16
DOWNTON ABBEY
Episode 7. Chapter 3.
Molesley, the Masons, and Mrs. Patmore
Saturday September 25, 1926
On Saturday afternoon in the lull that fell between the end of lunch and the beginning of tea, Mr. Molesley came to Downton to meet with Mr. Mason and Daisy. Trying to arrange a moment in his busy schedule that coincided with a free space in that of the assistant cook's and then coordinating these with a convenient time for Mr. Mason had eluded him. It was Miss Baxter who suggested the solution of Saturday at Downton.
He had stared in wonder at her. "Why didn't I think of that?" he said, beaming.
And so Miss Baxter had spoken to Daisy and he had gone round Yew Tree farm mid-week to see Mr. Mason. He found the farmer a little hesitant to go up to the Abbey without an invitation from anyone there, but later, after he'd discussed it with Daisy, he sent word of his agreement. When they sat down together on Saturday, shortly after midday, Miss Baxter joined them, and after an intense exchange about the fire two nights earlier, Molesley turned to business.
"Miss Baxter is ... ah ... assisting me with this enterprise," he explained unconvincingly.
"Oh, aye," Mr. Mason responded wryly.
Molesley took a deep breath. "I wanted to speak to you - to the two of you - because of a project I've undertaken with my class at school. A commemoration project. Of the men of Downton who gave them lives in the Great War and whose names are inscribed on the cenotaph in the village."
"What kind of a project?" Daisy asked, curious.
Molesley could hardly contain his enthusiasm, yet it was tempered by the undercurrent of uneasiness stemming from his own war record. "I want to put on a pageant of sorts on the eleventh of November. About the individual men. Tell their stories. The children are very passionate about the idea. A few of them had fathers who died. The names are familiar to them. They want - we want - to keep their stories alive in the village, not just in their own families. And I'm seeking permission from relatives - parents and wives - to do so." He paused and then added gently, "I would like to ask your permission, Mr. Mason, Daisy, to tell William's story."
Silence descended on them.
Mr. Mason came over very grave, almost melancholic. He had known a lot of loss in his day - four children who had died in infancy or childhood, his wife, and then William in the war. It was not that he mourned William more than any of the others, but there was a special poignancy to his passing for he was the last. With William gone, Albert Mason was truly alone. Or would have been without the gift of Daisy. He raised his eyes to hers.
"What do you think?"
Daisy stirred uneasily. To the world and to Mr. Mason she had been the love of William's life and his wife. But in her heart she knew differently and always felt a fraud when obliged to confront the matter. But he had put it to her, so she considered.
"What do you mean by his story?" she asked finally.
The school teacher leaned forward eagerly across the trestle table. "That's a good question. I ... we ... want to tell about him joining up and why, and what he did ... in the war, and ... how ... how he died. How he gave his life honourably ... in protecting a fellow soldier."
"Mr. Matthew," Daisy said quietly. "Only William didn't die in battle. He died here.'
"A few of Downton's men died in England, in hospital, from their wounds. That doesn't diminish their sacrifice or their story."
"It does not," Mr. Mason agreed firmly. Again he looked to Daisy with an inquiring eye.
She met his gaze. "I trust Mr. Molesley," she said slowly. "He'll make sure our William's story is told respectfully. And properly. And ... it may help?" Daisy had a tendency to end her remarks with a questioning intonation, as she did now.
Mr. Mason's countenance was transformed listening to her as a natural reticence gave way unconsciously to open affection. Observing this, Molesley and Miss Baxter exchanged appreciative looks. The bond forged between the farmer and his daughter-in-law was heart-warming indeed.
"All right then," Mr. Mason said, turning to Molesley. "How does it work? How will you learn William's story?"
"Well, that's part of the project. Each pupil has selected a name from the cenotaph. With your agreement ...," he pulled a folded paper from his pocket and consulted it, "... Mary Andover will come along to talk to you about William."
"A girl?" Mr. Mason was taken aback.
"What's wrong with that?" Daisy said immediately. "A girl can tell a story as well as a boy. And we should all remember, not just men."
