SEASON 7 EPISODE 8

Chapter 1

Monday October 4

ELSIE AND DAISY AND DANIEL

Through the open door of her office, Elsie could hear the clatter from the kitchen as Daisy filled the sink and began her assault on the breakfast dishes. It was late for such a task, but Daisy was doing things on her own schedule this morning for Mrs. Patmore had gone out early, on a mission to Ripon. Mrs. Patmore would have to be absent for Daisy to be raising such a racket.

Nor was Mr. Carson there to object, as surely he would have done. Elsie didn't know whether to be more surprised or pleased that the (acting) butler of Downton Abbey had thought his Monday morning walk with His Lordship more important than attending to the routine morning demands of his office.

"I'm at the Abbey to oversee operations generally, not to do Mr. Barrow's paperwork for him," he d said when they'd discussed their plans for the day at dawn.

There had been a time, and not very long ago, when he might have counted a morning of leisure as a grave dereliction of duty. Such was the distance he had traveled since his retirement. He saw his duty differently these days. Elsie did wonder at him leaving Lewis unsupervised, but that young man had taken his sentence to two days of silver polishing with equanimity and had been closeted in the workroom since clearing upstairs breakfast. And Charlie had locked the pantry door before leaving.

"And His Lordship will want to discuss events," he had added carefully.

No doubt His Lordship would. Charlie had imparted to his wife the essence of the confrontation that had taken place in the library the afternoon before. "Bold as brass, he was!" he'd declared, a reference to young John Dunsany. "Not an ounce of regret in him! He'd have taken it to the papers if they'd let him."

"But they didn't," Elsie had concluded. The upper classes struggled mightily to keep their names out of the scandal sheets. They weren't always successful, but they were better armed for the battle than the middling and lower classes. Her husband, Elsie knew, had an almost paralyzing allergy to scandal, especially as it affected Downton, but she was in this case just a little perturbed at his complacency with regard to the temporary armistice at which the Crawleys and the Drumgooles had arrived. It was a deliberate act of arson, after all. Petrol had been involved. And was not Charlie a stickler for the rule of law? "Have you forgotten that Miss Sybbie was in that house?"

This discomfited him a little, but was not the prevailing consideration. "No one was hurt, after all," he said, a little grudgingly. "The boy did see to that."

"I suppose you think it was all Mr. Branson's fault anyway," she surmised, knowing her husband well.

"Isn't it?"

Sometimes Elsie found her husband s attitudes exasperating.

She got up to fetch a cup of tea and to tell Daisy to keep the noise down, but drew up sharply just before the kitchen at the sound of another voice.

"Let me help you with that." It was Daniel Rider, coming in from the coal yard.

His words were enough to give Elsie pause. When had she ever heard any man utter those words in the Downton kitchen, at least in regard to the dishes?

"Don't be daft." Daisy brushed him off but with a familiarity that robbed the words of any sting. "You're not a servant.'

"No. But I eat and drink and contribute to the pile of dishes you've got to wash."

"Go on then."

This exchange piqued Elsie's curiosity. It had frustrated Mrs. Patmore that her assistant had taken no interest in this amiable young man. Kitchen workers had little opportunity for exposure to prospects other than the footmen. Daisy, especially Daisy who aspired to things beyond the kitchen confines, ought to have given Daniel Rider at least cursory consideration. Elsie thought that a more reasonable expectation than that Daniel Rider would taken an interest in Daisy. In her experience, the middle classes were as disinclined as the aristocracy to mix socially with the servants for anything but dubious purposes. Mr. Carson's assistant seemed exceptional in this regard, but Elsie was still sceptical of his motives. Here was an opportunity to gather more information on the anomalies of both Daisy and Daniel Rider.

"Mr. Rider," Daisy said after a while, affecting a casualness that did not ring true. "You've lived in London."

"I have."

"What would … someone need to get on there?"

He did not answer immediately, turning her question over in his mind first. "I'm no expert," he said slowly, "but I think it would be useful to have a marketable skill, something for which other people want to pay.'

"Like cooking?'

"Yes. But more than that. A person would want a set of skills, social and economic. Because London is expensive and you'd want to get the very best job you could."

"There's a school for women … like me," Daisy gave up the façade of speaking in generalities, "…to learn book-keeping and management and such. Do you think that would be worthwhile?"

"That sounds grand! Just the ticket!"

"But … what d'you mean, social skills?"

