DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

Episode 8

Chapter 2

Thursday October 7, 1926

THOMAS

"Did you not like the Germans, then? Or was it the food. Too many dumplings?"

"Mrs. Patmore!" Mrs. Carson spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the reproof in her voice..

The cook had just put down a platter of breakfast sausages and returned Mrs. Carson's warning look with a defiant one of her own. "He's been back three days and not a ghost of a smile from him. Or a pleasant word. You'd think he'd been imprisoned in a penal colony, not on holiday in a European capital!"

"Leave him alone," Mr. Bates intoned. Though a valet exercised no direct authority over any member of staff, what Bates said carried weight through the seniority of his years at Downton and the sheer force of his personality. "Mr. Barrow ought to be able to reflect on his travels without our commentary."

Mrs. Patmore huffed and stomped off to the kitchen. Everyone else looked at their plates and tried to ignore the elephant in the room. Because there was truth in Mrs. Patmore's blunt remarks. It was difficult understand why the butler of Downton Abbey, who had gone off to Germany in such high spirits, had been morose since his return. No one appreciated this contrast more fully than Thomas Barrow himself and he didn't give a damn if it bothered anyone else.

Thomas was irked with them all, most especially Bates whom he did not thank for this pity-laced intervention. He didn't need Bates's help ever. Or his pity. Abruptly Thomas stood up, though he'd made little headway on his own breakfast and the others still had food on their plates. He withdrew wordlessly to the solitude of the butler's pantry, knowing he could not remain secluded for long, and sank into his chair, head back, eyes closed, trying to recapture the internal equilibrium he had lost in Berlin.

Berlin!*

Erich had not exaggerated. Indeed, Erich had not done justice to the world that Thomas had encountered in Berlin. It was ... beyond words. Not a single word in the twenty-six volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary was adequate. Exhilarating. Euphoric. Intoxicating. They all fell short. Overwhelming. It was that, all right.

Thomas prided himself on his urbanity. He was raised in a city - Manchester - and had made the most of every moment he'd ever spent in London. He knew a thing or two about underground London, which was a distinctly different entity than the London underground. But he had been as a babe in the woods in Berlin. It was the scale of ... everything. They called Berlin the 'Paris of the Other.' He could appreciate this for he had seen Paris, the manifestation in urban form of the celebrated and condoned love of men for women, imprinted in every element of its being. Berlin, the raw capital of an upstart empire, had carved out a niche for itself every bit as vibrant as the City of Lights and all the more desperately needed for the shadow cast over it elsewhere.

Difference came at Thomas thick and fast and from so many directions that he would be months sorting it all out. There were so many others. He was still grappling with the idea of being in the majority in some places, sometimes the exclusive occupants – in clubs, restaurants, even on select blocks of particular streets or in corners of the Tiergarten. And then there was the diversity. He knew as a disembodied fact, something he'd picked up as he had absorbed the geography of Europe, that there were different others, but in Berlin he had seen them. For one thing, there were men and women. And in Berlin, they each had their own clubs and corners and cultures. Erich had not taken him to any lesbian bars – lesbian! a new word for him. That was not the focus of their interest and Thomas's brief sojourn limited the time available for gratuitous tourism. But they were there.

The women and their separate sphere was the least of it. At one stop Thomas had wondered why Erich would take him to see dancing girls. It turned out that all those long-legged beauties were men! Transvestites! And they even had their own newspaper!

The cross-section of the general population was another astonishing revelation. Oh, Thomas knew that men like him existed in all classes in England. Had not the Duke of Crowborough flirted with him? But it was seeing this fact made flesh that astonished Thomas. There were newsboys and businessmen, street sweepers and muscular Prussian military men (officers and ranks!), factory workers and accountants and Junkers. The social fabric that in London appeared almost threadbare was a rich tapestry in Berlin and it was on full display.

The class barriers were somewhat more fluid in this world, again as Thomas had known at home, but the lines were still there. Erich had taken him through the West End, but only to point out the posh clubs where both patrons and proteges were admitted by invitation only. The venues he and Erich attended were somewhat less discriminating and they had even gone slumming in a rather seedy workingmen's club, but stayed only briefly. The posh places and the respectable middle class clubs operated openly and seldom fell afoul of the police. Legal oversight was more rigorous as one descended the social ladder. Thomas was not surprised, though he had hoped for better in Berlin. This parallel universe remained formally outside the law, but in a city struggling to reestablish itself in a shattered post-war reality, foreign currency still held power and money talked.