Her spirited response elicited a laugh from Mr. Mason. "Then I will look forward to meeting Miss Mary Andover," he said.
"Me, too," Daisy added.
Molesley's eyes rested on her for a moment. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you both." And then he grinned at Miss Baxter.
"Are you going round to all the families?" Daisy asked, as they all stood up.
"I am. I think it ... proper ... to let parents or a wife make the decision. Not everyone want to ... or can... share their grief. I respect that and so do the children. We'll read out all the names, of course."
"I'm proud of my son and what he did," Mr. Mason said. "I'm proud to have his story told."
"Well. Good."
Mr. Mason's attention shifted, his eyes drawn to the kitchen door, beyond which the sounds of Mrs. Patmore at work could be heard.
Molesley himself turned to Miss Baxter. "I'll talk to Mrs. Patmore now, while I'm here."
"What?" Daisy spoke a little more sharply than she had meant to do.
Mr. Mason reacted immediately, withdrawing a bit and then looking for his hat. "I'll be on my way," he said.
"Don't go," Daisy said quickly.
"Oh, I've lots to do at the farm," he said. "I'll be off." He nodded to them all and stepped into the passage.
Daisy was torn. She had hoped that Mr. Mason might have a word with Mrs. Patmore. To her knowledge they had not seen each other in weeks and she thought this an unfortunate thing. But she was distracted by Mr. Molesley.
"About what?" she asked, though it was none of her business. "About this?"
"Yes," he said lightly, missing her apprehension.
Daisy's eyes went round, but she said nothing. Miss Baxter excused herself to return to her duties. And Molesley ventured into the kitchen.
Buoyed by his success with the Masons, Molesley approached Mrs. Patmore with greater ease. As she almost always did, Mrs. Patmore greeted him affably. When he wasn't under her feet annoying her, she didn't mind him at all. She did glance over his shoulder, though, as if expecting someone else.
He gave her the same preamble he had delivered in the servants' hall. "I realize that your nephew, Archibald Philpotts, was not a Downton man," he said solemnly, "but the memorial to him is here. And one of the boys in my class, Mark Wallace, asked if he might tell his story, so that he wouldn't be left out."
Molesley was very pleased by Mark's request. The boy was one of his quieter students, a more contemplative sort who seldom spoke unless spoken to. That he had sought out the discreet memorial in the stone wall near the cenotaph and had the curiosity to pursue it pleased Molesley no end. And it seemed to him that Mrs. Patmore would welcome the attention thus paid to her nephew who was not, after all, part of Downton's war. He looked at her expectantly.
It had been a while since Mrs. Patmore had thought deeply about Archie. Every time she crossed the green she glanced his way and remembered the lively boy she had known and admired the monument that His Lordship had so generously created. And she was very much looking forward to showing it to her sister Kate, Archie's mother. But though the black cloud that hung over Archie's war record might be ignored day to day it could not be denied. All she needed was for that to resurface, especially on Armistice Day when Kate would be here.
"No," she said, surprising herself with the temperateness of her tone. She certainly didn't feel temperate. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley, but ... he was my sister's boy, Archie was, and she'll be here for the ceremony on the eleventh. And I don't know that she'll want to ... relive his story."
He was disappointed, but accepted it with grace. "Of course," he said quietly. "I'll ... I'll explain to Mark. He ... took an interest. But ... he'll understand.'
"I'm sorry, Mr. Molesley." She was sorry for him and for Archie, who had a story that couldn't be told, even though he was as deserving in her eyes as any other young man. "It's a fine idea."
He shrugged good-naturedly. "It's not for everyone. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore." Nodding politely to her, he took his leave.
Elsie and Charlie
Tuesday September 28, 1926
"We'll walk up to the Abbey with you."
It amused Elsie that he used a plural pronoun. Her Charlie had gone sixty-odd years without a dog. In the three decades that she had known him he'd never expressed an interest in having a dog. And then overnight he had become almost inseparable from the glossy collie they'd adopted from a local rescue organization.
"I'm very lucky," Elsie responded, welcoming the company of Charlie and Shep. "Bring your umbrella. It's going to rain this morning."