"How to make a good impression. How to navigate a big city. It's a different world. Knowing what your rights are as a worker and how to protect them. There are unions in the trades, but so much employment falls outside such organizations. Service is vulnerable."

Elsie was impressed. This was good advice of the sort that those who shared the limited world of Downton with Daisy could not offer.

"We get exploited everywhere," Daisy said.

"Perhaps. But here you have advocates in the people you've known for so long. Why London, anyway? There are other cities, smaller cities, closer to Yorkshire.'

"I don't know. I suppose it's because it's the big city? It has so many opportunities. Things I'd never even think of."

"What's so wrong with here? I quite like Yorkshire."

"Yes, but you've been somewhere. I've been nowhere."

Daniel laughed. "Fair enough. We all of us get the itch to travel sometime. It's exciting to see new things and meet different people. Only … weigh the blessings of home carefully before you cast them aside for greener pastures elsewhere. Winter comes everywhere once in a year."

"What?"

"You have family here, Daisy. People who care for you. You can change your job or place of residence quite easily. Finding new friends, compensating for the warmth of family, that's much more difficult."

"It's only London, not America. You've done it."

"So I have." He did not seem inclined to expand on this. Instead, he changed the subject. "Have you been enjoying having Mr. Carson in charge again?"

An inarticulate sound emanated from Daisy, half bark of laughter, half snort of disbelief. "No!" she said emphatically.

"Really?" Daniel Rider's astonishment was apparent.

Elsie, listening hard, was less astonished. She had, after all, seen the dynamic between her husband and Daisy in operation from a near vantage point.

"I know you like him, but … it's different for you. He doesn't boss you around."

"Doesn't the exercise of authority … bossiness … come with the position of butler?"

"Maybe. But … he's so … old, and old-fashioned. It's like he hasn't done anything new in fifty years. Except marry Mrs. Carson."

Daniel laughed hard at this, which was fortunate for Elsie had a job of it stifling her own amusement. Face to face she would have rebuked Daisy for such impertinence, but was relieved of this responsibility by her surreptitious presence. It was said eavesdroppers seldom heard anything good about themselves, so she must take her lumps – and Mr. Carson's as well – in stride.

"That was quite revolutionary, I suppose," Daniel Rider said and then paused. "So you prefer Mr. Barrow, then?"

"Oh, yes. He's much more modern." There was a moment of silence. "I used to fancy him," Daisy said, with a bit of a giggle.

"Mr. Barrow?! But nothing came of it?"

The answer to this seemed obvious and yet Elsie thought it a peculiar question.

"No. Well, I were so young. I thought Mr. Barrow was too good for me, but Mrs. Patmore told me it weren't any good anyhow, not with a man like him. I didn't understand. Then."

And when had Daisy come to understand men like Mr. Barrow? Elsie wondered. Time did fly by.

"A man like him." Daniel repeated the words without inflection.

"Yeah. You know." Daisy might have come along in her understanding of the world, but with Mrs. Patmore as a model it was hardly surprising that she was lacking in tact, even to allude to such a thing about Mr. Barrow to a virtual stranger. But then Daniel Rider had a gift for breaking down barriers. Elsie needed to look no further than her own husband for evidence of that. She ought, perhaps, to have intervened right then and ended the conversation. But … what Daniel Rider said next would offer such an insight into his character. So she waited still.

"Is this … generally known? About Mr. Barrow?"

Daisy gave this a thought. "Yeah. I think so. Except for Lewis. Lewis hasn't been here very long. But he doesn't want to know anything about us anyway."

Elsie was still chewing over Daniel's first response, when he spoke again.

"And Mr. Carson knows?"

"Yeah. I think. He never said anything, but no one does. But especially not Mr. Carson. He never likes to hear about anything that isn't proper."

Any thought Elsie had had about derailing the conversation was forgotten as her mind rapidly assessed what she was hearing and what it might mean. A sinking feeling was coming over her. She was startled to hear her own name.

"And … Mrs. Carson?" Daniel Rider spoke carefully, but Daisy seemed oblivious to the atmosphere in which his words dropped.

"Oh, she doesn't judge people on things like that. If you do your job right, she wouldn't care if you were a pink gorilla!"

They both laughed aloud at this and once more Daniel Rider shifted the conversation adroitly in another direction. He began to tell Daisy about a book he'd read called On the Gorilla's Trail.

"…which isn't really about gorillas at all, but is a sort of travelogue – a diary of a trip – through the Congo."

