DOWNTON ABBEY
Episode 7. Chapter 5
Friday October 1, 1926
Elsie and Charlie
On Friday morning the butler's livery, pristine and pressed to perfection, hung on a hook on the wardrobe door in the corner of the cottage bedroom. Next to it was a starched shirt so white it gleamed. And on the floor just below them were a pair of highly polished shoes.
He had pretended he wasn't excited at all about the prospect of returning to the Abbey and had, in fact, come across a little aggrieved at having been distracted from his work. Elsie had let him grumble about it all evening, amused by the facade but also pleased that he had moved on so successfully that the history of the Crawleys had taken precedence. Or so he said. She wasn't completely convinced. But she had helped make him ready, made sure there were no loose threads on his clothing, no blemish he had overlooked on his shoes. He wanted to be perfect for Downton Abbey, as he always had, and she was fully supportive of that desire.
And yet for all the fussing over his livery, he had fallen asleep easily enough and it was she, not he, who woke before dawn with her mind whirring with the tasks and demands of the day ahead. And ... with excitement for him. Thinking of this, she rolled over to face him. They always started the night side by side, her back to his chest. By morning he was lying on his back, as she found him now. He did not stir at her movement and so for a little while she just looked at him.
Elsie had chosen a career in domestic service and accepted the celibate life that went with it, but living like a nun didn't mean she had to think like one. She'd always taken notice of a good-looking man and knew well those aspects that she found attractive in one. If she'd been asked, by Mrs. Patmore or Anna or anyone else, why it was she had fallen in love with Charles Carson there were many ways she might have replied. They were great friends; he exemplified many of the virtues she admired; she enjoyed his company; he could be very sweet... But she would not have told a soul that she had also been entranced by the physical man. She liked a dark-eyed, dark-haired man. In his chiseled features she saw strength and clarity and she was drawn to that. In his height and breadth there was a sense physical power that she found compelling and yet also reassuring. And intoxicating. The way he moved sometimes took her breath away. She could hardly have explained that to Mrs. Patmore.
She reached out to him, her fingers dancing lightly up his arm, in and out of the rumpled folds of his pajama sleeves until they came to rest on his shoulder. Then she slid her flattened hand across his chest. How easy and natural it was to touch him! That thought made her laugh. Natural now, perhaps! But hadn't it taken them a while to get used to each other! to extend to their physical life together the intimacy that had blossomed organically in their long friendship.
He stirred at the sound of her laughter and when his eyes fluttered open she was right there, the first thing on which his gaze fell. And he smiled.
"Good morning, love."
Oh, she was never going to tire of hearing that!
On any other morning, feeling this way, she might have enticed him into play and found him a willing partner. But she knew him too well to expect to distract him today.
"It's still early," she assured him, as he suddenly came over more alert, the responsibilities of the day ahead making themselves felt.
He relaxed a little then and smiled into her lips as she leaned forward to kiss him. "You're in good humour," he observed, looking pleased.
"I am," she declared, propping herself up against him. "I'm looking forward to your being at Downton all day. Did you want to join the rest for breakfast?" He hadn't made up his mind on this the night before and doing so would mean they would have to get up sooner.
"No. Mr. Barrow and Mr. Talbot are catching the nine o'clock. He can preside over breakfast."
Elsie stifled a smile at this. There would be an awkwardness over seating arrangements if Charlie and Mr. Barrow were at the same table and she knew her husband never wanted to appear in a position of inferiority with regard to the current butler.
"His Lordship will be glad to see you, I'm sure," she said instead. Overall she thought His Lordship was making an effort with Mr. Barrow, but the relationship was never going to be what it had been with her Mr. Carson. "They've promised a quiet weekend on account of Mr. Barrow's absence."
"Let us hope so," her husband intoned. "I think there's been enough excitement of late, with the American ambassador, and then the party from Brancaster, and then the fire."
At his grumbling, Elsie felt another impulse to smile. Then she was startled as he scrambled up on his elbows to look at her more directly.