They set off up the gravel path that would take them to the Abbey grounds, walking closely together but not arm in arm or hand in hand. Such circumspection was a reflection of habit, but it also had the effect of investing greater meaning in subtler signs - a look, a smile, a quiet word - when they were in the company of others and made such gestures all the more eloquent when they did indulge in them.
These mornings Charlie usually kept to home, burying himself in the Crawley family papers. After lunch he would make his way to the dower house where he would meet up with Daniel Ryder and together they would spend a few hours with Her Ladyship. Monday mornings followed a different routine with Charlie tramping the estate with His Lordship. But today was Tuesday and he was shaking his habit for another reason.
"Mr. Barrow wants a word before he flits off to the continent," Charlie said, sounding disdainful.
"I wish I were flitting off to the continent," Elsie said airily, aware that he might only be half listening to her, if that.
"Imagine me standing in for him," he went on indignantly.
Elsie cast a sidelong glance at him. "You didn't have to agree to do it," she said mischievously.
He grimaced but said nothing. His Lordship had asked, though he'd made it clear that it was Lady Mary's idea, and that had been that. Charlie had never yet denied the uppity minx anything, as Elsie well knew, even if his pride might suffer a little in the accommodation. She decided to let him off the hook.
"I'm worried about Mr. Branson," she said, changing the subject. "Getting out of the Abbey was good for him. And for Miss Sybbie. It must be hard for him to return to that."
"I beg your pardon!"
She made an exasperated sound. "Oh, I'm not insulting your precious family. You know exactly what I mean. For all that you love the stone and mortar of Downton Abbey, you enjoy having your own home, don't you?"
"It is our home," he corrected her.
"Our home, then. Well, Mr. Branson only wanted his own home as well."
"It's only that you make Downton sound like a prison as far as Mr. Branson is concerned. Anyone should be grateful to reside within those walls, especially someone who was not born to it."
She ought to have known better. Charlie was never going to be wholly reconciled to Mr. Branson's social elevation and would take His Lordship's side in any dispute. She changed direction again.
"Your Mr. Ryder gave a good account of himself at the fire the other night. Or so Mr. Barrow says and you know how sparing he is with praise." Quite as sparing as her Mr. Carson was, though she did not say this.
"Mr. Ryder is a good man," he said, a little testily. "I keep telling you."
She was having no luck with conversation this morning at all. And yet there was something different about his irritability on this subject. She considered him for a moment - his furrowed brow, his agitation. "What is it?"
But he made a dismissive gesture and then shook himself as though to banish his slight malaise. "It's nothing," he said with the shadow of a smile.
But she knew better. "Did you not enjoy your afternoon with Mr. Ryder at the cricket pitch on Sunday?"
"Yes. Of course I did.'
She thought about it some more. "I've not seen him at the cottage recently. Why don't you invite him round for supper. Tomorrow night?" She did not lightly court the younger man's company, but she was beginning to wonder if Charlie's mood was not somehow connected to Daniel Ryder.
He hesitated before responding. "No. I think not."
"Have you fallen out?"
"No."
"Charlie."
"I asked him on Sunday for any night this week," he said abruptly. "And he said he'd tied himself up with Molesley."
"Mr. Molesley?" That did surprise Elsie. Of course, Mr. Ryder boarded with the schoolteacher but her impression from conversations about the arrangmeent was that the acquaintance remained a cursory one.
"Molesley has some special historical project he's working on at the school and Daniel has agreed to help him with it."
"Well ..." Elsie was nonplussed by this. "That's very nice of him. Isn't it?"
Charlie came to an abrupt halt. Both Elsie and Shep, caught unawares, looked at him quizzically. He was standing there very stiffly and his face wore an expression of indignation that she had one or two occasions. Maids in the dining room! sprang to mind.
"Mr. Ryder is my assistant," he said imperiously and then, when Elsie, not quite convinced of the direness of the situation, continued to look on in bemusement, he added, "How would you like to be passed over for Mr. Molesley?"
A wave of empathy for him and his wounded vanity swept over her, but words failed. Instead she reached out and took his hand.
Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson
Tuesday September 28, 1926
"I've got a problem."