Many of the men he saw were handsome beyond belief, some of them made up, others naturally radiant. Had he ever seen so many beautiful faces? And yet, in keeping with the diversity that characterized Berlin in other ways, many of them weren't nice-looking, and some were quite repulsive. Erich shrugged this off. It was, he said, a necessary element of the tableau and one with a charm all its own. Thomas wasn't ready for that yet. He found himself drawn to a youthful Adonis who made Erich look almost average and then was embarrassed to learn that he was a she, an accomplished practitioner of the art.

And there was more still. The culture! In the sub rosa clubs of London, Thomas had had some exposure to the broader elements of an existence that went beyond merely physical. He had heard ribald ditties sung in music halls and was aware of a smattering of sub-standard literary efforts, printed badly and circulated furtively. Oscar Wilde might have frolicked in such places, but he did not write about them. This, too, was different in Berlin. There the level of music in the cabarets was comparable to anything in London's West End, the all-male bands - in one case an all-female band in white tie - as passionate in the exhibition of their sexuality as they were of their musical talents, which were prodigious. When Thomas commented on this, Erich offered him pity-laced condolences: "Music is not the Englishman's forte," he said. "In Germany, it is the core of the soul." They did not have time to attend the theatre - and Thomas would not have understood the German in any case - but that, too, flourished. And in one club, Erich pointed out to him two emerging names in the nascent film industry. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Thomas would have doubted. It was unbelievable.

He had gone to Berlin with a hunger so visceral that it had initially inhibited his appreciation of these other aspects. Erich was the focus of this because this was all Thomas knew to want. But when this appetite had been satiated within hours of his arrival in Berlin - Reinhard Morden appeared to make almost as few demands of his valet as did Henry Talbot - that hunger knew only a brief abatement and returned more intensely than ever. Fortunately, where England offered scant rations of this nature, Berlin had prepared a banquet. And Thomas indulged. Two and a half days passed in a whirlwind.**

Leaving it all was difficult enough. And then he had come home to this.

On Tuesday morning, right after breakfast, he'd had Lewis on the carpet in his office. He did not invite the footman to sit down.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Thomas didn't care whether he did or not, but it was good form to give the accused an opportunity to speak in his own defense. The obvious solution was to sack him. The grounds were firm enough and Thomas had no liking for Lewis. But it pained him that his first significant hire should be such a disaster. And it irritated him, too, because of what lay ahead if he let Lewis go. The work still needed to be done and he'd had a hard time finding a qualified footman. Lewis, whatever his transgressions, had superior skills. And he looked the part. And then there was what Mr. Carson had said in the full account he had given Thomas the night before. Mr. Carson had not wanted to wait until Tuesday to hand over the reins. Apparently he had a full schedule of his own ahead of him and did not want to lose even a part of the next day to such a conversation. Thomas had not objected.

Actually the funny thing was what Mr. Carson didn't say.

"Why didn't you sack him on the spot?" Thomas had demanded. Trespassing in the butler's pantry, stealing - and drinking - wine from the cellar, thumbing through the financial affairs of the house which were the exclusive purview of the butler - these were, each of them, dismissable offences. And yet Mr. Carson had not taken the obvious course.

"I am not the butler of Downton Abbey, Mr. Barrow. You are." These were facts that hardly needed to be reiterated. "What you choose to do about Lewis is up to you."

Choose. What choice was there? Was Mr. Carson alluding to the possibility of calling in the constable? No, he would never have done so. Dismissal without a character was always the more discreet option. Was he really intimating that Thomas might keep Lewis on and somehow solve the problem of the footman's egregious insubordination? This seemed hard to believe, for there was even more to the story than Mr. Carson had related. Andy had, before breakfast, filled Thomas in on the other footman's calculated rudeness to the acting butler.

"Well?"

Lewis did not appear overly concerned with his predicament. "I wanted to see the state of the books."

"And to gauge the quality of the wine cellar?"