"I've been so preoccupied with today that I forgot to tell you. Lady Merton is putting on a dinner party and has asked me to help."
This did take her aback. "Will you?"
"It's more a question of can I help. His Lordship and Her Ladyship understand my ... condition. They asked me to manage things this weekend, but they know there are things I cannot do. But Lady Merton is planning a society dinner. I don't know that I can really be of much use to her."
"But you didn't say no?"
"I told her I would think about it. I believe she may be at Downton today or tomorrow." He paused. "I could supervise, make sure her staff are on top of things. But there would have to be someone else in the dining room. I can't pour the wines." He shook his head. "She really should have a butler."
Elsie ignored the last point. "Well, if you agree, I'll help. Not with the wines, of course, but with the organizing."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Lady Merton has done some good things. Helping Ethel Parks and Charlie Grigg."
He fell back on his pillow with a groan. "I thought we had agreed not to mention him again."
"I don't remember that. Besides, you made it up with him."
"And settled it. I'm done with him."
But thinking of Charlie Grigg reminded Elsie of a question she had long wanted to ask. "When you were on the halls with him..."
"Here we go."
"...did you just sing? Or was there more to your act? Did you tell jokes?"
"Elsie," he said plaintively, looking pained. "You know we did more than just sing. We danced. And...yes. We told jokes." He stared back at her, clearly hoping that would be the end of it.
"Who was the funny one?" This was really what she wanted to know.
"Must we discuss this? Now? I have work to attend to!" He began scrabbling at the bedclothes.
"Oh, just tell me," she said, poking him.
He stopped thrashing about. "Me, of course," he said, a little huffily. "Can you picture him?"
She laughed. "I can't picture you!"
This perplexed him. "Look. If you and I ... I cannot believe I am saying this... if you and I were a double act, who do you think, between us, would be the funny one?"
That was a poser - a staid Englishman or a dour Scot. "I think we'd have to hire a third partner!" she said pertly and then chuckled at his exasperation.
"You take such pleasure in teasing me," he said, half resigned, half reproachful.
"I take pleasure in everything about you," she replied with a sudden solemnity, and then reached out to put a hand to his cheek.
He covered her hand with his and then turned his head slightly that he might press his lips to her palm. As he did so, his eyes fell on the livery hanging on the wardrobe door and he shifted his gaze to her once more.
"Time to get up."
Robert and Cora
At Downton Abbey, Cora awoke when a sliver grey dawn breached the carefully drawn curtain and fell across her eyes. It was early, much earlier than she would rise, but in that delicious moment of hatching - as Sybil once described the slow ascendance into a wakened state - she realized that she did not want to go back to sleep. An impulse both playful and amorous seized her and she rolled over to face Robert.
She knew at a glance that he was already awake though he had not given himself away in movement. And she knew, too, that he was agitated. His body language - he lay on his back, hands folded across his stomach, his whole frame too still - told her that. Her desire for him did not diminish, but transformed in an instant into empathy. She tucked a hand around his arm and pulled herself to his side. His arm tightened and then relaxed again in an acknowledgment of her presence.
"What's on your mind?" she asked gently.
He shook his head almost perceptibly. In the dimness of the room, Cora felt it more than saw it.
"Is it Edith? Was there something about her?"
"No. Edith is fine." He spoke quietly, almost without inflection.
"This business with Tom, then?" How could Tom not be a concern. But though she offered this up, Cora did not think the ongoing puzzlement over the burning of Shamrock Cottage would have Robert in this state and he confirmed this by shaking his head.
Instead of guessing again, Cora snuggled up against him and tucked his shoulder under her chin, nudging his ear lobe not so much in play as an encouragement to confide in her.
"Did you ...," he started abruptly and then stopped. "How did you manage when your father died?"
She hadn't expected that. "What?"
"You hadn't seen him for two years. He was across an ocean. The news came by telegraph..."
It was an odd thing for him to ask, but Cora drew back a little and considered. "I was very sad, of course. He was a dear man, Father. And so much easier to love and like than Mother!" she said this with a poignant little laugh. Her mother was something else. "And it was so unexpected. But ... I was over here. And we had three young children and ... somehow ... the physical crossing of the ocean, being literally a world away ... I had to accept that it would happen, someday, and that I wouldn't be there. There was nothing I could do about it."