Mrs. Patmore came into the housekeeper's office at mid-morning, as she often did, but without the tea that was her usual excuse for a pause at that time of day. And she closed the door behind her.
Mrs. Carson, who had been meditating on her husband's unhappiness and who had already rebuked herself twice for her distraction, rolled her eyes a bit at the cook's declaration. But she put down the pencil with which she had been adding up expenses and turned in her chair to face Mrs. Patmore, who plunked herself down in a chair by the small table. It was the housekeeper's lot to listen to everyone's woes and to sort them as best she could.
"Has Daisy done something?"
This derailed Mrs. Patmore for a moment. "I wouldn't need your help to deal with Daisy!" she snapped. She looked affronted at the very thought.
Seeing that the cook did indeed look worried, Mrs. Carson softened her manner. "What is it?" she asked, for the second time that morning.
"It's Mr. Molesley."
"Mr. Molesley!" Again?!
"Yes. Why do you say it like that?"
"Nothing. Go on."
"He's got some notion for a pageant with the children at school..."
The housekeeper managed to remain stoic at this revelation. Hadn't she already heard this, too?
"... about commemorating the war dead of Downton on Armistice Day." Mrs. Patmore explained at some length. "And he's asked me if one of pupils can tell Archie's story."
"Oh, dear." Mrs. Carson immediately understood how that could be problematic.
"Yes. And I said no. Of course. If Mr. Molesley knew the story ... and I wonder that he doesn't ..."
"He wasn't working here when ... when Mr. Lang ... was indiscreet," Mrs. Carson reminded her.
What a terrible moment that had been.
Mr. Lang, while serving as His Lordship's valet during the war, had drawn Mrs. Patmore's sympathy. In an act of kindness, she had confided in him the truth of her dear nephew, Archie, shot for cowardice, in order to comfort Lang, who suffered grievous mental and emotional anguish as a result of his own service in the trenches. Then the valet, oblivious to the sensitivity of this information and wholly absorbed in his own woes, had related it to a full table of servants over dinner while making a related point. Mrs. Patmore had been in tears for days.
"And ...," the housekeeper continued, "Mr. Carson came down very heavily on the staff in the aftermath. He read them the riot act on the absolute necessity of discretion in the matter."
Making reference to Mr. Carson in a conversation with Mrs. Patmore about her nephew was in itself a potentially fraught act. The cook and the former butler had fallen out rather seriously over the question of whether Archie might be included in the list of names on the Downton war memorial. In one of their more memorable disagreements, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, as she had then been, had not seen eye to eye on this, he refusing out of hand to permit the name of a 'coward' to stand with the others. It had not really been his decision, as the War Department had strict guidelines in the matter. But Mr. Carson had been unnecessarily frank about his personal views and Mrs. Patmore had had a hard time forgiving him.
"I didn't know that."
"Well, all that to say that it is likely Mr. Molesley never did hear about Archie, from gossiping servants anyway. You were saying?"
"Right. Um, well, if Mr. Molesley knew about Archie he of course wouldn't want to mention him anyway." Mrs. Patmore's tone became a little belligerent at this, as though Mr. Molesley had rejected her nephew. "But ... the thing is ... I'm just afraid it will all get dredged up again, and my sister's coming and she's never known the full story." Her face crumpled in anguish. "And I don't want her to find out, certainly not from someone blurting it out."
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Carson said again, seeing Mrs. Patmore's point.
"And ... but ... if Mr. Molesley goes ahead with his play or pageant or whatever it is, and Archie isn't mentioned or given any notice, then Kate may wonder about why he's been excluded. I can say it's because he's not really from Downton, but ... oh, I don't know!"
At this point Mrs. Carson wished they did have some tea. The habit of it, if not the actual beverage itself, was a comfort in such moments. And she felt the cook's despair. This appeared to be a problem that did indeed elude resolution.
"I'm afraid I don't know what to say, Mrs. Patmore. Except that I've not heard a word about ... your nephew ... since that time, except from you. And Mr. Molesley will respect your wishes. And ... you've got a little time to think about how you might manage the situation with your sister. I'll think on it, too."