Lewis smirked. "So the old man told you everything."

"Mr. Carson told me what I need to know. I can count on him for honesty. Just what's your interest in the books?" Thomas didn't need to know this, but he thought it odd that a footman would take advantage of an absence of authority to run amuck by checking the financials.

For the first time in Barrow's acquaintance with Lewis, a glimmer appeared in the younger man's eyes. "I don't fancy being a footman forever. I want to get on. I wanted to see how a house like this was run."

This puzzled Thomas even more. "And you didn't think of just asking?" Thomas understood ambition. He'd burned with it himself and aspired to greater things at a younger age than Lewis Stairs was now. He also recognized the irony in his own words. He had never wanted to ask Mr. Carson either and had instead watched him carefully, shadowed him, eavesdropped on any occasion, even done other footman - and Bates, too - a bad turn in order to advance his prospects. But he'd thought he was more approachable and more amenable to the ambitions of others than Mr. Carson had been to his. Apparently Lewis did not think so.

"Butlers don't give up their secrets easily," Lewis said.

Thomas considered. He did not like the idea of a man as bold and devious as Lewis working under him. That could cause all sorts of problems, as he well knew. But Thomas wasn't Mr. Carson and perhaps he could learn from his own experience with the old butler. Was there a way to channel Lewis's ambitions to the benefit of Downton Abbey? Could Thomas tame this monster? Practicalities, if nothing else, indicated that he should try.

"I don't know about secrets," he said guardedly, "but I'm not adverse to sharing insights on how to manage a house. Only if you want to be a butler, Downton isn't your future. I've got that locked up for the next fifty years." By which time he would be much older than Mr. Carson was now. He made up his mind. "I won't sack you today, on two conditions."

Lewis was a workplace problem, the meat and meal of a senior house administrator's day. It was irksome to have such a problem, but it was one that was easily sorted one way or another. A much more trying matter was Bates.

Bates. No, the Bateses. When he'd left Downton, less than a week ago, they had been getting ready to move on, getting ready to give up their positions at Downton and retire to a village somewhere – they'd been up in the Dales the day before he'd left – to live in domestic bliss and obscurity with their brood of children. But now they were to have the Grantham Arms. The Kearnses were leaving and the Bateses were staying. Their resignations would mean more turmoil upstairs and down, and more work for Thomas as replacements were sought - this was a certainty, for while the Granthams might live without a second chauffeur neither His Lordship nor Lady Mary were likely to go on without attendants. But had they gone elsewhere, he would have been rid of Bates and that would be worth any inconvenience.

Thomas had disliked Bates from the first moment the man had limped into the servants' hall and taken over the post of valet that Thomas had sought for himself. Bates had gotten that job. Then he'd gotten Anna. The two of them together had their employers' goodwill and their co-workers' affections. They already had one child and were about to have another. They always get what they want! Thomas seethed. And now they were to have the Grantham Arms, too, so they would realize their dream - he had overheard them talking about in on a number of occasions - and remain in the village close to their friends and to the Crawleys, whose patronage meant that they would probably hold the lease of the village inn in perpetuity, probably unto succeeding generations. The last person Thomas wanted to meet under any circumstances was John Bates and now the man would be pouring him his mug of ale should ever he venture into the village for a moment of relaxation. It was not to be borne!

Then there was the race, mercifully put back from the 9th to the 16th, which would give him a window of time to train. He'd been keen on it the other side of Berlin and he still liked the idea. It was only that he had so much to do and ... his heart had gone out of it a little, sapped by the emotional toll that Berlin had taken on him.

He'd not given a thought to the mysterious Daniel Rider from last seeing him on Friday morning until his eyes fell upon him again at the breakfast table on Tuesday, but there was too much going on to pay him much attention. And Rider had offered nothing more than a passing greeting and then spent the meal engaged in local sports talk with Andy and the hall boy. They'd not spoken since.

It was Daisy, of all people, who had reminded Thomas of the stakes.

"You're going to lose the race."

She addressed him as he was passing through the kitchen Tuesday, mid-morning. He had to check the wine cellar to make sure Lewis had done no more than take a bottle, though no doubt Mr. Carson had already done so. All was secure.

"What?"