He did know all that. They had discussed, before they had married, the reality of the vast and permanent distance from her family and what that would mean to her in terms of the momentous events in the lives of her parents and brother. That Robert had thought to raise the matter had struck Cora at the time as a display of remarkable sensitivity and consideration on his part, and she had loved him all the more for it.
"Robert?'
"It's..."
There was enough light filtering into the room so she could see that his face was screwed up in that way he had when he was trying to hold something in and his usual reserves of dispassion had failed. "... Mama," he said at last, admitting it.
"Oh, my darling." Cora threw her arm over him. "Do we know anything definite?"
He drew a deep breath and then exhaled very slowly. "I believe Edith may," he said, working to rein in emotion. "She wasn't explicit..."
Cora sighed inwardly at this. None of them ever were explicit, the Crawleys.
"...but I think she knows something."
It would be no good telling him not to worry or brushing away his apprehensions or feigning a cheerful optimism. Mama was fading. They had both noticed it. And though Dr. Clarkson had not and could not say anything - his profession demanded such discretion - did not his actions speak for themselves? That carriage ride in the park last week was an extraordinary gesture from someone outside the family, but it reflected the long acquaintance between the dowager and the doctor that was grounded in a profound degree of mutual respect. We ought to have done that, Cora thought, and then impatiently pushed that aside. Recriminations were useless.
"We can spend more time with her," she said. "All the time you'd like, Robert."
"I wish there were something I could do," he said softly.
"The best gift in our giving is our time." She arched her neck and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "She adores you, Robert. She wouldn't change a single thing about you. Not a single hair on your head."
"I don't deserve such regard," he said and there was almost a quaver in his voice.
"But you do," Cora said firmly.
He turned to her then and in his tear-blurred eyes she saw not only the awakening grief for his mother but also the passionate love he held for her. Her heart skipped a beat.
"I don't deserve you," he said.
"Words are such a weak vessel in which to capture love," she murmured, pressing her lips to his. He tightened his arms about her. For all his carefully cultivated dispassion, feeling ran deep in him. Somehow she had discerned the potential of his heart those many years ago when they had first met in the great drawing rooms of the nation. What a choice she had made!
It was some time before they drew apart. Somehow the mysterious and intangible magic of a lover's touch had worked the healing that was beyond words so that when he spoke again it was with his usual measured tones.
"Bates will be up soon."
The mundane nature of the words were overshadowed by the still-simmering feelings evident in his look and touch. They leaned into a gentle kiss and then Robert slid from the bed.
Cora watched him disappear into the dressing room and then sank back into her pillows. Dearest Mama. It was hard to imagine Downton without her.
Thomas
Thomas was impatient to be away.
It was just short of torture to endure the achingly slow evaporation of the minutes between his rising - an hour earlier than usual because there was no point just lying in bed - and their departure. He tried to fill it with work, but he'd been efficient the day before in arranging everything perfectly, not wanting to give Mr. Carson any grounds for disapproval. And he couldn't concentrate anyway.
He presided over the downstairs breakfast as usual but could hardly eat a bite. And to have Mrs Patmore and Daisy registering this and exchanging knowing glances about it was exasperating. Although it was amusing, too. Knowing. The fact was they knew nothing, nothing about what the adventure on which he was embarking might entail. Neither of them had ever been anywhere. And as for the more personal aspect of his trip to Berlin, well, as spinsters - he summarily dumped Daisy in this category because she hadn't really been married - they could hardly envisage something as profoundly prosaic as the Carsons' honeymoon, let alone Berlin, his Berlin, the Berlin of Erich. That was wholly beyond their feeble imaginings.
Unable to bear it any longer he got to his feet, but gave them all leave to remain and finish their breakfasts. It was generous of him, but he did not see why they should abandon their half-eaten meals because he couldn't sit still. Retreating to the pantry once more, he checked the straps on his grip, though he knew they were sound, and wondered if it were too early to go load it in the car.