In the shadow beyond the kitchen door, Elsie took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had played eavesdropper so as to learn more about Daniel Rider and in the course of a few minutes had gone from stable footing to feeling that the ground was shaking beneath her, to use one of Mr. Carson's favourite metaphors. What did it mean?

She was not given to acting on impulse and yet in the next instant she had pushed into the kitchen as though she had only just come down the passage.

"Daisy, is the kettle on? Oh, and Mr. Rider. Have you got a new job?" To her own ears, there was a bit of false heartiness in her voice, but Daniel Rider only smiled at her and replaced the dish towel he'd used for drying back on its rack.

"Not at all," he said genially. "I've just been giving Daisy a hand."

"That's kind of you."

"I should get back to my own work." He made to step by her, but she turned with him.

"We've not seen you at the cottage recently," she said lightly. "I know you've been helping Mr. Molesley in the evenings, but perhaps you might join Mr. Carson and me for supper one night this week?"

Her invitation stopped him in his tracks and in his gaze she saw a hint of uncertainty. But then he smiled again. "I would like that."

"Very good. Shall we say Thursday?"

MRS PATMORE

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were hard at preparations for dinner in the late afternoon when the coal door slammed, followed by the footsteps of more than one person in the passage. It was Andy, ducking as he came through the door into the kitchen, and in his wake was a boy, perhaps eleven years old.

"Found this one in the yard," the footman announced with a grin.

Mrs. Patmore turned a formidable glare on the boy. "If it's a job you're after, you'll have to speak to Mr. Barrow and he's not back from his travels yet. I've no use for a boy in the kitchen." She glanced meaningfully in Andy's direction.

"Right," he said and, with a wink at Daisy, scuttled off to the boot room.

Mrs. Patmore's gaze returned to the boy. He didn't flinch before her.

"It's not a job," he said. And then, as though he suddenly remembered it, he swept the cap from his head.

"Who are you then and what do you want?" Mrs. Patmore seldom minced words. Only the presence of members of the family and, possibly royalty, could take the sharp edge off her tongue.

"My name is Mark Wallace," he replied clearly, "and it's Mrs. Patmore I've come to see."

This was a surprise and the two women exchanged glances. The corner of Daisy's mouth turned up, a discreet sign of regard for this boy.

"I am she," the cook declared imperiously. "State your business."

Her relentless abruptness finally had an impact and the boy shrank a little. Daisy took pity on him.

"Would you like a biscuit, Mark?" she asked kindly, going to fetch the tin.

"Yes, please!" he said eagerly, taking one. "Thank you, miss."

Daisy smiled warmly at him. She sympathized with those colliding with Mrs. Patmore for the first time.

The biscuit gave him courage. "I've come from the school. Mr. Molesley's class. And…."

"Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore spoke peremptorily. "Could you fetch a ham from the larder, please?"

They had no need for a ham and Daisy knew it. But she had an inkling as to the nature of this conversation and of the cook's sensitivity to it. So she slipped wordlessly from the room.

"Go on, then," Mrs. Patmore said, her tone edgy.

"We're putting on a pageant for Armistice Day. We've all got to choose a soldier from Downton who died in the war to present. From the list on the memorial in the village. Only I wanted to talk about the soldier who has his own memorial on the wall." His solemn eyes met Mrs. Patmore's uneasy gaze. "Archibald Philpotts."

Oh! Even to hear his name spoken gave her a painful twist inside and her face crumpled a bit. Mrs. Patmore had spent her entire working life in the kitchen. She had never had to learn the stoicism demanded of all those who worked upstairs.

"Mr. Molesley said we must ask permission of the family."

She had caught her breath. "And Mr. Molesley already did ask me," she said, remembering now that the school teacher had mentioned this boy's name. "And I said no." She spoke brusquely and more harshly than warranted. It was only that she feared harshness in return were Archie's story known. Even by this boy. The war dead were heroes, not … not men who had met Archie's end.

"But he's special," Mark said, braving Mrs. Patmore's potential wrath. "He did something to get his own memorial."

He did, indeed, Mrs. Patmore thought sorrowfully.

"I want to tell his story."

But Mrs. Patmore was implacable. She could not be otherwise. Her sister Kate would be there! And everyone else. "No," she repeated firmly. "Now be off with you."

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes seeking a possibility, or at least an explanation. But when she remained adamant, he sighed with resignation, put his cap back on, and trudged off, munching disconsolately on his biscuit.