Mrs. Patmore's shoulders heaved. "It's just ..."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a long minute.
"I ought to have brought in tea," Mrs. Patmore said at length.
"It's no matter."
"And how are things with you?" It was an effort on Mrs. Patmore's part to ask, absorbed as she was by her own woes.
"Oh, well enough."
"Tell me." Mrs. Patmore felt she had shared a heavy burden with her friend and wanted to make a gesture of reciprocation. "Is there a problem in the love nest?"
Mrs. Carson's considerable sympathy for Mrs. Patmore's dilemma all but evaporated. "You're very aggravating," she said curtly, her eyes blazing.
Usually Mrs. Patmore responded to the housekeeper's exasperation with an impudent grin, but in this moment she had asked the question reflexively, rather than deliberately, and Mrs. Carson had seemed distracted when the cook had interrupted her. So now she simply said, "Is there?"
"No," Mrs. Carson said firmly. "Although ... Mr. Carson is a bit down."
"Why? He's about to take over at Downton again. Isn't that what he dreams about?"
"It's not that. It's ... it has something to do with Mr. Ryder. And I'm a bit worried about it."
"Not that again!" Mrs. Patmore clearly did not think that this matter resonated with the same pathos as her predicament which, Mrs. Carson would have agreed, it did not. "He's a nice man! A very nice man." Mrs. Patmore paused. "I wish Daisy could see that."
Mrs. Carson just shook her head.
"If you're that bothered about it," Mrs. Patmore went on, "why don't you do something?"
"Like what?"
"Talk to him."
"Talk to him?"
"You say that with surprise. Yet I've never known you to shrink from a frank discussion of a problem before."
The words were out of Mrs. Patmore's mouth before she realized that that was not quite the case. They stared at each other and both suddenly came over a little uncomfortable, the memory of a very awkward situation that had unfolded in the weeks prior to the Carsons' wedding coming immediately to both minds.
"Um." Mrs. Patmore hauled herself to her feet. "I'd best get back to the kitchen." She paused at the door. "Thank you for listening."
"I'm sure it will sort itself out," Mrs. Carson said kindly. Then, turning back to her desk, she pushed aside that unsettling memory and picked up her pencil again. Mrs. Patmore's problem was a puzzlement and she didn't know what could be done about it. But perhaps it was time to try for some honesty with Mr. Ryder.
Cora and Mary
Tuesday September 28, 1926
On those rare evenings when Robert was not at home and Violet was not visiting, a more informal practice prevailed over every aspect of the evening upstairs. With Robert in London for the first of his engagements with Ambassador Houghton, Cora set a relaxed tone and Tom, Mary, and Henry embraced it.
Tom, glad to be spared for an evening of Robert's subtle pique, was more himself.
"What do you say to a game of billiards?" he asked Henry.
"As though you've not exhausted everything you had to say working together all day," Mary said before her husband could reply.
She was teasing and Henry knew it. He frowned as though confused. "We don't talk when we're playing billiards."
"Don't be at it all night," she warned him. "I can't get out of my dress without you."
A slow, smouldering smile wafted across his face. "I wouldn't miss that."
"I don't think Cora and I needed to hear that," Tom said, amused.
The two men departed and Cora and Mary withdrew to the sitting room. Lewis settled them with coffee and then they were alone.
"We'll have to sit down sometime over the next few days and work out a schedule for the car," Cora said. "Thursday is Stark's last day."
Mary huffed impatiently. "Why is Papa being stubborn about this? We need two drivers for our two cars."
"Well," Cora said, maintaining an even tone, "Papa and I believe we can reconcile our schedules. I have my regular meetings and some social occasions and there will be a few special trips, too. And ... you're not very busy these days."
Mary scowled. "I hope you'll take a private car to the workhouse. We can't have the Earl of Grantham's car idling out of that. Are you still determined go to there?"
"I am," Cora said. "And don't be so snobbish. It doesn't become you. Besides, you took the car and chauffeur to visit Anna an prison, as you should have done. No one objected to that."
It was clear that to Mary this was no comparison at all. "It was a sign of support for Anna. Perhaps you can use Isobel and Dickie's car, if they're still going with you."