Of course he was excited. He didn't know quite what was ahead of him, but he was determined to live every minute to the fullest. And though he'd been feeling blue the night before, wishing he could share his exhilaration and anticipation with someone, morning and the reality of his departure had sent his spirits soaring. He was going to be with a man, with other men, in a whole community like him, in a place where being like him wasn't regarded as a perversion or something that must be hidden. Thomas was a little nervous about this, not sure whether he would be able to surrender himself to this, but he was certainly going to try!
"Mr. Barrow?"
He was shaken from his self-absorption and looked up abruptly to find Miss Baxter at the door.
She moved into his office. "Thomas. I want to wish you a pleasant journey," she said warmly. "I hope you'll have some time on your own to look around. I've never been anywhere," she added wistfully.
She was genuinely happy for him, he could see that. And if she wasn't exactly what he had in mind in terms of a friend, he did appreciate her effort. "Thank you," he said. "I'll send you a postcard." He surprised himself with that. "Make Mr. Molesley jealous." He grinned to show her that he was teasing.
She blushed and Thomas could hardly keep from shaking his head. "Thank you," he said again.
Miss Baxter ducked out.
He ought to check on breakfast upstairs, make sure Andy and Lewis were handling it right. There wasn't much doubt in his mind that they were but it wouldn't hurt to look in. If there was one little niggling concern in Thomas's mind about this trip it was Lewis. He knew everyone else too well - including Mr. Carson - to worry about what they might do in his absence. But Lewis, though efficient to a fault, was still a wild card. He shrugged that away. The moment he got into the car heading for the station, he knew that Downton would cease to exist for him until his return.
Thomas stepped into the passage and almost into the passing figure of Daniel Ryder. They'd sat together at the servants' table, but hadn't spoken to each other except to exchange a pleasant greeting.
"All set?" Ryder asked genially.
Thomas was in too good a mood to hold their slightly fractious conversation the night before against the man. "I am," he replied brightly.
Together they strode up the stairs, Thomas heading for the dining room, Ryder for the small library. At the green baize door, Ryder put a hand on the doorknob and then paused.
"I hope you have a wonderful time in Berlin, Mr. Barrow."
"Thank you."
Ryder gave him a quick smile and then moved off across the Great Hall to his destination. Thomas turned to the dining room, feeling buoyed up even by that mild exchange. And then he came over a little puzzled. Have a wonderful time. That was an odd thing to say, wasn't it?
Isobel and Dickie
He saw her coming from an upstairs window. Truth to tell, he had been looking out one window or another every few minutes for almost an hour in anticipation of her return. A visit to Downton Abbey had appealed to him as it always did - his connections with the Crawleys went back many years - but a previous engagement had prevented him from joining her there this afternoon. No matter. They would have a lovely tea together exchanging their news.
He bounded down the stairs exhibiting an exuberance some would have found out of keeping with his social rank and age, but he was impatient with such disapprobation. They had parted four hours ago with sweet kisses and laughter and even the loss of one minute more than was absolutely necessary was too much to ask of him. Critics who would frown on such overt expressions of love were those, he was sure, who had never known what love truly was. He himself had led such a barren existence until Isobel came into his life and that was enough to make him cherish every second he had with her.
Dickie expected to find Isobel in the hall, taking off her hat and coat, looking longingly toward the stairs in anticipation of setting her eyes on him. But she was not there. Puzzled, he looked around. Crawley House was large in proportion to the cottages in the village, but modest compared to Cavenham or Downton Abbey, or even the Dower House. His search did not take much time.
He found her standing by one of the long windows in the drawing room, that bright, warm space that was such a contrast to the several inviting rooms in his old home. Though her back was to him, he could see that she had her arms wrapped about herself. Her eyes seemed fixed on some point in the street beyond but she was not really looking at anything at all.
Still he approached her with enthusiasm and coming up behind her wound his arms about her. Despite her apparent preoccupation, she leaned back into him. "My sweet," he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek. It was only when he tasted the warm wetness there that he realized she was crying.