Behind him, Mrs. Patmore sagged against the table, far more distraught by this exchange than the boy was disappointed. Archie. She did not want to forget Archie, would never forget him. But she clearly wished everyone else would.

HENRY AND MARY

"Crikey. And I was only gone four days."

Henry lay flat out on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. He and Barrow had taken the evening train, arriving too late for dinner upstairs or down. He'd told Mary not to wait up for him and she had gone to bed, though not to sleep. She was sitting up beside him looking more gorgeous than he had remembered. Had he only been gone four days?!

Henry twisted his head to look up her. "How's Tom?"

"Taking it hard. But so have we all. I'd not heard the details before, Henry. I can't imagine it … Laura with her frightened children all about her, watching her home burn. I've encountered fires too often in recent years." She reached for his hand. Henry had not been with her when Edith set her room on fire at the Abbey, but he had been in the thick of things, far more than she, with the fireball of Charlie Rogers' automobile at Brooklands and in the futile fight to save Shamrock Cottage.

He tightened his hand in hers and smiled briefly in appreciation. Then he came over somber once more. "Everything in war is terrible," he murmured. "I'll talk to Tom tomorrow."

"I wanted to tell you tonight, without everyone else around," Mary said.

Henry grinned again. "And I thought you were longing to see me. That you'd missed me."

Mary's eyes widened. "So I did. Of course I did."

"Are you sure?"

"You're teasing me now and you know I've no patience with that," Mary responded in mock severity. And then she gave him a warm smile, for she had missed him. "How was Berlin? Any surprises there?"

Henry rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. It was easier to speak to her that way. "There were no uncomfortable conversations, if that's what you mean. I studied the various models of car that Reinhard stocks. We signed an agreement to display one or two in our shop. And I ate very well. The wine industry has not fared well since the war."

"Did you take advantage of my absence to indulge in any racing?" It wasn't as loaded a question as it seemed. Mary knew how much Henry had enjoyed car racing, and though the sport frightened her in a way nothing else did, she felt a pang of guilt for having taken him away from it.

His hooded eyes gave away nothing as he studied her for a moment. And then he smiled again. "My racing days are behind me. But Reinhard took me to see the Norburgsring, an immensely challenging track being built near Berlin. The first races are scheduled for early next year."

"Then you'll have to go back," Mary said simply. "And perhaps I'll go with you."

"I'd like that." He leaned toward her and they kissed.

"I did test drive a few cars," he said, when they had drawn apart again. "On regular roads."

"I'm surprised you didn't buy a German car."

"I almost did," he quipped. "But…the business isn't on its feet yet. Although perhaps I could talk the Marquis of Pelham into a Mercedes…"

Mary rolled her eyes. "It would be a waste of car. Did you manage to avoid any National Socialists? I admit that after Michael Gregson's murder I felt at least a twinge of fear for you."

"I avoided the extremes of German politics. In fact, things have settled down there greatly since they got the inflation under control."

"Hallelujah. And Barrow? How did that go?" She added this casually, as though she had not engineered the whole thing.

Her manner did not deceive Henry, who laughed. "Exactly as you might imagine – if your imagination is up to that. I had no use for him and he knew it, and for the most part we went our separate ways. Oh, my clothes were set out, my shoes polished, everything in order. I think Barrow could manage that in his sleep. As to whether he actually did sleep …."

They both erupted in laughter now.

"Take your clothes off," Mary said peremptorily, "and come to bed."

Henry leapt to his feet with an agility that won an admiring look from Mary.

"Oh, by the way," he added, unbuttoning his shirt. "I've talked to Barrow about it and, barring any objections from … well, Carson's man, whatever his name is … I'm going to join them in the running of the Downton foot race."

"What?"

"It turns out that … this other fellow … went to Cambridge. And Barrow is to stand for Downton. I thought … it was Tom's suggestion, actually .. that Oxford ought to have a look in." He gazed at her with ill-concealed desire as he shrugged out of his shirt. "I know Barrow is the house favourite, but I hope you'll cheer for me."

Mary was entranced with the idea as much as she was by his muscular form. But her true nature could not be suppressed. "Of course I will," she said archly. "But you'll have to win."

ANNA AND JOHN

"It's like having another child."

John and Anna were lying together in the darkness of their room, awake, but unable to see even the other's face on this moonless night.* As he spoke, John's hand slid over the smooth curve of Anna's hip which he had been caressing and came to rest on her belly which was as yet giving little outward sign of the life within.