"You've been away, probably eating a lot of those German pastries and drinking beer." This was the extent of Daisy's awareness of Germany. "But he's been out every night, Mr. Rider has. I see him when I'm on my way home to the farm. And in the mornings, too. He's running."

"Yeah, well he needs all the help he can get," Thomas had retorted, and then felt foolish for rising to the bait. It was false bravado on his part. Oh, he was convinced he was the superior athlete else he'd never have agreed to the run in the first place. But he had not had any time to train and there was a lot riding on this frivolous event. Thomas's athletic abilities, more specifically his capacity to play cricket, had won for him the kind of approbation from the Downton community that he'd secured in no other way. He'd assessed Daniel Rider, convinced himself that the man could be beaten, and embraced the run as an opportunity to cement his own reputation for sports prowess and to enjoy some well deserved adulation in the bargain. And then there was the matter that His Lordship was counting on him in this. He would never have with His Lordship the kind of cameraderie that existed between Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson, but Thomas was all right with that. He needed to forge his own bond and this was a way to do it. But he doubted His Lordship would be inclined to a warmer relationship if he lost. He needed to find time to train!

And on top of everything else, there was Molesley. Bloody Molesley! The man tested his patience. Always. But now he'd come up with another way to torment the butler of Downton Abbey. He'd shown up on Wednesday night, fluttering in that irritating way he had, and looking for Miss Baxter, of course. And overflowing with enthusiasm for some school project he'd devised. Molesley being Molesley he was oblivious to the warning signs of Thomas's frayed temper - worn thin by the mixed emotions stirred by Berlin and the aggravations and disappointments that had faced him on his return. And so had proceeded to expound on the project with an effervescence that drove Thomas over the edge.

Telling the tales of Downton's war dead.

Glorifying for local consumption that relentless horror.

Stirring guilt.

"I suppose cowards have to soothe their conscience somehow," Thomas had responded, gutting Molesley's eagerness with one razor stroke.

What did he care for Molesley's feelings? What he had said was true. Thomas had nothing but contempt for those who had stayed at home and hidden behind false medical reports and other excuses. And he had no use at all for the mythologizing of the dead. No one who was not there had any idea of what had really gone on, what fighting and dying really meant on the Western Front. Nor was it any of their business. Thomas would have it all put away and never spoken of again. He never wanted to think of those days.

There was a faint knock at the door and Thomas opened his eyes and straightened up as Mrs. Carson put her head in the door.

"I'm sorry about Mrs. Patmore," she said solicitously. "But you've been here long enough to know she doesn't mean anything by it."

Oh, they never did. He nodded curtly, acknowledging her attempt to smooth things over. He appreciated it.

Uncharacteristically, she lingered. "I envy you, you know. Going someplace new, seeing something of the world. Coming home is bound to be a little disappointing. But you have your memories."

And what memories. Yes, he did indeed have that. "Thank you," he said.

She started to withdraw and then paused. "What I came to tell you was that Her Ladyship won't be in for lunch today. She's just learned of an emergency meeting of the board of her hospital committee for late this morning in York. She'll stay on and be back for tea."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson."

There it was. Business as usual. He took a deep breath, preparatory to getting started on the work before him, and then a half-buried memory of a different sort surfaced, prompted by this mundane exchange. Or perhaps it was the kindness she had extended to him that made him think of it. "Wait," he called out, and she put her head back in again.

He gestured for her to come in and to close the door behind her. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

ROBERT AND ROSAMUND

"And you think she is very ill?"

Rosamund's tone was determinedly neutral, but Robert knew his sister well. He heard the fear there. It was like his own, muted, but astir all the same. He rose from his seat on the sofa opposite her and took a place by her side. Their eyes met and Robert, who had given vent to his feelings fully with Cora, reached for his sister's hand to offer her the comfort of touch.

"I do. We do. Of course, she's said nothing to me and denies any suggestion of it..."

"Of course, she does!" Rosamund snapped. "Why be honest?" She looked way in disgust.

Robert did not take offense. Rosamund was confronting the matter of their mother's mortality in a real way for the first time. She was allowed to accustom herself to the idea in any way that suited.

"I think she wants to protect us," he said gently.

