leaning toward her with an earnestness in his countenance. "The war was only a moment in history, Mary. Berlin is an eternal city. You might enjoy it."

She thought about it. She owed him that. And, of course, he was right about Berlin and about Germany, too. She didn't want to sound like Granny, whose disdain for France had been fixed by Louis-Napoleon and the Second Republic and who hadn't seen fit to change her mind since.

"It's not the right time," she said finally. "Not with Stephen. But...I do appreciate the invitation, darling. And if all goes well with your business dealings - and knowing you and Tom, it will - then perhaps I'll take you up on it for the next trip."

"I'll hold you to that," Henry said with a grin.

Mary smiled back at him. She had pleased him. And that pleased her.

Tom

Thursday evening was one like any other in the increasingly familiar pattern of life at Shamrock Cottage. Tom came home at the usual hour to the aroma of a delicious meal underway in the kitchen at the hands of Mrs. Hutton, the now-indispensable housekeeper, and to an enthusiastic welcome from Sybbie, who dropped whatever she was doing in the moment to greet him. They talked over their day while eating in the modest dining room, just the two of them as Mrs. Hutton liked to preserve the distinction of rank. Tom would not have put it quite that way, but he did enjoy the time with Sybbie.

After they ate, Sybbie read her lessons though this was hardly necessary for she was well in advance of most of her schoolmates, the result of a precocious mind and some pre-school instruction from Nanny in the Downton nursery. Tom listened to her, satisfied that she was excelling in her work and progressing with regard to her interaction with the other children. She still sounded a bit bossy to his ear, but remembrances of early days in Ireland suggested to him that her peers would rein that in when necessary. And it occurred to him that it might be an inborn trait, one she shared with her Aunt Mary, though not with her mother Sybil.

For a while before Sybbie went to bed, they played cards as they often did now. This had been a favoured past-time of Tom's own childhood of an evening and he was glad - finally - to have the opportunity to do these kinds of things with her.

Once he'd seen her to bed, Tom turned his mind to his own affairs, drawing up a list of tasks for the morrow, reviewing the list of appointments for the week following, examining the schedule he and Henry had drawn up for the days that Henry would be in Germany. Tom was pleased that Henry had taken up that initiative. The idea of making connections with car men on the Continent was a sound one from a business point of view. It was only that things had gone so badly on the social level at Downton.

And then his mind drifted to his own troubles. They'd gone to the police on Monday afternoon, Tom conceding the necessity of it in the face of Henry's insistence. The York sergeant had been sympathetic, but not especially helpful. He had urged Tom to greater diligence and promised to advise the local bobby to keep an especial lookout when in the neighbourhood of the shop. But as the majority of the incidents had occurred around Downton, the sergeant suggested that Downton's own Sergeant Willis ought to be notified. Though troubling, the harassment was of a nature more appropriate to the investigations of the local constabulary, being fairly harmless even if somewhat malicious. Neither Tom nor Henry had been satisfied, but they could not think of anything else to do.

The idea that someone bore such a grudge against him ate away at Tom. Differences of opinion, even serious ones, were only natural. It was the covert nature of the vendetta that unsettled him.

It was not, however, something he was going to settle tonight by staying up brooding over it. No, this was a matter for the long haul, requiring acute attention and patience until the perpetrator slipped up and gave himself away, or got bored and abandoned the pursuit. Resigned to this, Tom checked the doors and then went up to bed himself.

Miss Baxter

At Downton Abbey, Miss Baxter had readied Her Ladyship for bed and withdrawn from the room as His Lordship came in from his dressing room. She could hear the pleasant tones of their murmured conversation as she closed the door behind her. She was glad to climb the stairs to the servants' rooms in the attics. Miss Baxter enjoyed her job, was immensely grateful to have a job, and this one in particular, but was still a relief to put her head down every night.

The lavatory was free and then she retired to her room to finish her washing up. The water in her pitcher was tepid not hot, but Phyllis Baxter preferred the privacy of her own room because it was her own room. She was a quiet woman but life at Downton was seldom quiet, so she lived amidst almost constant activity. In the solitude of her attic room she reveled in the tranquillity of being alone for those short hours of the night. It was a luxury she had known at no other point of her life.

Tonight her thoughts strayed, as they often did, to Mr. Molesley. He had been in such a funk almost the whole summer long about his conduct during the war. Someone else might have told him that enough was enough and that it was time to put it behind him. But Miss Baxter appreciated how Mr. Molesley's war had become an abscess on his conscience, something that could not heal on its own but which required treatment. It was an experience they shared and she had prayed that he might find the path to redemption that had eluded her. And so he had. She was grateful for this and excited for him. For some reason she could not quite identify what Mr. Molesley had said about his father - about how his father "really liked" her - her - excited her in a different way. It was something to ponder.

Before she got into bed she put out the light and then went to stand at her small window for a few moments as she did every night. That great sable blanket ornamented with sparkling stars never failed to awe and humble her. She felt the presence of God in its magnitude and yet remained undaunted. With the universe spread out before her in this way, she appreciated as she did nowhere else the small part she played within it.

Tonight it was there as it always was, reassuring in its reliability. But there was something else, too, though it took her a moment to realize what it was. When she did, she screamed. And then she spun around and scrambled for the door and, in her frantic effort to navigate the room in the now obstructive darkness, knocked over the pitcher by the door sending it crashing to the floor. But she didn't notice, fumbling now to release the latch and get out into the passage. Yanking the door open, she put her head out and screamed again.

"Fire! Fire!"

Doors opened nearby - Mrs. Patmore, looking even frumpier than usual in her dressing gown; Louise, the new scullery maid who had found it impossible to get to work on time from her home in the village. And then someone was pounding at the locked door that separated the men's quarters from the women. Miss Baxter threw herself at it and released the lever. It fell open to reveal Mr. Barrow, with Andy crowding behind him and Lewis visible in the corridor beyond.

"Where?" he demanded, taking Miss Baxter at her word.

"On the estate," she gasped. "I don't know exactly. I just saw the flames from my window."

Barrow was already pushed past her. He darted into her room and was back in the passage again in a matter of seconds. "It's the agent's cottage," he bellowed. "Mr. Bransons' place! I'll call the fire brigade. Miss Baxter, wake His Lordship and Mr. Talbot. Andy! Lewis! Get out there!"

Mr. Barrow ran back into his room but he overtook Miss Baxter on the servants' staircase before she had reached the gallery. He'd pulled on a pair of trousers and his shoes, and was shouldering his way into a shirt as he passed her. The telephone was in the Great Hall on the main floor. She was just opening the door onto the gallery when Andy and Lewis came thundering along behind her, their shirttails flying as wildly as Mr. Barrow's had done.

Baxter herself raced to the master bedroom and rapped on the door - almost timidly at first. And then she just pushed in. She had never intruded on Her Ladyship in this way before, but surely such a crisis justified a bold act.

"My lady!" Baxter reached for Her Ladyship's shoulder to rouse her, another revolutionary departure in behaviour. "Please! My lady!"

"Baxter?" His Lordship spoke drowsily, but managed to turn the light on. In an instant both he and Her Ladyship were awake, galvanized by the alarm in Baxter's voice and in her countenance. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Fire, my lord! At the agent's cottage! At Mr. Branson's!"

Miss Baxter did not think she would ever forget the look of horror that descended on their faces.

END OF EPISODE SIX