"It is not like having another child," Anna said firmly, though there was a smile in her voice.

"But it is," he insisted. "There's the joyfulness of the news when first you hear it. And the dreams you have for its future. And then the apprehensions that come over you when you realize all the things that could possibly happen to it and when you start to wonder if it will all turn out right. And the waiting."

The news – that the Grantham Arms was to be theirs, if only they wanted it – had come to them first thing that morning as they had gone to dress His Lordship and Lady Mary. The two Crawleys had made the offer separately, to their respective attendant, no doubt pleased to be able to talk about something other than the events of the day before. Though they'd anticipated discussing the inn with their employers, both John and Anna were immensely gratified at the initiative and generosity shown to them.

They had kept the news to themselves, wanting to enjoy it a bit and also not a little shy of making such an announcement at this early stage. Not unlike the revelation of a pregnancy. It had been so hard to keep quiet. All day, whenever they'd passed each other or sat down at a meal, they had whispered and giggled and generally behaved as silly youths with a secret. By and large, the rest of the staff had ignored them, though Mr. Carson had frowned reprovingly at them more than once.

"It is not," Anna reiterated. "For one thing, operating an inn does not stir up cravings for odd foods at inconvenient hours of the night."

"It might," John said playfully. "It just might stir up a desire for a pint of ale at two in the morning."

Anna poked his chest. "It will not. You're not allowed to indulge even yourself after closing hours."

"Who would know?"

Anna ignored him. "For another, the work of keeping an inn can be divided. Having a child is entirely a woman's doing."

"Have I not done my share with our child? Children?" he demanded, with mock indignation.

"Yes. But it hardly amounts to very much. I'm the one having the baby."

John remained silent on this. He had already learned the lesson that nothing was comparable to the act of childbirth.

"What I need," Anna went on, "and preferably before two in the morning, is not a pint of ale but some sleep."

This sent them both into a fit of giggles once more. Anna had waited up for him again and for once he had not chided her for it. The pent-up excitement of the day had demanded expression and they had indulged themselves with enthusiasm. And now, sleepy but satiated, Anna wanted only to go to sleep. With her head on the pillow beside him, her breath warming his shoulder, she drifted off, only faintly aware of the gentle kiss he pressed to the top of her head.

Anna stirred some time later, coming awake with the suddenness of a mother of a small child. Her first thought naturally was of Robbie. Had he cried out? She listened. But no, no sound came from his room. And then she realized, feeling more than seeing, that John was not beside her. Again she listened in the stillness for the telltale sounds that would explain his absence. But she heard nothing.

She was not alarmed, but she did wonder. So she threw off the bedclothes and went in search of him. Creeping downstairs she saw the shadow cast by the light of the little lamp in the sitting room, the one on the desk in the corner. And, yes, there he was, huddled over it, writing.

Anna could only sigh at this. They had no business that required his attention in the wee morning hours. She would remind him of this and take him back to bed. He, too, had an early start to his day.

"John?" she called softly.

"Anna!" It had been impossible not to startle him, but he recovered quickly.

"What are you doing?" she asked, though the answer to this question was not at all important to her. She went to his side, scratching her head as she did so, and then brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes.

He said nothing, but he did sit back in his chair.

She glanced at the desk. He had been writing a letter. A piece of note-paper, already partially filled, lay beneath the pen he had just put down. Another note was open before him, as though he had been consulting it for a response.

"What are you doing?" she asked again. Squinting at the papers, though not really trying to read them, a thought occurred to her. "Is this the Dowager's business?" She stifled a yawn.

"No."

John was succinct at the best of times and rarely offered more information than the question asked required. But she thought there was an odd note in his voice.

"What, then?"

He said nothing and again she looked at the pages on the desk. When she reached out to take the reference note, he did nothing to stop her. She did not recognize the hand-writing, but when her eyes fell on the signature, they widened in confusion.

"What is this?" She was more wide awake now and her question more insistent.

He looked up at her and she saw in his eyes the glint of mischief. "I will tell you," he said with a solemnity belied by the sparkle in his eyes. "But you must promise to keep it to yourself."

A moment later the cottage echoed with the shout of Anna's laughter.

*A/N1. In case you're interested, it really was a moonless night. I looked it up! Thank the internet! WORD, on the other hand, may defeat me. What a terrible word processing system. My kingdom for a WordPerfect suite.