Rosamund's eyes flashed and riveted to him once more. "We are adults, Robert. We have been adults for decades. It's time Mama stopped treating us like we were still in the nursery."

He smiled despite the circumstances. "I don't think that's possible for a mother." He spoke unthinkingly. It was the wrong thing to say.

"And I suppose I wouldn't understand that." Rosamund had had a lifetime of people overlooking her ideas and opinions because she had not enjoyed the blessing of motherhood. It grated on her.

With a sigh, Robert tightened his hand over hers. "I daresay you're as capable of understanding such feelings as anyone else who loves. I only meant that she can hardly view us as anything but her children when we are her children."

Rosamund let him off the hook. They had never quarreled very much. And he wasn't responsible for their mother's behaviour. "I resent it, Robert. She has kept us ... me ... at arm's length all our lives, even as she embraces and fawns over others. She'll have told Cousin Isobel. She's probably told Carson! She'll have him lined up to stage manage her funeral!"

"I don't know about that," Robert mused, thinking she might have done just that. "But she did more or less confirm the news for Edith. Who pressed her mightily," he added quickly. "The point, the point, my darling," and he closed both hands now around hers, "is that knowing, what are we to do? She'll not have told us because she doesn't want the fuss."

He relaxed his grip and leaned back into the sofa. "And who does? If there's nothing to be done about it, who would want the maudlin presence of the shortly-to-be-bereaved hovering over one's bedside? Is there not some sense in withdrawing to some cozy nest and slipping away in peace?"

Rosamund gave him a withering look. "We are not children, Robert. Nor are we dogs that we should crawl off to die."

"Isis died on my bed, between Cora and me," he said mildly.

She ignored him. "Robert, death is one of the central experiences of life and to shut oneself off from the rest of the world or, more precisely one's family, in such a moment is the height of selfishness. Hardly surprising that our mother should embrace such a course," she added dryly. "Death ... dying is an opportunity not to be so lightly dismissed. A last opportunity."

He thought he knew what she meant and this more than anything brought emotion welling up in him. "You were Papa's favourite," he said.

She glared at him. "I was not. I was an afterthought. The Girl. Bringing up the numbers nicely. You were The Boy. The Heir."

But Robert shook his head, remembering. "And that's all I was for Papa. Oh, he loved me. I'm not saying that. But you were the sparkle in his eye. We lost so much when he died, you even more than me."

The glistening in his eyes was reflected in hers.

"Thirty years," she said softly.

They were silent for a moment.

"I don't want to discourage you or to hurt you," Robert went on gently, "but I don't think Mama is going to change any time soon, not even in the face of death."

Rosamund was discouraged. "So I'm not to look for any deathbed communion."

"I think Mama will take the secrets of her heart to the grave with her. But that doesn't mean that her heart is not full love for us."

It hardly seemed satisfactory, but Robert was not confident that anything else could be expected.

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

Robert had thought about this. "Let her play it out her own way. She is the one who is dying, after all. Let our tolerance of her ... idiosyncracies ... be our last gift to her." He was the older brother now, certain of the wisdom of his words and perhaps more habitually resigned to being bested by their mother. Rosamund had gamely gone on with the fight long after hope had disappeared.

"May I have a good old-fashioned cry about it now, then?" she asked. "With you? I promise I'll try to keep my composure otherwise."

Robert smiled through his own tears and enveloped her in his arms.

MARY AND FREDDY

"It's going to rain," Henry pointed out.

"It's England," Mary responded in deadpan. "It's always going to rain. And I've got an umbrella."

They were at the shop in York.

"If you can wait, oh, half an hour, I can take you round to the dressmaker in the car."

Mary smiled at him but did not relish even a half hour in a garage. She was pleased Henry had a business that gave him purpose in life, was useful to the general community, and promised to become a going venture any time soon. But the smell of axle grease and petrol, and the possibility that she might personally encounter some of either and then have to deal with the laundress at Downton, discouraged her from spending any more time in the shop than she had to.

"I won't melt. This way you can take your time." She looked around. "Where's Tom?"

"He's got his other hat on today. Something to do with grain shares?" Henry was London born and bred and never quite sure of himself when the topic was agriculture.

Mary laughed and leaned up to give him a kiss. She did not mind in the least that he was not conversant on estate matters. It meant they spoke of things other than business.