"Isobel!" he cried, gently turning her toward him. "What has happened?" His concern only deepened when he saw the grief etched in her lovely countenance. "My darling!" He felt a stab of fear .
She shook her head and tried a weak smile, accepting his hastily produced handkerchief to apply to her tears. "I'm overreacting," she said with a gulp. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine at all!" he protested, taking her arm and leading her to the sofa where they sat together, arms entwined. "Did something happen at the Abbey?" His expression became very grave. "Has something else happened to Tom?" They had been apprised of all the details of Tom's ordeal and Dickie could not, in an instant, think of anyone else on whom tragedy had recently been visited.
"No," Isobel said, managing to speak in a firm voice. "Tom is fine. But ... yes, there was something at the Abbey, though it's hardly worth this display." She tried to laugh it off, but instead tears flowed once more.
Dickie did not believe this. Isobel was idealistic, but not sentimental. She would not break down so over a trivial matter. "Can you tell me about it?"
She took a deep breath. "I won't say it's silly, but this really is too much.'
He patted her arm and waited.
"I spent some time today with George," she began.
Dickie's expression softened at this. He knew how much Isobel loved the handsome little blond boy and the delight she took in him. Dickie enjoyed the child as well. He would never have such a relationship with his own grandson, Edgar. The situation with Larry prohibited it.
"He was full of stories of the fire," Isobel went on, "and about his plans to become a fire chief." This amused them both. "And then he told me about how he and Barrow had traced the route that Henry and Barrow would take on their trip to Berlin today. But...," her face clouded again," ... he didn't say Henry, of course. He said ... he said Papa." This last word came out as a cry of anguish.
Dickie put an arm about her and pulled her close.
"I ... I suppose that's how he's spoken of Henry all along, though I hadn't heard it before. And ... why shouldn't he? After all, his ... his real papa died the day he was born..." She lapsed into sobs again and for a moment could not speak. Dickie held her firmly. "And ... it's right that Henry should take this place in his life. I can't expect George to go fatherless all his life, any more than I could wish Mary to wear widow's weeds forever. It's ... it's that I wasn't prepared for it."
And how could one prepare for something like that? There was nothing to do but hold her while she faced it. This was the sort of thing that one could only endure until it became bearable. No words could take away the hurt.
So they sat for some time.
"I'm so happy to have your shoulder to cry on," Isobel said at length, lifting her head to meet his adoring gaze.
"I cannot think it ever put to better use," he murmured stoutly.
She laughed a little at this. "Shall we have our tea?"
In short order Ellen had their tea ready and, fortified by this comforting ritual, Isobel was able to turn to other matters.
"I spoke with Carson today," she said. "He's minding the store while Barrow is away. He said he'd help us."
This was good news. "Wonderful!"
"And he's issuing orders already," Isobel added, slightly ruffled. "He says we must push the date back to the 29th. And he wants to see the guest list, if you can imagine1 And he asked for the authority to buy or borrow appropriate personnel if we'd not arranged matters sufficiently." She shook her head. "And Cousin Violet wonders why I don't want a butler!"
Dickie was not perturbed. "We need a general," he said amiably.
"Yes, but not Napoleon!"
He laughed aloud at her indignation. "I think we must submit, my dear. Indeed," he added mischievously, "I believe paying obeisance to one's butler is one of the rules Carson mentioned in his article."
Isobel sighed. "I'm afraid we must. He did say that Mrs. Carson will help, which pleases me very much. Apart from her many domestic skills, she appears to be the only one who can keep the tyrant in check!"
A smile swept across Dickie's face. "Do you know, my dear, I think that we may very well pull this off!"
She could not help but be heartened by his gentle humour and laughed with him.
"Shall we invite Clarkson?" Dickie asked offhandedly.
"Why?"
A little furrow of confusion creased his brow at this response. "At the very least he will balance the numbers. According to the article," he added earnestly, "that's very important."
Isobel turned meditative. "No. I think not. It's not his style."