"They are. And this is a sign of support, too, for Mr. Chamberlain and his reforms." Cora was exasperated by her daughter's intransigence, but had other things on her mind. "Don't get out of sorts, Mary. I've been wanting to talk to you."
"About what?"
There it was - a hint of defensiveness. So there was something the matter. Cora proceeded carefully. "About you. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
The closed door. Cora was not at all surprised. "You're as bad as your grandmother with your reticence," she said. It was not a reprimand, but more an observation tinged with sadness.
And it struck a sensitive note with Mary, who had been more aware of Granny's obstinacy in that way of late. But still she resisted. "Granny. But not Papa?"
"You're deflecting again," Cora said patiently. "But no, your papa is more open about what troubles him."
"Were you thinking of anything in particular?"
"No. It's just that you don't seem ... happy. Or even content. I know marriage and motherhood aren't everything, not for some women. But they are great things and you have the best of them. Yet there's something lacking. If I knew what it was, I'd address it directly. But I don't. That's why I'm asking you."
They used to be allies, before the war, in the great campaigns of a society mother to secure good marriages for her daughters. But even then it was with Mary an alliance of purpose, not of camaraderie. They loved each other, but were not soul mates. For Cora, that had been Sybil, despite the fact that Sybil went her own way in society and marriage.
"You're not wholly wrong," Mary said tentatively, surprising Cora with this concession. "But I don't think you can help. I do have a plan and I'm working on it."
How like Mary to want to rely on no one. "You'll let me know if I can do anything?"
"Yes, Mama. I know I can always count on you."
It was as much as Cora could hope for. It was not so very long ago that she had seen both of her daughters married to very fine men and thought that her worries in this area were over. And now both of them had troubles. She sighed and hoped that Robert would have better luck with Edith.
Robert and Edith
Tuesday September 28, 1926
"Well, it's been a few years since I've eaten here," Robert said, standing to greet Edith as she was escorted to their table by an immaculately tailored maitre d'. She is beautiful, he thought. This was not a revelation for him, but rather a reality that struck him every time his eyes fell on his daughter.
"I've dined here a few times in recent months," Edith said, looking around the grand dining room of the Carlton.
They were enjoying a late dinner together, Robert having had his diplomatic engagement and Edith after an evening with her editor.
"Sometimes I wonder who you are," Robert said almost in awe. "A decade ago all your mother and I hoped for was that you would marry well. But look at you. All of you. Mary - the agent of Downton, Sybil - a nurse, and you - owner and editor of a successful magazine. How limited my expectations were."
"Dearest Papa." Edith's eyes were shining. "Strictly speaking, I didn't make my own success. I inherited it from Michael."
"That sounds like the Edith-before-the-war," her father said a little curtly. "You've proven your mettle in the publishing business, Edith. For all its glamour, it is a cut-throat world. Don't diminish your own success."
Edith glowed.
"How are Tom and Sybbie?" she asked, not to turn the conversation but because the question had been preying on her mind all day. "Is there any news?"
Robert brought her up to date, which did not take very long as there was nothing much to say. "It's all a puzzlement," he finished. "I'm glad to have them home again though," he added, as though Tom and Sybbie had returned from a second transatlantic pilgrimage of several months duration, rather than from a short stint just down the road.
"How odd that the police have turned up nothing," Edith said. "Have you not thought of hiring a private investigator, as you offered to do when ... Michael... disappeared in Germany?" Edith could speak with equanimity about Michael Gregson in connection with the publishing company, but any allusion to his violent end at the hands of National Socialist thugs in Munich still had a deeply unsettling affect.
Robert reached for her hand and held it for a moment. "I brought it up," he said, "but Tom vetoed it. I don't know why." The aggravation Robert had felt toward his son-in-law since the fire reared its head. "I was thinking of doing it anyway."
"Papa. You can't."
"I have gotten a man down from Scotland Yard to examine the arson evidence. We'll see what comes of that."
They perused the Carlton's rich menu for a minute. "How are things at Brancaster?" Robert was trying quite deliberately to put his irritation behind him. And he was interested in the answer to his question, and not only because Cora had reminded him to ask it.