She paid no attention to the weather as she pursued her errand, but it forced itself on her as she began to retrace her steps two hours later. When the skies opened up in a drenching downpour she deftly deployed her umbrella and firmly headed for Talbot and Branson's on King Street. But the wind sent the rain at a slant and made her umbrella next to useless. An old hand at Yorkshire inclemency, Mary knew it wouldn't last long and chose to seek temporary shelter, ducking into the first doorway that seemed hospitable.

She found herself in the narrow anteroom of what looked like a music hall of some sort, from the posters plastered on the walls. Shaking the wet from her collapsed umbrella, she heard sounds from within and realized an event was in progress, thought there was no music. Faced with the option of reading the posters or finding out what was going on, Mary let her curiosity lead her to the set of doors closest to her and she pressed one them open a crack.

It was immediately apparent that this was a political meeting. On the raised platform at the front of the expansive room a speaker was haranguing the audience with a vehemence and eloquence that would have made Lloyd George look over his shoulder. And the crowd of ... sixty or seventy - clearly not of the Lloyd George calibre else the place would have been packed to the rafters, if only to hear the silver-tongued Welshman peddle his half-truths - was thoroughly engaged. Every eye was fixed on the speaker, whose every utterance was received with shouts of acclamation and an approving pounding of feet and clapping of hands. It was all a little startling for the novelty of it because speaker and audience alike were women.

Mary listened, too, for a few minutes. Though she had come in in the middle, she soon got the gist of it all.

"The vote was a false god!" the speaker declared in a ringing tone. "And with age and property restrictions, it was a promise only half-kept at best. Even ..." she paused, to allow the stormy applause to settle, "even if all women had the right to vote, that is only the first step! Real power comes not with the exercise of the vote in electing members to Parliament but in being those representatives!" There was more applause. "Six years and four elections after some women gained the right to vote and there are only six women in a Parliament of 615!"

Stated so bluntly it did seem rank unfairness. Mary had never given it much thought, beyond being astonished that the Duchess of Atholl should run for a seat, let alone be elected. In general Mary was not bothered about politics. That was Edith's realm. Mary's preoccupations were more pragmatic.

"Women in Parliament, in sufficient numbers, will change the face of Parliament!" the speaker went on. We will oblige government to make the well-being of all Britons - men, women, and children, working class, middle-class, and aristocracy - their highest priority. The nature of woman is to nurture, to embrace constructive approaches, to cooperate, and to shun the politics of conflict and confrontation that lead to violence and warfare, at home and abroad."

The audience erupted, but Mary was not swayed. The campaign for women's suffrage that had loomed large a decade and more ago and been only partially satisfied with the electoral reforms of 1918, had often employed these themes. Women were different, so the argument went. In power, women would bring civility to the boisterous and sometimes unruly debates in the Commons. They would clean up the system, sweep away the corruption and scandal, infuse the whole institution of government with moral fibre. "Women's policies" included disarmament and pacifism, the abolition of capital punishment, and an emphasis on social welfare aimed at the redress of the poverty and unemployment that plagued the underclasses, and especially women and children.

All admirable, to be sure. But practicable? Mary thought the purveyors of such a vision of women either misguided or stupid, or very naive. They had clearly never been to a debutantes' ball if they thought women by nature were such noble creatures. And though Mary's experience lay almost exclusively in the realms of the upper classes, she doubted that women from the lower orders were any more selfless. No matter what Tom or V.I. Lenin might say about the purity of the proletariat.

She had heard enough and let the door fall soundlessly on the meeting. She was shaking out her umbrella again in preparation for putting it up when the door on the other side of the anteroom opened and a woman came through.

"What rubbish!" she declared, without even waiting for the door to close.

She was, Mary noted with the expert eye of one who had been evaluating female competitors for years, a tall, blond, somewhat buxom woman of Mary's age. Her dress was fashionable, but tailored for serviceability over show. Her hair was done up similarly, expertly but efficiently, although a wisp of it had escaped to straggle over her ear. She stood erect but was wholly at her ease, and in general exuded an air of confidence.