Edith knew precisely to what he was referring. "Bertie and I are speaking," she said carefully and clearly with an inclination to say no more. Robert did not press her.
After they had ordered, they both made an effort to be more cheerful.
"How was your evening?" Edith asked.
Robert looked a little perplexed. "I'm not quite certain. It was an informal affair - cocktails, earnest discussion, but nothing official. I made the rounds, listened attentively, drew some connections here and there between different parties on different issues."
"But that sounds marvelous, Papa."
He shrugged. "And diverted Lord Ranskill from a very determined effort to expel Oswald Mosley from the party."
"Oswald Mosley." Edith's eyes widened in incredulity. "You do move in some strange circles!"
"He wasn't expected, but he has tremendous connections. But Ranskill is on the Lords' Committee on banking and he went apoplectic when Mosley raised the question of nationalizing the banks." Robert paused. "Or would have done had I not quietly cast some aspersions on Mosley's mental health."
"Was that ethical, Papa?"
"Have you read The Times on his so-called Birmingham Proposals? Absolutely crackers."
Edith laughed.
"To answer your original question, I enjoy mingling with the decision-makers of the day - if not the crackpots - and it is pleasant to engage in intelligent conversation. But I'm beggared if I can see how anything ever gets done."
"Diplomacy is time consuming," Edith said wisely. "You can hardly have expected an Anglo-American-German rapprochement to emerge fully formed from an exchange over cocktails."
Their conversation continued casually and on various pleasant subjects over the different courses of their dinner. One safe subject was the children. Though Robert had seen Marigold less than two weeks earlier, Edith had many stories to recount of her daughter. In his turn, Robert related tales of George and Stephen, and what he knew about Sybbie, including what he considered to be the abominable state of her education.
"Papa." Edith spoke firmly. "You say that only because she attends the village school. She couldn't possibly be learning less there than the three of us did from our dreadful governess.'
Robert ignored this, turning instead to a point Edith had made about the dearth of children of Marigold's age in immediate proximity to Brancaster Castle.
"She was never lonely at Downton."
"Of course not, with George and Sybbie."
Robert stared meaningfully at her and Edith frowned.
"What did you mean by pressing Bertie about his duty as the Marquis of Hexham to produce an heir?"
"I thought that wasn't what set him off," Robert said, a little guardedly.
"It wasn't. But why would you say such a thing?"
"Because it's true. It is one of the fundamental responsibilities of the position."
"Who's having this child?" Edith said, exasperated. "Not him. But Papa, Bertie must be the man he is. The responsibilities of Brancaster are immense. And Bertie is certainly far more conscientious than his cousin Peter was. And," she added, returning to the original point, "having a baby wouldn't solve the problem of playmates for Marigold, not for a few years anyway. Maybe never. Obviously I wasn't the answer to Mary's prayers."
Though he considered the issues under discussion serious enough, Robert said mischievously, "I didn't realize that Mary had ever prayed."
It was a joke they could both enjoy.
They decided against an after-dinner drink but did take coffee. The mood had shifted again and Robert could tell that Edith was working her way up to something. He waited patiently, expecting that she might at last be ready to confide in him about her troubles with Bertie. He was prepared to be supportive.
"Papa," she said at length, "what happened to the Drewes?"
Robert stared at her in astonishment for a full minute. He'd not thought of his former tenants in months, not since they'd departed from Yew Tree farm. He was very surprised that Edith should have wondered about them and said so.
"Well, they did leave in a hurry," she said. Edith did not have to add that they had done so at her behest, although it had been Robert who had formally asked them to go. He did not like to think of it.
"I just ... wanted to know," Edith said, somewhat lamely.
Robert decided to answer the question as directly as he could. "I wrote some letters on their behalf, seeking a tenancy for them on another estate." He had given the matter some consideration at the time, focusing on possibilities in counties at some distance from Yorkshire.
"And they got something?"
"I don't know," he said flatly.
Edith looked as though she regretted raising the subject. Robert certainly wished she had not. They both cast about for a change of topic. Edith found her way first.
"How is Granny?"
Robert sighed. It had started out as such a nice evening.