The woman stared at Mary with wide, grey eyes and carried on as though the two of them had been in mid-conversation. "Women will make the House of Commons more polite? Hah! Turn the government into a state-operated nanny service to put bandages on everyone's scrapes, I'll be bound! They'll be advocating for universal health care, next. And pacifism! Biscuits to bullies!"

Her diatribe ended as abruptly as it began and the grey eyes, alight with indignation, dimmed a little. "If you ask me, at any rate."

In her cultured tones, Mary had heard the accent of her own class. The outburst had surprised her a little, but the substance echoed her own views.

"You doubt that all the sweeping and cleaning and comforting that women will bring to Parliament will have a positive effect?" she asked, amused at the other's vehemence. Mary knew that by engaging at all she was prolonging this encounter with a stranger, but though she ordinarily eschewed spontaneous acquaintances, this one, she thought, was worth a moment of indulgence.

The woman rolled her eyes at this. "As though women are innately superior moral beings. I should have thought the goal would be equality, not an inverted imbalance. And as for all this social welfare nonsense... Keep a business in operation through fair taxation and favourable trade policies and you don't need to worry about unemployment. It takes care of itself. And employed workers take care of their own families, as they should."

"Not a Labour supporter, I gather," Mary surmised.

"That was a Liberal," the woman responded. "Trying to shore up non-existent support, I should say. The Liberals are finished." She studied Mary for a moment. "You're not a supporter either. You left, too."

"I only came in to get out of the rain," Mary admitted. Was there a flash of disappointment in the woman's eyes? For some reason, Mary lingered still. "But I don't disagree with you. The idea that women in politics must identify and make their stand on women's issues bothers me. Men may be Conservatives or Liberals, or even Labour supporters. But women are only women. I daresay a woman's business acumen may be as sharp as a man's." She paused. "Although I concede ignorance when it comes to the industrial working class. My concern is land policy."

They stared at each other for a moment and then the woman held out a hand. "Frederica Daring," she said, pronouncing her given name with an emphasis on the first syllable. Fred-ricka.

Mary took the proffered hand. "Mary Talbot."

A flicker of something crossed Frederica's face. "Lady Mary Crawley. Of Downton Abbey." It wasn't a question.

Now Mary was puzzled. "You have me at a disadvantage."

"You're customers of my family's business. Morgan Machinery. We make and service agricultural equipment. We're based in Leeds and do business all over Yorkshire."

This statement only deepened Mary's bewilderment. She rarely erred in her assessment of another's social class.

Frederica Daring smiled, perhaps discerning the issue. "My father is Rupert Morgan, youngest son of Viscount Havermore."

Her social credentials were sound, though Mary was surprised she had not met the woman before. Surely they had come out about the same time? But she had no reason to press the issue.

"Tom Branson is your brother-in-law, then."

"You know Tom?"

"Of course. Well, more as a name on an order form or a cheque. My husband is the direct contact. He's very good with people and terrible with numbers. I do the books."

"I'm involved in the management of our estate," Mary said. "In fact, I'm the agent." Then she remembered Henry. He would think she had fallen in the gutter. "I must get on. I'm meeting my husband."

"How is Talbot and Branson faring?"

Mary had started to the door and now paused again. "You're well informed."

"We bought our automobile from them." And now Frederica moved toward the door as well. "If I can remember where I've left it, I've got to be off as well. I only came to York for this meeting." She glanced behind them. "What a disappointment."

Her words had distracted Mary. "You drive?"

"I must." She held out a hand again. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary. Perhaps we'll see each other again."

Mary returned the gesture warmly. "I hope so." And then, for no reason, a mischievous spark struck her. "Does anyone call you Freddy?" she asked.

Frederica Daring paused, her hand against the door, and favoured Mary with a dispassionate stare. "Not if they want to live."

*Author's Note 1. For the detail about Berlin noted here and still to come I am indebted to Robert Beachy's Gay Berlin: Birthplace of a Modern Identity (New York, 2015). It is a very good book and covers everything one needs to know on the subject to convey Thomas Barrow's adventures there.

**Author's Note 2: Special to Dustnik: Perhaps you were expecting more here. But Thomas in Berlin requires more research and, I think, deserves its own story. So I'll put that in the box of Yet to Come and hope you will be satisfied with the fragments herein.